Page 26 of The Silversmith

Then again, had my choices only ever been an illusion, like my fake life and family, crafted to keep me hidden and docile until someone else decided my time had come?

“Choices.” I laughed ruefully and shook my head.

“You always have a choice, Aryella.” His stare was fierce. As I soaked in his fervor, I felt that warm, tight pull in my chest. “Don’t ever let anyone take your choices away from you.”

I bit my bottom lip in thought. His eyes darted to my mouth. Something startling flashed across his stare, and I saw his throat bob with a heavy swallow. It passed quickly, but self-conscious warmth flooded my cheeks.

“How did you sleep last night?” he asked, distracting me.

“Better.” I forced a smile, still unsteady from the spark in my nerves. “Thank you.” I cleared my throat. “For the night before last.” I touched the thin lacerations on my neck. They were nearly healed, a testament to how little damage I’d done. How little I was capable of doing. For now. “I know it wasn’t real, nightmares never are, but…”

“Does it matter, when you’re in the throes of them?” He withdrew a sleek black flask from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and took a drink. I fought the urge to ask him what was in it. Probably not water. “Nightmares hunt you in the quiet and devour your peace. When you are silent, sleeping, nightmares cover the blank canvas of your resting mind like a fungus until you can’t discern what is light and what is feeding on the light. So while they may not be real, Aryella, they’re felt as if they are.”

I tightened my threadbare scarf around my neck, any lingering sweat from exertion now chilled on my skin. As was the case with many things he said, I struggled to formulate a worthy response. So I swallowed my pride and said, “Thank you.” Because I could at least show I was grateful.

“Eat some lunch.” He nodded toward the house and took another drink from his flask. “Then we’ll continue.”

And we did continue until supper, during which Caz, Finn, and Ezra took bets on which one of them I could defeat in a fistfight now that I had learned to throw and dodge a punch.

“My money’s on you, Caz,” Finn said to his older brother. “If only because you’ll be the first one to piss her off with your smart-ass mouth.”

Caz didn’t deny it. He winked at me and grabbed a turkey leg—another delicacy he and Ezra had brought back from their trip.

“You’re all idiots,” muttered Gemma through a mouthful of potatoes. “Just wait until she finds her power. None of you will stand a chance.”

They laughed good-naturedly, but I stiffened. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Smyth did too. He had already eaten—standing up, might I add—and now stood in the doorway with a stoneware mug in one hand. Intense eyes on me, as usual.

“Do we know what my power is?” I folded my hands in my lap and resisted the urge to add, “If I actually have any.” But… I was tired of sounding like a pessimist. That was a choice, to think that way. And while I was scared and frustrated and highly doubted my ability to take on any of them in a fistfight—much less liberate my people from Molochai—I made the choice to be hopeful. Or at least fake it.

“Christabel never specified,” Finn answered. “Only that it’s meant to be given by the Selvaren.”

“You will find it when you’re ready.” Smyth took a sip of his drink and gave me a single firm nod. Ever my teacher, stoic and sure.

As soon as supper finished, we retired early to rest up for our first day of travel. Caz and Finn shared the other bedroom while Ezra slept on the sofa. I wasn’t sure where Smyth slept.

Probably not on the floor.

***

My nerves and nausea woke me before the sun. Gemma slept soundly for another two hours, and I focused on the rise and fall of her breathing to keep me sane. To her, this was nothing more than the next leg of our journey. She was accustomed to traveling. Alone, even. She had few emotional ties to this place. The Winterton Caves were her true home.

And despite the lingering sense of dread I resisted, I had to hope that they—those Caves and those people—could be my home too.

I quietly sat on the edge of the bed while Gemma fastened my silver-blonde hair into a braid long enough to touch my lower back.

“How do you feel?” Her voice was pointedly soft. Careful.

“I don’t remember ever leaving this place.” I fidgeted with my thumbs in my lap. “It feels as if I’ve been here forever. Was I here before the accident?”

“As far as I know, yes.” Gemma tightened the band at the bottom of my braid and scooted off the bed to stand beside me. “Had it been my call, you would’ve been with us in the Caves from the beginning, not hidden up here like some prisoner. Elowen is good, at her core. Phillip and Oliver, they were good, and I know you loved them, I just… I don’t think you belonged here.” She sighed and shook her head. “But Simeon does as he does.”

I looked up into her warm caramel eyes and wondered if she’d felt that way while she’d been here. If she’d felt forced to keep her opinions to herself. If those opinions might have helped me.

“It will all work out,” she assured me, squeezing my hand before tossing her bag over her shoulder and leaving the room. “Simeon knows what he’s doing.”

I was irked by their faith in Simeon. But was I in a place to criticize? Their blind trust wasn’t too different from what I found in my teacher.

I brushed my fingers against the maroon-and-violet patchwork quilt beneath me, remembering how I used to tuck Oliver in and trace the floral designs over his back because it soothed him. My knapsack was packed light—I had grown attached to very little in this house. Caz would carry the larger bag with the food. Finn would carry any extra weapons. That left me with clothing, my canteen of water, and toiletries. Without much thought, I dragged the quilt off the already-made bed and folded it tightly into my knapsack. It was the one item from this house I would allow myself to bring. Practical, to keep me warm.