A great many thingshaddied in my wake. A great many things had been ruined.
I’d been back on Varya for four months now, and in that time, I’d cleared the place of its dead vines. I’d swept the floor of its bones, piling them into the sea off the edge of the little island. At first, I’d thought to call a wave over the holm and let it pull the hut into the deep. I’d thought to perform a spell to find Rohana, wherever she might be. But Varians kept coming to the Sacred Holms for help, for guidance and care, and when news spread that the daughter of the Great Goddess Ligea had settled in a small cottage just up the road from the Mage Seer’s home, they’d started coming to me.
Word had spread of what I’d done. How I’d stopped the threat of the nekgya and healed their waters. How I’d stepped foot on Anthemoessa and cleared it of its blight. How I’d abdicated my claim to Seraf’s and Anthemoessa’s thrones and—with much contention and strife—assisted the Serafi people in forming their own government.
I threw a bucket of water over the filthy stone floor in the back corner of Rohana’s hut, settled to my knees, and scrubbed. I didn’t expect the stones would ever be truly clean, but there was some catharsis in the scrubbing, in the way the filth pulled away, in the mindlessness of it. Amid the bones, I’d found pounds of gem-studded gold and silver jewelry. Old and empty vials. I’d pulled away the boards that had covered the one window and had urged the wind through the broken glass.
A Mage Seer must tie herself to her home as part of her service under Leucosian law. I didn’t know how that was done, and I was content not to. For now, I was happy cleaning the place out, letting in light, and offering what help I could to those who needed it.
I scrubbed and scrubbed until the pressure in the little hut grewsuddenly heavy, as if the walls were vying for my attention. I looked up, out of the open door, and onto the black sand shore beyond the narrow strip of sea. A young woman stood there, toes to the waves. Just as Rohana had, I commanded the water to recede. I kept scrubbing until she appeared in the doorway.
She cleared her throat. “Goddess?”
Her brown hair was strewn with gold, and her light green eyes were stretched with nervous wonder.
“Call me Imogen, if you please.”
She bobbed a quick curtsy. “I was told you might be able to help me. You see, I have been feeling poorly for weeks now, and my wife works the farm alone because I’m abed. The Mage Seer used to make a draught and now that she’s gone… well…”
“I see.” I set the scrub brush back into the bucket and waved an arm to invite her inside. She came to the black stone bowl carved into the very middle of the hut, then stopped. I watched terror fill her round face. “I need no blood, no flesh,” I said. “I’m not adept with draughts and I limit my spell work where I can.”
“Oh!” Her gaze flicked between me and the bowl. “The Mage just gave me some nepenthe, Goddess. She added some herbs, I think. Tasted like feverfew and rosemary.”
“And she charged you flesh for it?” I turned to the little collection of vials I’d stacked neatly against the wall and pulled a vial of nepenthe oil and some rosemary and feverfew.
“Aye.” The terror in her eyes had banked. “Only the crown—er, or the government—can grow nepenthe, you see. Otherwise, I’d make the brew myself.”
“Ahh. Perhaps we should do something about that.”
She nodded, nervously. Then her attention fell to the bowl between us. In awe she watched as it filled with seawater at my command. I dropped in the nepenthe oil, the herbs.
“Forgive me,” she said timidly. “But why do you not need the payment? The flesh. Like Rohana did.”
“Rohana was a Siren, but not a powerful one. She used her magic to amplify her control over the sea. In order to call the water to this bowl, she used a spell. Magic. And magic must be fed.”
She gave me a small smile. “It’s like you were made for this, then, weren’t you? Able to command the sea without sacrifice. So nice to be able to offer help without destroying oneself.”
A gentle smile curved my own mouth at that. I filled a clean vial with the draught I’d brewed. “It is.” I stoppered it and put it into her hand. “Very soon, the best healer in Leucosia will be living up the road. The little cottage set in the middle of the vineyard. It’s blue. Come by and perhaps he’ll be able to do more for you than I can.”
She gave another stunned curtsy. “Thank you, Goddess. What do I owe?”
I shook my head. “Not a thing.”
By the time I returned to my cottage, the sky was strewn pink and purple. By the gate was a new, neatly stacked pile of firewood. Hector had taken to replenishing it for me weekly, saying that neighbors ought to do kindnesses when they could. I’d spent the last four months sharing meals with him and Antonia and helping Agatha settle into a new cottage just up the road. Lachlan made the trek between the capital and their new home as often as necessary but had recently taken up command of the northern brigade, which let him stay home with her for longer stretches of time.
I closed the gate behind me and squinted up the long narrow road that led toward my tattered little house. I stopped. In the clearing before it sat an unfamiliar wagon, missing its horses. Beyond, the cottage door was ajar.
My heart leapt, that old feeling of danger that I’d once been so accustomed to flooding me. I took the dagger I wore at my hip andwove through the vineyard to keep myself hidden. Ducking helped keep me from sight, but still I moved slowly, quietly, until I reached the building’s side.
I crept toward the wagon and looked within. It had been mostly cleared save for a small crate of effects—a rosewood box, a few books, a little blue notebook with curled edges. The thump of my heart remained, but my knot of nerves began to unwind. I set down my dagger and took the notebook into my hands. It was filled with page after page of mediocre charcoal sketches. One of a bowl of grapes. One of a cut crystal goblet. One of theEleuthios.
A wide smile spread over my face as my attention snapped to the open door. I bolted inside and froze.
He was there, setting new logs atop the fire. He wore his traveling clothes—the same he’d worn when we’d first trekked north together. A brown linen shirt, worn-down trousers in a darker shade. He stood and clapped the soot from his hands.
“You’re early,” I said, breathless.
Theodore whirled. “Gods.” He looked suddenly afflicted, a hand to his chest. “I am.” He stayed where he was. Both of us did. Simply staring. “I expect you’ll do this every time I look at you…”
