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And of course, the timing couldn’t have been worse. From the put-upon look on Lorian’s face, he was in agreement.
Galon lifted his head. He was crouched next to the stream, splashing water on his face. “What exactly did you promise to do for her?”
“Something of equal value to what she did for me. She helped us avoid the Gromalian fleet and sneak through Thobirea without either Eryndan or Regner learning where we were.”
Marth was leaning against a tree close to the horses. He glanced at me. “You’re planning something.”
“This is our chance to convince Daharak to ally with us. I’m not going to waste it.”
I would go to Daharak. But she was going to have to wait a few days. First, we needed to get to Jamic. Panic began to press on me, tightening my chest.
Voices sounded from the trail behind us, and Rythos angled his head. “We need to go.”
My thighs burned as we walked back to our horses.
Lorian held out his hand, helping me to mount. I didn’t need his assistance, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the way his large hands guided me into the saddle. The way he stroked my thigh with a gleam in his eye before turning away to hold out his hand for my aunt.
As usual, she waved away any assistance. The moment she was in her saddle, Lorian was gesturing us forward.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
Demos and I had said thirty-six words to each other since we’d left Prisca and the others behind. I’d counted.
All thirty-six had been travel-related. I wasn’t sure if I should be impressed by how well we could communicate with just body language and quick glances—or irritated that we didn’t need to speak.
The constant silence was giving me far too much time to think. And those thoughts inevitably returned to my mother and the last time I’d seen her face—immediately before she was murdered.
From the time I was old enough to hold a needle and shears, my tasks were mending and adjustments. I would sit at my spot near the door, patching trousers, hemming dresses, and listening to my mother consult with the wealthier women in our village. The women who lived behind the gates. The kinds of women who threw parties.
I had seen eleven winters when I realized there was something different about the way I worked. I could spend my time watching my mother design and cut and weave—taking my eyes completely off my work—and my hand would still dance over the fabric. Each stitch would land precisely where it needed to be. I was small and quiet, working in a corner of the room. So no one else noticed. But I knew something was terribly wrong.
One night, after my mother had gone to bed, I sat in my chair by the door, finishing my mending. An odd kind of dread had taken up residence in my chest. A breathlessness that drove my next move. Closing my eyes, I randomly stabbed my needle through the backside of the fabric and back down again. Repeating the stitch a few more times, I finally stilled my hands, opening my eyes.
My stitches were perfect. As if something else had guided my hands. Something invisible.
My mouth turned watery with fear. My tongue itched, while my skin was suddenly too tight.
And I knew.
I was one of the corrupt the priestess cursed so often. A deadly weed that had somehow grown in the garden of goodness. A weed that must be plucked out to save the other flowers in that garden.
I told no one. I didn’t understand exactly what my power was, but since it only seemed to work when I was sewing, it wasn’t the type that would be likely to get me discovered.
No, as long as I kept my head down and was unfailingly polite to our customers, my tiny, precise stitches and remarkable speed were considered natural-born talent and skill.
Now, when I looked back, I could see other things had come to me easily. Complicated dances for various celebrations were simple for me. And while I may have been terrible at playing King’s Web, none of our friends would play me when Natan had found an old dart board and hung it from a tree in the forest. I’d hit the bull’s-eye every single time, until Natan banned me from playing.
I’d unconsciously been stifling my power in public ever since, especially when Prisca and I had trained with Tibris and his friends. But the next time I’d picked up a crossbow, I’d felt a strange sense of…comfort.
What would my mother think of that?
If the queen had worn my creations, my mother would have been so proud of me. Now, I was hoping we would be able to kill that same queen before she became even more of a threat to us. Shame curled in my stomach as I imagined my mother’s reaction to that.
I wasn’t like Pris. I couldn’t shove my grief down deep and refuse to think of it. I understood why she did it. I didn’t know how she would function if she allowed herself to feel that grief. And we all needed her to function.
I would give anything to hear the sound of my mother’s voice. All I wanted was just one moment.
