To Whatever End (Echoes of Imara Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

small stage and begun to play a soft melody on his lute as Edson dug into his dinner.
    Bloody minstrels indeed, Cecily thought as she alighted the stairs. She knew Daro would be in a foul mood. No matter, she knew plenty of ways to draw her husband out of a bad mood. She paused on the stair as the minstrel’s song grew louder, his voice added to the strumming of his instrument. On a whim, she quested out with her Awareness and brushed the strings of his lute, then Reached and broke one of them with a quick snap. A discordant twang cut across the room as the minstrel almost dropped his instrument. He fumbled to keep it in his hands and looked around in surprise. A few patrons laughed into their drinks.
    Cecily smiled to herself and went upstairs to join her husband.

3. ORDERS

    The voices were familiar. He awoke to them each day; they told him he was still alive. At first, the constant chaos in his mind had threatened to take his sanity. Day after day, the grind in his head had worn him down, taking away his will. Until he’d accepted the chaos. He’d embraced it, owned it, made it a part of him. Now he couldn’t imagine living without it. It gave him something to hold on to; an anchor for his being.
    He brushed back his long hair and tied it at the nape of his neck. His mask and hood sat next to his bed. He rubbed his bare face, feeling the night’s growth. He wondered what he would look like if he let it grow. Of course, that was a silly idea. Not shaving each morning was unthinkable. It was required.
    He stood and left the mask on the table. He felt exposed without it, the air prickling his bare skin. His dark, windowless room gave him no indication of what time it might be; he guessed before dawn. He didn’t sleep much anymore. Closing his eyes was dangerous. There were too many voices in the dark.
    He sat back down on the edge of his bed. There was little else in the room: a bed, just wide enough for him to sleep on, and a small table next to it. A normal room might have a window, a dressing table with a bowl of water for washing, hooks for hanging cloaks or clothing. This room had none of those things. Just the bed, the table and the chains.
    His eyes flicked over to the dull silver fetters and his fingers clenched, turning his knuckles white. Four chains were bolted to the floor, manacles for wrists and ankles at their ends. He could remember the cold bite of the metal, his skin rubbed raw to bleeding. Absently, he rubbed his wrists. He hadn’t needed to be bound in a long time, but they kept them in his room nonetheless, a constant reminder.
    He sat for a while in the dark and stared at nothing. He’d learned to embrace these moments of silence, cling to them. In the beginning, the silence had been his enemy. He’d paced around his room and walked in circles, trying to escape it. Now the early morning before they came for him was his time. It was the only thing left that belonged to him.
    He dressed, pulling on the loose black pants and tugging the black shirt over his body. The soft fabric hung from his lean frame. He slipped his feet into his black boots and fastened the silver buckles.
    Eventually, the door swung open, intruding on the silence like an unwanted guest at a dinner party. A servant came in and washed his face and hands, then shaved the stubble from his chin. He complied like a penitent child, sitting motionless and staring into nothing. It was easier this way.
    She left him to put his mask and hood on by himself. It slipped over his skin, close and warm. His breath was hot inside it, but he was used to the feeling of warmth over his mouth. It covered his face, the supple fabric clinging to the contours of his jaw, nose and forehead. A slit in the front allowed him to see. He adjusted the fit, pulling the mask into place so it didn’t intrude on his vision. It was a comfort, the pressure against his face and head. He had fought the mask in the beginning. He could no longer remember why.
    The