Page 108 of Play of Shadows
Feeling her callused fingertips on the soft skin of my neck, Ifound myself enjoying the. . .contradictions. Shariza was as deadly as the God Death himself, yet often almost needlessly gentle with me. She’d allowed me so many chances to peer through the cracks of her mask, offering a look or a smile that felt like a doorway to the hidden part of her, inviting me inside.
My grandfather always said, ‘Love is an onion, my boy. Leave it too long and the heart of it will rot. So you’ve got to carefully peel back the layers until you find beneath something so beautiful it brings you to tears.’
I could almost hear my grandmother groaning at his misty-eyed sentimentality.
‘Damelas?’
Hearing her say my name made me realise I’d been mumbling. It also made me realise how much better I liked my name when she was the one saying it, which brought to mind a question I’d been pondering for some time. ‘Is Shariza your real name?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Too bad,’ I said. ‘I rather like it.’
The ensuing silence cooled the air between us. I wondered if perhaps I’d offended her. It would be typical if my grandfather’s advice got me into trouble with a Dashini assassin. But then I felt her shoulders settle against mine once more. Were it not for the iron bars between us, I might have imagined the two of us an old married couple sitting together in front of the fire recounting the petty trials of our day.
I couldn’t see her smile, but I heard it in her voice when she said, ‘Then Shariza I will be.’
All I wanted was to sit here, pretending for a while we really were those people, but I couldn’t.
Leave it too long and the heart of it will rot. So you’ve got to carefully peel back the layers.
I forced myself to my feet, hurting as much from where I’dscrubbed my skin too fiercely as from my injuries. I turned to face her through the bars. She had risen too, considerably more gracefully.
‘There’s something I’ve been wondering,’ I said.
In the dim light I couldn’t quite make out the subtle changes to her face. I hoped it was a smile and not a look of profound dread over what stupid thing I might say next.
She spoke first. ‘You’re wondering if what happened between us on stage belonged to Corbier and Ajelaine, or whether some part of it was ours.’
I nodded.
‘Damelas, the Dashini are forged as weapons. Our hearts are trained to be still, our passions unfelt. Questions of love and desire belong to a life I’ve never known.’
‘Oh.’
She reached out and stroked my jaw, then her thumb and forefinger pinched my chin and she shifted my head a little. ‘So I’m afraid we’ll have to find our answers the hard way.’
She pulled me closer until our lips met between the bars. The dungeon’s dry air caused a spark between us and I almost pulled away, but Shariza’s hand was at the back of my neck now and she held me close, her mouth still on mine, giving, but not soft. I liked that about her. She wasn’t pliant, the way most women assumed men expected them to be, nor demanding, as Roslyn had been during our stage kiss. Shariza didn’t moan or whisper to me; there was no performance to it, only breath and desire and playfulness. The intimacy of a thousand, thousand words passed between us in those short moments. . . but all too soon, I felt her pull away.
Only as I was searching her eyes for some sign of what I’d done wrong did I hear two sets of footsteps echoing down the passageway.
‘I have to leave you now,’ she said. ‘The duke has many enemiesand I must visit a few of them tonight.’
I grabbed her hand. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Ask it.’
‘Monsegino will be looking for ways to force me to finish the play. I’m not asking you to betray him, but if he. . . Shariza, if he ever asks you to pay one of your “visits” to Paedar Chademantaigne, I beg you, refuse him.’
She held my gaze a moment, then leaned her forehead against mine. ‘Oh Damelas, I do wish you hadn’t waited until now to ask this of me.’
‘What? Shariza, please, tell me you didn’t. . . He’s an old man! He neve—’
The footsteps were getting closer and I realised I’d misheard them earlier: it wasn’t two people, but one, with the addition of a metal-shod cane striking a regular beat against the uneven stone floor. I didn’t need to see the figure rounding the corner to recognise that familiar gait.
‘Grandfather?’
Chapter 53
