The Bone Shard Daughter (The Drowning Empire, #1)(42)

Mephi chirruped at the sight of them, the first sound he’d made since I’d slipped the witstone into my pocket.

My foolish choices were spawning armies.





16





Lin


Imperial Island

Blood stained my fingers. I wished I had an apron like Father’s, or Bayan’s. But I made do with a tunic I never wore anymore, wedging the cloth into the space between my fingers and fingernails.

I’d found the room where Father kept the parts. Bird parts, monkey parts, cat parts, parts of animals I’d never seen or even heard of stacked in an insulated icebox. The room itself was dark and cold, carved from the stone below the palace. Even so, it smelled faintly of decay and musk. I’d taken some parts I was sure wouldn’t be missed – small ones. A sparrow’s wings, the soft little body of a rat, the head of a salamander. I squinted as I crouched over the pieces on my bedroom floor. The stitching was harder with body parts this small, but according to the book I’d read, the bone shard I’d put into its body would mend any mistakes. It was the larger bodies that had to be more delicately put together, for the bone shard magic could only mend small mistakes.

I tried not to be overeager. I was more interested in carving a command onto the fresh shard waiting in my sash pocket, and in using the magic to move my fingers through and inside the construct’s body. Would it work for me? Or were there some details from my past that I’d missed? Perhaps I didn’t have the ability to work with the shards, and that was why my father kept me from his magic.

A knock sounded at the door, and my heartbeat kicked an echo. I shoved the construct beneath the bed, wiped my hands again, lamenting the blood that had settled and dried in the cracks. I didn’t have time.

The knock came again, as if to emphasize that point. I smoothed my hands over my tunic and went to the door.

I pulled open the door so quickly it stirred a breeze. With the breeze came the scent of sandalwood.

Father stood at the door, hands wrapped around the head of his cane. He leaned on it and peered into my room. Not for the first time, I wondered what accident had removed his toes. And then I remembered what I’d been doing.

If I looked back now, he’d notice. So I kept my gaze on him, hoping he couldn’t see my pulse fluttering at my neck, trying to form a mental picture of my room. Had I left anything out I shouldn’t have? It was too late to do anything except wait.

His gaze trailed back to me. “I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he said. “I’ve been busy, of course. The constructs are in constant disrepair and the soldiers are always bringing them back to me to be mended. But you’ve not come to dinner.”

I’d been expecting Bayan. “I’ve been meditating,” I said, remembering the advice he’d given me. “Bayan said it helped him to regain his memories.” I let my gaze fall from his, feigning embarrassment to be caught in the middle of it.

Father nodded. “It’s a good idea. I’m glad you’re trying to remember. There is much that you’ve lost. The young woman you were before – she’s still there, I’m sure of it.” He focused somewhere past my shoulder.

And what was wrong with the young woman I was now? I cleared my throat, shifted from foot to foot. I wanted him to leave. If he thought I was desperate to return to meditating, to remembering, so much the better. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to remember. I did. But in the beginning I’d spent days and nights scraping through my thoughts, trying to find who I’d been before. I’d grasped for it until it felt my head was squeezed tight by bands of iron. All I had was who I was now.

Father noticed – how could he not? “I admire your dedication,” he said, his voice low and gruff, “but I’d like you to join Bayan and me for dinner tonight. We’ve things to discuss and I’d like you there.”

I hesitated. The half-formed construct was still beneath my bed, together with the journal and the beginner’s bone shard book. But when Father said he’d like for me to join, what he really meant was that I had to. He kept a veneer of politeness over his commands, but it was thin, and easily scratched away by disobedience. So I nodded before he could read too far into my hesitation, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind me.

For a moment, Father didn’t move. We stood there next to one another. Even stooped and aged he was slightly taller than me, his cane lending his thin frame some weight. Heat radiated from his robes like a candle burning too hot and too quickly. The sandalwood smell of him filled my nostrils, mingled with the bitter-tea scent of his breath.

A quick glance at me, appraising, and then he limped down the hall. His robes swirled behind him like waves crashing ashore.

I followed, wary.

The dining hall was next to the questioning room. Bayan was already inside, seated at the right-hand side of my father’s place. A place had been set for me across from them. There was a message in this – but there was a message in all the small things Father did. I was the outsider here.

Servants flitted in and out as I took my place at the table. Father was still lowering himself into his cushion, his cane set on the floor beside him, one hand on the table, another hand on the cushion itself. I almost expected to hear his bones creaking and grinding against one another as he sat.

A cup of jasmine tea steamed at my right hand; a small stuffed chicken with golden, crisped skin graced the center of my plate surrounded by a pile of glistening vegetables and white rice. I’d nearly forgotten what a formal meal was like. I didn’t often go to the dining hall for dinner, and Father rarely asked me to join them. Many times I just ate what the servants brought me in my room.