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Mine, min quellea. You’ll always be mine, that old voice promised, its acrid, poisoned words dripping down her throat.
She shuddered and almost threw up again right there, on the richly carpeted steps of the palace. It was never going to end. She’d thought escape would be enough, but she was never going to stop feeling like this until he was dead.
“You’ll die,” she whispered, to a person who wasn’t here and yet wouldn’t leave her alone. “I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I promised you that much.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
He Isn’t Home
She snuck her way out of the castle, darting through hallways, slipping into nooks and shadows to avoid being seen, and pulled Kialla from the stables. It was only once she was on the horse, only once she’d passed through the Outer Gate and Kialla’s stride was a rhythmic canter beneath her, that the tightness in her chest eased enough for her to breathe normally.
It was also when the Song crept forth, and she snapped at it. Good to know that if I’m dying, you’ll only help so long as Alaric isn’t within screaming distance.
She detected the faintest sense of embarrassment from it, which was perhaps why its reply was so caustic, as if she was the one worthy of reproach. You were in no danger.
But she hadn’t known that. And the Song, who well knew what lurked in her memories, hadn’t even been able to overcome its cowardice long enough to tell her.
Her hands throbbed, the knuckles bruised and skin torn from battering against the unyielding, invisible armor that had coated Fitz’s skin. As if in penance, the Song reached for those wounds. She let it. She’d made this fool’s bargain with it, so she took the advantages as it knit the flesh back over her knuckles to gleaming wholeness, let the cool tide of magic wash away the heat and swelling.
She reached the Arrendons’ manor and left Kialla to graze in the empty paddock while she went inside. All of her new clothes were at the palace—she’d have to rectify that oversight—but her one decent set of breeches and tunic from her original clothing was cleaned and mended, and she gratefully changed her current stained and sweat-soaked clothing for them.
A sweep of the grounds and stable proved Alys was nowhere to be found—which was fine, because Clare had left all her letters in the palace suite, and wasn’t in the mood to deal with them besides—so she mounted Kialla and rode to Numair’s. She had the ridiculous notion that seeing him would somehow soothe the jagged edges Fitz’s ill-advised “test” had sharpened to razor points.
Hellack was in the paddock where she’d first met Kialla, so she untacked the mare and left her with him. But though his horse was here, Numair didn’t seem to be. After he didn’t answer the rocks she tossed at his window, she opened the hidden door and went wandering—he had said to stop by any time. She made it through all of the first floor and part of the second before she encountered a single person. She’d had this idea of the homes of wealthy people as bustling places, always filled with staff or visitors or family. Numair’s home was like a place he’d hidden away from the world—a haven he expected no one to find him in—and it settled her.
The house felt safe, in a way the Arrendons’ palace suite now never would. Its silence, its dark, muted colors and its carefully chosen comforts, wrapped around her and she thought if only she could stay here long enough, some of the peace it exuded might finally absorb into her bones.
She was in his library, running her fingers over tomes she might someday actually be able to read because of him, when she saw it. Resting on a random bookshelf like a mere decoration, was a small one-inch by two-inch box, an exact twin to the one she’d seen yesterday in Verol’s office, identical down to the magic she felt imbued into its making.
It was in her hands before she could think better of the impulse, but when she opened it, nothing happened. It was just an empty box, the interior lined with soft blue velvet. Disappointed, she placed it back on the shelf when she sensed someone staring at her. An older woman stood in the doorway, and Clare recognized her as the woman who had met her carriage the night of Numair’s nameday celebration.
That evening, the impression Clare had gotten from her was one somewhere between suspicion and contempt. The impression she received now was something softer. A cautious, weighing look, almost…. Clare groaned internally. Almost hopeful. First Lian, now this woman. Why did people keep looking at her like that?
“He isn’t home,” the woman finally said. “And I wouldn’t expect him before tomorrow.”
“I see.” It didn’t seem like the woman wanted to kick her out, necessarily, so she said, “I’m Clare.”
The corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled. “I know. Numair mentioned you might wander in at some point. I’m Ida.”
Pleasantries upon meeting someone weren’t a thing in Renault County. But the Song had shoved enough of various people’s memories at her on the road to Veralna that a few of the phrases stuck in her head, and she found herself finally wanting to try one out. “It’s nice to meet you, Ida.”
Ida nodded. “You can borrow that one, if you like.”
Clare looked down at the book she’d picked absently off the shelf. “Oh, that’s all right. I just liked the picture.” Etched on the soft cover was a serpent-like red dragon, so different in body from the stone one she’d met on Firedrake Mountain. The only word she could read of the title was a basic “the” and she felt suddenly self-conscious, aware she couldn’t do a fundamental thing this world seemed very dependent on.
I could help, the Song offered. When she was at the palace, when she was near Alaric, it disappeared deep within her. But since the pact she’d made with it at the Arrendons, since they’d healed the tree, whenever she was elsewhere, its presence behind her eyes was constant. She hated it, the ever-present reminder that she was never alone in her own skin. That she didn’t belong only to herself.
I wish you wouldn’t think of it that way, the Song said sadly.
There is no other way to think of it. And I’ll learn to read on my own. She knew the Song’s solution to this problem: to infect her with another person’s memories, another person’s life. She’d only know how to read as long as she kept that other person around, and she wasn’t going to let someone else live in her body, too.
She could attempt the same trick she’d pulled to learn how to ride, but she didn’t think it would work again, now that the Song had slightly more agency. It had been so angry when she’d severed the war maiden’s knowledge of horses from her identity and taken the former for herself. As if she’d destroyed something it loved.
She placed the book back on the shelf. She’d learn to read on her own. “I should be going.”
“Before you do, I have something for you.” Ida crossed the room, opening a large drawer in a wooden desk and pulling out a stack of slim books. Six in total, tied together with a pretty two-toned black and green ribbon. “He made these for you yesterday.”
Clare took them, recognizing the feel of the magic from the first ones he’d sent her, and knew that every word she ran her fingers over would be spoken in his voice. She looked up sharply at Ida, but there wasn’t any condescension on her face. Just that same, odd, hopeful expression.
