Page 114 of The Silversmith

He’d left me with more than enough to sustain me for at least a day. The thought of him being gone longer than that imbued me with dread.

I stared into the fire and frowned. We were caught in yet another delay, one Gavin didn’t seem concerned about. Simeon was waiting in Brinnea, and although I was in no rush to say goodbye, I couldn’t deny the nagging itch not to disappoint the father I had yet to meet. I wished I didn’t care about pleasing Simeon. Or Elowen or Elias and his grandparents. I daydreamed over a breakfast of bread and fruit. Wondered what it would be like to live without trying to please anyone at all.

I vowed to keep these dreams close. These secrets of my heart were all I could let myself keep.

After I ate, I spent the morning reading one of the books he’d left me. The first was a short love story that made me blush and cry at the same time. The second was an anthology of stories about multiple fictional female warriors who rebelled against expectations, defied odds stacked against them, and lived the rest of their lives however they wanted.

I smiled when I saw it marked for me in multiple places.

How subtle of him.

When I finished reading, the sun was near its zenith and my stomach growled. I decided to eat before changing my bandage so that the sight of bloody flesh didn’t steal my appetite.

Today, the wound ached more than it stabbed, but that didn’t stop me from flinching with each pass of the bandage as I unwound it. I warmed enough water beneath the hearth to make a bath bearable and filled the cast-iron tub high enough that I could kneel without being fully submerged.

With the dried blood washed away, I could see into my own gaping flesh. I cringed at the wet edges of raw, pink skin folded loosely over the hole. But the oozing fluid was clear, not discolored. It was no longer bleeding, and though the flesh was swollen and tender, pink was better than bright red, yellow, or green.

My bandage wasn’t as cleanly wrapped as Gavin’s, but my wound was covered. If he didn’t find it satisfactory upon returning, he could fix it himself.

After my bath, I grew restless. It felt like the longer he was away, the less likely he was to return. I studied the map of Nyrida from Finn and scoured it for ideas. Where he might have gone, which route he might have taken, how long it would be before he came back.

I looked to the west, and my thoughts drifted to my friends. I prayed they were safe if they hadn’t arrived at the Winterton Caves by now. When I thought of Caz and Marin reuniting, joy soothed my nerves. Even if he lost the leg, he was alive. My eyes dampened with tears and guilt pricked my chest.

“Alive,” I whispered to myself over and over again until it was all I could hear.

The final book I found was a collection of accounts about Queen Christabel’s life, told by those who’d had the privilege of meeting her during her thirty-seven years.

My eyes blurred with tears while reading the very first account from a middle-aged single mother who’d been unable to pay her tithe due to an unfortunate yield of crops. Simeon, who she described as fair but not cruel, insisted the tithe would need to be paid after a short extension period. Christabel, who attended the tithing that day, promised to pay the woman’s tithe herself. Simeon had told her it was irresponsible. That others would expect the same. Christabel did it anyway. The queen’s unbound generosity, the woman called it.

“‘Life and sun and stars live in her smile,’” I read aloud with a smirk of my own. “‘She shares the same silver hair as her brother; they look quite alike…’” My smile grew. “Silver hair.”

For the first time, I was unashamed of my silver-blonde tresses. And now I knew where they came from.

“‘Her brother may wield the magic that saved us from tyrants,’” I continued, “‘but it’s her kindness that sustains us.’”

I felt a gentle tug in my chest as I read and reread the woman’s words about the beautiful queen that came before me. I would never measure up to such resilience, and that was okay. Christabel gave me something to strive for.

Based on the date of this first entry, the tithing took place a few years before Christabel’s death, which meant her generosity persevered after unimaginable pain. After Molochai succumbed to evil and blamed her for choosing the man she loved over him. After cursing her with a slow, excruciating illness. After murdering her infant child.

After realizing that generation after generation would suffer because of her choice.

The price she’d paid for the man she loved…

I shut the book with a sharp snap, unable to read on. And then I closed my eyes, laid in bed, and tried to think of absolutely nothing.

***

A frigid chill had settled inside the cabin when I woke alone to the fire burning out beneath the hearth. The sun had set, and there was still no sign of him. Rising from bed, I grunted at the tears burning in my eyes, furious at how weak they made me feel. My tears and the power of my emotions felt like burdens to my duty and purpose. I’d once yearned for feeling, but now I wondered if it would be easier to feel nothing at all.

The few remaining pieces of firewood were heavy enough to elicit a few groans of pain—my wound stung and pinched as I tossed one at a time into the fire. More bread, canned pears, and jerky were enough to satisfy me for supper. There was plenty left for tomorrow and the next day, which I hated. With his tendency to lose his wits when I ate too little, a large stash of food likely meant he would not return for another few days.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around at the cabin—brighter now that the fire had returned to its impressive blaze. A small cabinet in the corner of the room caught my eye. Only tall enough to meet my knees. Plain, dark mahogany with two doors, which I laughed upon opening. After living with Phillip, I should have known a liquor cabinet when I saw one. On the top shelf were a dozen or so brown single-serve bottles of beer, and on the bottom, a few large glass containers of liquor. One in particular caught my eye—a half-full bottle with only Damond scribbled on it.

“Hmm.” The sound of the cork popping bounced off the walls of the cabin. I took a whiff—it was odorless and colorless. Whatever was in this bottle couldn’t be so bad if it smelled like nothing. “Thank you, Damond,” I muttered to no one but myself, toasted the air—as I had seen my friends do—and took a swig.

To my credit, I forced it down. Even though I gagged and it was vile and coarse and tasted like pepper lit on fire. The sweet cinnamon whiskey Damond had given me in Tovick was a far cry from this offense to the senses.

I decided to stick to beer.