When I look forward again, I notice Kaan’s movements are stiffer than they were before. Like something big just settled on his shoulders and dug its claws deep.
“Blueis also free and suitable for Pyrok and Roan,” she continues, moving up a wide stairway toward an arched entrance, her next wordsstrained. “But neither are stocked with the supplies you’ll need to dig out those pins and close the wounds.”
A guard pulls the door wide, brow buckled as he watches Siharna pass. Doused with the savory aroma of what smells like vegetable soup, we follow her into a lofty room reminiscent of the mountain dwelling Kaan took me to, but with straighter lines and furnished in warmer tones. Though it’s hard to absorb much with the sound of Korie’s cries echoing off the walls. A sound that plucks at me like there’s an instrument strung through my chest, each howl another firmyank.
My feet still, gaze sliding up stairs that feed into a mezzanine half hidden behind a balustrade of gnarled wood and stone. The source of Korie’s cries.
It’s suddenly hard to move or think or breathe, my every instinct on high alert, ears twitching to absorb the sounds of Korie’s carer gently trying to hush her asleep … not that it seems to be working.
Siharna makes for a wooden door beneath the stairs and jerks it wide, gesturing to what appears to be a storage cupboard. “Roan, have at it,” she says, gaze speared at the mezzanine, her other hand rested beneath her bulging belly. “There’s some dried meat in there, too. And jars of honeyed fruit. I’ll have other provisions sent over once you’ve had a chance to settle in.”
Roan hobbles toward the cupboard, dipping his head before he moves in and begins rummaging about.
Siharna grabs a gnarly basket off a wall hook and holds it out, eyeing Pyrok beside me. “Give him a hand, would you? Your brother looks almost worse off than my nephew does, while you look—”
“Regrettably sober,” Pyrok drones, winking at me as he ambles forward. He grabs the basket and peeks past the door. “Anything in there to mendme?”
“If you’re creative enough,” Siharna mutters, squeezing her eyes shut when Korie’s cries intensify.
“Is she okay?”
At the sound of Kaan’s deep rolling voice, I realize he hasn’t moved since he set foot in the building … still standing at the base of the stairs with his saddlebag strung over his shoulder, staring up at the mezzanine. Looking steadier than he has since he climbed atop Rygun and ordered him to cast flame across the city.
“Unfortunately, this is our new normal,” Siharna says past tight lips, words strained. Like splinters pulled from somewhere deep and sore. “Her pahpi sang her to sleep since the dae she was born. She hasn’t adapted to his absence.”
The last two words punch me so hard that for a moment, I think my heart stops.
Siharna adjusts her stance, rubbing deep lines up and down the side of her belly. “Bertha’s a gentle touch like Zior was. She has the most luck getting Korie down, but she still battles until she’s all but choking, eyes swollen from her tears.”
A heaviness drops on the room, making each breath feel heavy.
Stolen.
“Which song?”
“‘Tune of the Lifting Star’ was her favorite. He’d only make it to the second chorus before she’d drift off.” Siharna’s features soften a little as her chin drops, gaze on her belly, her next words quieter. “What I wouldn’t do to have it bottled …”
For the first time since I laid eyes on the austere Chieftess, I see a crack of tender vulnerability. Something that’s hard to look at, my gaze lured to the spot her hand is resting—properly observing her fullness for the first time.
For unknown reasons, that’sharderto look at—more uncomfortable—some sunken part of me rattled to the core.
Feeling as though I’m intruding just by being here, by listening, I look at the thick twine rug on the floor, finding a sudden intrigue in its twirled fibers.
Kaan sets his pack on the ground. “May I try?”
My breath snags.
Three small words, yet they shake me. Peel me open, then flip me inside out until my heart is flopped in the open.
Utterly vulnerable.
A moment of silence before Siharna dashes a tear from her cheek. “Of course. Just— Let me grab something.” She moves through an arched doorway, returning with a large instrument similar to the one Kaan has back in Dhomm, but made from a white wood.
Looking at it …hurts. Like a hook is lodged around one of my ribs, pulling. Not sure why, nor can I fathom the reason I’m suddenly desperate to watch Kaan’s fingers pick a tune from those dark strings.
“Zior’s lute,” Kaan murmurs, watching Siharna with cautious eyes.
“Yes.” She holds it out. “He used to play for her. I never learned.”
