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“But nothing is happening,” I finish for him. The bitterness in my tone shouldn’t be there, especially when I’m scared shitless by the thought of having magic. But the way he seems certain on the one hand and disappointed on the other kindles an unfamiliar sense of annoyance in my belly. It’s not the fuming rage burning deep inside of me for weeks when I first arrived, nor the mild upset that occasionally flares these days at the Crows’ glances following me around the palace. It’s something different. Something I haven’t experienced since the occasional fights with Ludelle.
I’m not ready to examine what exactly that means for my relationship with the Crow King. If I am annoyed he kept me in the dark about his suspicions or that he might be giving up on some magical ability I didn’t even know about, which is refusing to resurface after a grand occurrence when fire was threatening my favorite wall in his room.
“Nothing is happening because you haven’t actively tried to make it happen,” Myron corrects, and the annoyance in my belly coils into something unsure as I try to believe what he implies.
“You really think I have magic.” I blow out a breath, absently rubbing my stiff wrist.
“I believe you have something. Not certain if it’s magic or an affinity to the former brides’ tears?—”
“Tears?” I interrupt him, eyes widening with horror at the picture forming in my mind—one of thousands of women crying and crying enough tears to form an entire lake. “I don’t have an affinity for tears.” Not mine, not his, not anyone’s. And most definitely not the poor women who had as little say in their affiliation with the Crows as I did.
Myron’s chuckle fuels that uncertainty into beginning fear. What if this is about more than what happened with the lake? What if something is wrong with me that wasn’t wrong with all the other brides? What if that’s the gods’ way of telling Myron I’m not the one who will break their curse? What if that makes me a purposeless accessory that they could dispose of without consequences?
A long inhale, a long exhale. Long inhale, even longer exhale. My heart is pounding, chest straining to keep it contained as it threatens to race up my throat.
“Ayna—” Royad is beside me, claws on my shoulders, all-black eyes piercing through my building panic. “Ayna, listen to me.”
He looks better than a few moments ago when he was pale from spilling words he wasn’t supposed to, or when his features were shifting uncontrollably. His gaze is steady, his brown hair tucked behind his ears, and there’s a kindness to him I rarely get to see when he plays my bodyguard on our paths through the palace.
I bob my head because there is no word I can get out. What if they are going to dispose of me themselves after all?
In reflex, my good hand flips to my dagger, savoring the coolness of the metal hilt when the rest of me is threatening to overheat.
“No one is going to hurt you. Do you hear me?” His baritone carries through the room with a reassurance I haven’t heard since the last time my friends from the Wild Ray told me we’d survive the next attack of a merchant ship and would drink ourselves senseless after the loot the way we always had. Only, instead of helping me, the memory of the family I’d found on the pirate ship tips me deep into a pit of despair.
I bob my head anyway. It isn’t Royad’s fault what happened with the Wild Ray. It isn’t his fault what happened in the lake room, either. It isn’t anyone’s fault, and if I’ve learned anything over the past weeks, it’s that there is a time to sit and wallow, and then there is a time to stand up for yourself, to take action and make the best of things, no matter how absurd or dire.
I’m not alone in this palace even when it started out that way. I have come to trust Royad and Myron, and they have given me no indication they think any differently of me because of what happened with the water from the lake. Plus, Myron’s promise is still valid. I’ll be free at the next Ret Relah—if I survive long enough to see it. So, these two Crows are the best chance I have.
I blow out another breath and nod again. “The lake is filled with the brides’ tears, isn’t it?” The question hurts in my throat, and for a moment, I wonder if their curse has spilled over to me, but I can breathe; I don’t taste iron and salt on my tongue.
Royad nods. “Their tears. Not yours. Carius’s brides’ tears. Myron would have never done something as horrible as—” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him quickly, my gaze darting to Myron whose features have twisted so much the angles of his face are all off.
The Crow King inclines his head at me as if waiting for me to pass judgement, and yet again, I have no idea what to do with it.
There is another thought knocking everything else to the background as I realize what Myron said earlier and what Royad’s saying now doesn’t add up.
“You said your fatherinitiatedhis brides in the sacred chamber, a chamber that obviously has a role in the whole curse thing. But you never brought any of your brides there. You neverinitiatedany of them.” I don’t care if I sound like I don’t consider myself one of said brides. I never chose to marry him in the first place. But I need answers. I need them more than I need air to breathe, because if this sacred chamber somehow decides to send its lake after me again, I want to be prepared.
“I didn’t.” Myron’s tone is grave as he joins us, replacing Royad, who steps aside for his king to let him gently lay his hands on each side of my shoulders. A crease forms on his forehead as he studies me with intent, too-dark eyes. Eyes which I wonder have once shone in hues of blue or green or hazel, or if he was born this way, with not even a fleck of white between his lids.
“Why?” My voice dries up like a drizzle in the desert.
For a moment, I think he’s not going to answer, but he stops his head from slowly rolling from side to side in a silent denial of information and says, “Because no one deserves to suffer for a crime my people committed. Especially not the ones who are supposed to save us.”
He doesn’t bleed or choke, his skin remains the same smooth, pale layer across his sharp cheekbones and defined torso, and I wonder if I somehow knew it. If I knew deep in my soul that Myron would never hurt an innocent if he could prevent it.
His gaze lingers, mouth the same grim line as a minute ago and fingers as gentle as ever, but there is something new to the darkness in his eyes. Where it was deep and unreadable before, myriads of emotions are swirling like threads of yarn in water—sorrow, guilt, and a flicker of hope I’ve spotted on occasion. This is a different sort of hope, though, and I wish I could sense a similar feeling beneath the layers of my own guilt.
Guilt for being alive when my father had to die because of one word from me. Guilt for outliving the strong and brave crew of the Wild Ray. Guilt for having kissed someone else when my heart is still in pieces from the loss of the only man I ever loved. Guilt for slowly forgetting the warm brown of Ludelle’s eyes, the sound of his laugh, the way my entire being lit up when he touched me. Guilt for the fading pain when I think of him.
Instead of examining all those variations of guilt, I swallow the lump in my throat and close my eyes so Myron won’t see the tears burning behind them.
There is nothing I can change about the past. But I might be able to change something about the future. Might be able to save someone when I have failed to save everyone else in my life.
“What do I need to do?” I ask when I reopen my eyes?—
