“What are?” she asked, puzzled, almost as much as I was by my own outburst.
“Your lies,” I explained.
“And what do my truths taste like?” Ah, an attempt to distract. I indulged her, if only this once.
“Like rain—spring rain—warmed by the late morning sun.”
“Rain?” she repeated, a little disappointed. “Water, then? But water is tasteless.”
She couldn’t be more wrong.
“Water is life,” I replied. “Without it, we die. Much like I will do if you don’t get on with it. My heart is steady, yes? Ask your questions.”
Her fingers on her spare hand furled, reaching to fiddle her sleeves. They traced the material, as if looking for something, before giving up and gliding to the ends of her long, slate hair, speckled silver in the lattice light. I waited.
“Can I see the other laurels? May I talk to them?”
I resisted the urge to point out they were two questions, though masked as one, and gave her the truth. The only truth it could be.
“No.”
I prayed she wouldn’t ask why.
After a shuddering breath, she straightened, her swallow audible from beyond the metal screen.
“What do you truly feel about the Dendralis? The system of offerings?”
I expected this question. Or rather,questions.
“I am of the same opinion as you.” My voice was steady, my heart even more so.
If she was shocked, she didn’t show it.
“Two nights’ past, when you accused me of being someone else, who did you think I was?”
I rounded up the words to describe the truth as well as I was able, hauling them together from the sinews of what my pledge allowed me to reveal. Even so, they protested, having to be dragged out from behind gritted teeth, unwilling to be shared.
“I am part of a…” Its true name would not rise to my tongue. “A group. A group it is not safe for you to know too much about, especially with the High Druid keeping you so closely within his sight. They are aiding me to”—my throat burned, the sting akin to my craving for grace—“…change things,” I managed. “I thought you were sent by them. To do something. Something important.”
“Who do you think I am now? What do you want with me?” Her curiosity filled the Unmantle—the bright tang of coriander.
“Seamstress, did you not learn to count? I’ve allowed you quite the indulgence, since that is now the seventh inquisition you’ve put to me.”
“Just answer the godsdamned questions.”
I rolled my lips inward, suppressing a laugh. She would have made a formidable druid with a temper like that.
“You’re something different,” I acquiesced, my words carefully chosen. “Your blood, it is not the same as other laurels, other Thromarrians. But truthfully…I do not yet know the extent of it. I have a theory…” A theory I dared not give voice to, nor allowed myself to dwell upon for long, for how unmoored it would sound. Perhaps something had already made a madman of me, for why did her touch feel like starlight?
“Yes?” she encouraged. The scent of herbs intensified, sharp and green.
I searched for a sound explanation. “It is not rooted in credibility. Not yet,” I decided. “But as we spoke of before—I think you areblessed.”
Her palm pressed harder. “Blessed with what, exactly?”
“A blessing of mercy,” I answered, the words bitter as cud, but they pushed through my lips as seamlessly as oil, regardless. “That grants you kindness in the face of cruelty. A gift.” I swallowed, washing their taste from my mouth. I willed my heart to remain calm, and thankfully, it obeyed.
“Mercy?” she breathed, the tips of her fingers digging like claws. “A gift? And why would the Blood God grant me such, when He is the inflictor of the brutalities that require saidmercy? I am a woman, not a druid.”
