“What?” His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I had anything to do with that? Your familiar doesn’t determine your type of power, only how strong it is.”
A fiendish child’s giggle sounds from the other courtyard, immediately followed by a youngling’s screech. Roiven whips around and dashes toward the sound.
I’m sure he doesn’t want me following. I do anyways. A child’s face peers around the courtyard arch. She’s young, maybe five, with dense curls. At the sight of Roiven coming she shrieks and runs the other way. Giggling, another, younger child follows her on wobbly legs. A small gray shape crashes through the flowerbed after them.
I think it’s a weasel. It must be one of the children's familiars. Aren’t they too young for that?
A painful hand tightens around my heart, as the feeling that I’ve lost something rears up inside me.
“I told you not to follow me,” Roiven says. “Wait.” He grabs both children and crouches down to their level.
I freeze in the doorway of the arch. The girl says something to him, her voice soft and whining, the plea of somebody who knows she’s been caught breaking a rule.
“Because it’s dangerous,” Roiven answers gently. “You aren’teverto come back here without permission. Am I understood?”
Dangerous. He thinksI’dhurt these children. After all the stories about witches' sacrifices, Roiven is acting likeI’mthe threat.But the War-Father's warnings suddenly feel a little ridiculous. Roiven has killed, and maybe even as many people as I have.
But children?
I draw a deep, ragged breath, and remind myself what he said about the bonds not requiring blood, and the fact that he cannot lie.
“Come on,” Roiven says to them. He stands, still bent low enough to hold each of their hands. The witch glances back at me, his eyes hard. “I’m not going far. Don’t try to leave. Eat the food.”
With that, he drags them away, through the far arch.
I wander back to the tray he set down. There’s a pitcher with a yellow-colored, frothy juice, a platter with thick slices of bread, a bowl of smoked vegetables, and another bowl full of berries.
If the War-Father is wrong about witches… if the wholeEmpireis wrong about witches… then what, exactly, have I spent my life doing?
I'm not seeing anything but what Roiven chooses to show me. He can't lie, but that doesn't mean he can't distort the truth. I shouldn't be so quick to believe these people are good.
I haven’t touched the food yet when Roiven returns and slides across from me. He rests his elbows on the table without a word. His golden eyes watch me warily as he nudges the food towards me.
“Were those children yours?” I ask, an odd, tight feeling in my gut.
“No. You aren’t hungry?”
I chew my bottom lip and look away from him for a moment.
“Do you really believe I’d hurt them?”
Roiven sighs.
“You’re a knight. You’ve killed our kind. You still see your own people as the enemy.”
Your own people.The pain cracks through my forehead, sharper and faster than usual, as if it’s realizing I’m learning what it doesn’t want me to know. I drag a breath through my nose, nauseated and eyes watering from the pain.
“Cai? What’s wrong?” Roiven asks, his brow furrowed.
“Nothing,” I tell him through gritted teeth, as I force myselfnot to think about his words too hard. I reach for the food and drop some onto my plate. Head bowed, I begin to eat, to focus on the flavors and the delight of new foods until the pain slips away from me.
I can feel Roiven’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare glance up to see the expression on his face.
“I want to trust you,” Roiven says. He sounds like he’s begging. “Form a bond with me.”
The idea makes me feel sick, despite everything he’s said about it.
“No.” The pain is easing, but my shoulders stay hunched.
