Page 155 of The Silversmith

At night, my terrors were no longer finding Phillip and Oliver. Or of being stuck in golden caskets or shredded into a mess of confused pieces I couldn’t find, which I now suspected were memories trying to break through. I had one nightmare now: Molochai’s cold, taloned fingers on my skin, his shadows inside my veins, that evil ripping apart my mind before taking his blade and cutting my body wide open. Most nights, I dreamt it over and over and over again. Damond checked on me when I woke up screaming, but there was nothing he could do—nothing I wanted him to do—save for mixing me a sleep tonic. Sometimes the drink helped. Other times, it only made it more difficult for me to wake myself from the terror when it returned.

But those first nights with Shera, I slept restfully and dreamlessly. For a three-month-old wild animal, she was incredibly calm. She had no accidents inside the cabin and scratched at the door every morning to ask to relieve herself. In the books I’d read in Tovick, Soltum’s abilities weren’t detailed like the other gods’ had been. But Shera was relaxed when I was relaxed. For her sake, I forced myself to stop and breathe. With her, my mood seemed to be my power.

Another uneventful week passed with the three of us in the seaside cabin. Another week of peaceful, dreamless sleep. Another week of walking—faster and longer, now—and growing stronger, but I still had a long way to go. My stomach still hurt when I moved, but it was a dull ache rather than a sharp wrench of muscle and skin that made my eyes burn.

Damond usually brought me breakfast in bed so I could take my time adjusting to the stiff discomfort of sleep before rising, but this morning, I’d joined him in the main living space. There were more windows in this cabin than the one in Warrich. More light. Everything was bright oak—similar to the inn in Brinnea.

I watched the waves of the Brinnean sea wash up and recede on the shore of our little inlet, mesmerized by the fog hovering in the air.

Damond’s voice broke me out of my trance. “You seem… decent this morning.”

I shot him a perturbed glare, turned away, and poured myself a mug of green tea. “My only companions for the past three weeks have been you and a cat. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Damond chuckled softly and tsked. “You’re not very pleasant when you’re angry, Ary.”

I took a sip of my tea and thought of how much had changed since Tovick. “Fuck being pleasant,” I grumbled. “I’m not sure pleasant is something I can afford to be anymore.” With that, I pushed off the wooden counter and took the seat opposite Damond at the two-person dining table crammed into the small kitchen. “I was an idiot, running to Molochai to sacrifice myself. I thought I was doing the right thing, the easiest thing for everyone, but my decision was based on information and people I should have second-guessed.”

Damond sighed, his eyes sad. “Love makes us do stupid shit.”

“I don’t lo—” My jaw snapped shut before I could say what we both knew wasn’t true.

I loved him. At least, a part of him. Whether I wanted to or not.

But… never again would I make choices based on untested assumptions. Never again would I be so reckless and impulsive, even for the benefit of those I cared for. Never again would I lie to myself or let myself be lied to. Never again would I trust so easily.

I had accepted so many things that turned out to be lies.

No more.

Molochai had killed something in me that day: my blind optimism. I had grown a new heart, and despite the longing and love that remained, I needed to decide if I was willing to give this one away. To anyone.

I tightened a blanket around my shoulders and shifted in my seat. Shera brushed against my leg, sensing my distress. “Can you love and hate someone at the same time?”

Damond took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. “Two emotions rivaling each other in strength… I would guess so.”

I swallowed hard. “I should feel nothing but disdain for him, and I am angry—I am—yet all I want is for there to be a reason to… forgive him.” I shuddered as the self-hatred ripped through me. “Why do I want to forgive him, Damond? I should want to kill him. What’s so terribly wrong with me that I want to forgive the man who killed people I love more than I want to hate him?”

Damond eyed me curiously. “Do you believe that he had any choice in killing them?”

If I hadn’t gone to whatever plane of existence where Oliver existed after death, I would have said yes. But I didn’t think a man with a choice to kill a child would have been nice. Would have given him that toy horse. The agony Molochai had caused me with just his shadows… a power so great could accomplish terrible things.

When I’d found Phillip and Oliver, they’d looked so very peaceful. Like they hadn’t suffered, despite the blood and horror. Their calm was a detail I could never forget.

“No,” I whispered. “No, I don’t think he had a choice.”

Damond looked at the letter Gavin had left me. I had left it on the table weeks ago and neither of us had touched it. “Have you read it?”

My throat worked through a swallow as I shook my head. “I have to go to those Caves, but I won’t go blind. I go on my terms, but those people—most of them,” I added, thinking of everyone who wasn’t Simeon and Elowen, “are innocent. I can’t abandon thousands of people.”

And whatever was in that letter would make finally taking up my role a whole lot harder.

An uncomfortable pause split the air between us. I watched as Damond fidgeted with his thumbs. With a heavy sigh, he reached into the folded letter and pulled out a small piece of paper, featherlight, and set it before me. The scrap of paper was old and the writing barely legible. But I read it once, twice, again. Seven words had never held so much weight.

It was Simeon. Do not follow me.

I recognized the sharp curve of the S, the fat loop of the lowercase F, and how it read with some letters in cursive and some not. Those, among other traits, had always been consistent. I would know, because that handwriting was quite familiar.

That handwriting was mine.