“You know you’re not at fault, right?” Torin said, seeming to read my mind. I smiled sadly at him.
“If it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t even be in this position. Those people would still be alive. You and I would be married. Those babies . . .” I gulped and pulled my face away from Torin as tears welled in my eyes. “I’m just as responsible as the gods who did this.”
“No, sweetheart. No you’re not. If you’re responsible, then so am I. Then so is Lord d’Refan, your parents, your brother. Do you blame your brother for what happened today?”
I shook my head.
“Of course not. Even though, if he had told you about his connection with me, about the plans for the rebellion in Hestin, you would have never killed Finian and never ended up here in the first place. Ergo, it’s Peytor’s fault.”
I frowned at Torin’s logic.
“See how dumb that sounds? Not to mention narcissistic and fatalist. You are responsible for no one else’s actions but your own. The gods have been worshipped for centuries—are you going to blame their followers for giving them power through prayer? No.” He answered his own question before I could respond. “We all have made our own mistakes, Ell. But what happened in Cellia? That was not your fault. Do you believe me?”
I nodded my head, and his shoulders relaxed slightly before he pulled me tight against him.
“It just all seems so hopeless,” I mumbled into his shirt.
“That’s because that’s what theywantyou to think. If it’s all hopeless, if this is all predestined and their rule is absolute and inevitable, then there’s no reason to fight back. No reason to go down kicking and screaming. It’s better for them if you feel hopeless and powerless. But what they forgot”—he nudged my chin with his hand before wiping the tears away with his thumbs—“is that when you back someone into a corner, when you strip them of their ability to make decisions, that’s whenpeople get desperate. And desperate people do crazy things to ensure no one else feels the way they do. That’s when revolutions are born and regimes are toppled.”
“He’s going to make me queen. He’s crowning himself king when we return,” I mumbled again, and Torin’s smile was positively feral.
“Well, My Queen, what are you going to do with that power?”
Chapter 56
Folami
In my infinite wisdom, I figured that because Samyr and Lishahl were so close geographically that there would be little difference between the two territories.
I could not have been more wrong.
Where Lishahl was flat and cold, the ground dry and barren, Samyr was hilly and full of rivers. Even the air felt warmer here, even though I was only a few hours on foot south of Imena, the capital of Lishahl.
Already, I favored Samyr to Lishahl. I tromped through the forest that separated the two territories and crossed one of the many artful arching bridges. Each was heavily guarded by, to my surprise, armed Vessels. I submitted myself to a quick blood prick and test to determine my affinity before my bag was thoroughly searched. The guard—an older male who was gruff but not unkind—asked me to demonstrate how my communication stone worked and, once I’d proven it wasn’t a weapon, he let me through the border and into Samyr.
Just like that, I was granted access to what I was now sure was a utopia for Vessels.
I’d been here for a few weeks now, assimilating to life in one of the villages just outside the capital of Kiluo and had yet to meet a Mage.
It was as disconcerting as it was comforting. There was no fear of magical attacks, no fear of a Mage Force Bonding an unwilling Vessel; simply harmonious living for the Vessels that called Samyr home.
But weeks here had only shown me that aspect and nothing else of note or worth. I’d communicated with Peytor via the stone that the Bondsmith imbued with some sort of rune that allowed us to talk to each other, but had little to report since. He’d checked in every few days, telling me of the army in Lishahl and what trouble Itanya was getting into as well as Torin’s progress in Vespera.
I felt useless in comparison, and my uselessness only caused the hole in my soul where Itanya and Peytor were to fester and widen.
I miss my daughter—I miss my lover.
Samyr itself was gorgeous—flowering trees and exotic plants dotted the landscape, the buildings in the villages constructed of a wood so light it was almost white. Roofs were thatched with straw and carpenters added delicate trimmings to almost every open surface.
It was whimsical and calming, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of something dark and sinister hiding beneath the surface.
Maybe because of my own violent history or maybe because Samyr seemedtoogood to be true; either way, I was constantly on high alert.
But it seemed that my fears were going to be relatively unfounded.
I walked through the market of Himitsu, the village where I took refuge, listening for gossip and anything of note as I didevery morning. Originally, I feared that my ebony skin would stand out against the sea of white I expected to find, but I was pleased to note the melting pot of culture and skin tones that flooded the village—pale to dark and everything in between walked the streets.
What did make me stand out, however, was my clothing. I’d always dressed in earth-colored pants and tunics, the dominant colors in the majority of Elyria. That penchant backfired terribly in Samyr—everyone wore brightly colored garb, the women in tunic-like dresses spattered in floral patterns while the men wore long tunics and tight pants.
