Page 37 of The Silversmith

“I don’t think—”

My blood curdled when I heard that scream again—this time, a mere echo, but it was there.

“Did you hear that?” I gripped Gemma’s forearms. “The screaming?”

“Screaming?” Gemma looked around, then at me. “There was no screaming.” A sharp tug in my stomach begged me not to forget the pain. “You’re exhausted and cold. Come on.” Gemma wrapped her arm around me and turned us toward the tavern. “Let’s get you changed into something of mine. We can wash your nightgown in the morning.”

Consumed by shame, I was unable to look at any of them in the eyes and hid my dried, bloody hand in the folds of my nightgown as we passed by.

Chapter eleven

My now blood-free hands were my sole focus during breakfast the next morning. Anything that spared me from looking any of my friends in the eye.

No one mentioned a word about my bloody midnight meltdown. Gemma promised she’d tell the others how bad my nightmares could get. How I sometimes felt lost along with my memories from before the accident. How, when my nightmares weren’t about Phillip and Oliver’s deaths, other horrors erupted in my sleep. Mercifully, she told the others I would rather not discuss them.

Nightmares like the one last night never made sense, and I was just as glad as they were to pretend they never haunted me.

The frosted forests of northern Warrich gave way to rockier terrain the farther southeast we traveled. The climate grew more tepid, as well—a small mercy. Still cold, but far more bearable. The nights were long, but the company was good.

Wymara—with its expansive, green, rocky highlands—stole my heart. The trees were sparse, but the sky was broad and blue. The prowling, dipping mountains were beautiful and terrifying, and the lakes scattered across the terrain were clear and sparkled beneath the early-winter sun. I had never been able to see so much or so far at once.

Especially at dawn and dusk, when the sun and the moon changed hands through a graceful dance, a selfless give-and-take, one of them no better than the other. The colors… I could hardly find words to describe what they made me feel, only what they were. Cerulean pools in the sky peppered with rosy pink clouds. The ochre waves off the sun. I was mesmerized.

Along with the blue and orange hues of dusk came the camaraderie and laughter I looked forward to every night we stopped. Before the nightmares waged their wars on me.

Whether over a campfire glowing defiant against the winter winds or huddled around a table in a crowded tavern, I loved listening to my new companions share stories about their lives. It gave me a glimpse into some of what could be. What was already developing. Friendship. A family.

My will was strong, but my body was weak from exhaustion, despite the reprieve from the frigid cold the northern Wymaran sun provided and the endless supply of food Gavin insisted I eat. The rocky hills were steep. I was so very tired and ashamed at how weak, frail, and out of shape I had become hiding away in that house.

One morning later in the week, I tripped over a rock and lost my footing, despite my new well-gripped boots. Mercifully, I caught myself, but Caz whistled for my attention and told me to hop on his back. Just for a little while, he said. The least he could do for his queen.

Gavin appeared sorely displeased with the idea, but I did it anyway.

At one point during the third night—spent below the stars and amongst the chilly air—I woke from the sound of pine needles crunching beneath sturdy footsteps. When morning came, I had one more blanket tucked around me and Gavin was already awake and cooking deer sausage over the fire.

He served me first—honeyed green tea hot and ready—before the others woke to the mouthwatering scent of brine and burning wood.

“Thank you.” My mouth widened when I realized how effortless it was to smile. It had been a while since I felt this type of contentment. It was morning, there was a whole day ahead of me, and daytime was good.

Gavin nodded, his mouth curling into my favorite half-grin.

The others woke and ate, their clamorous conversation echoing throughout the frigid forest. When they finished eating, they split off in different directions to relieve themselves and left me alone with Gavin.

My long, silver-blonde hair was loose from its braid and in need of taming. I brushed through it with long, gentle strokes, reluctant to yank too hard on my cold scalp, which already protested at the removal of my blue hat. Gavin trained his eyes on me, his stare lingering, as usual, while I packed my sleeping mat into my bag along with my quilt and other necessary items I carried.

“Are you still hungry?” he asked.

“No.”

But his question was a mere courtesy. He pulled a roll out of his bag and handed it to me.

I laughed softly. “You don’t have to keep giving me your food.”

He waved a hand. “Took it from Freyburn. Don’t want it. Too sweet.”

Indeed, the roll he gave me was less of a bread roll and more of a pastry—round, with a jam-filled center. Strawberry, by the smell of it. When was the last time I had tasted strawberries?

“Hurry.” He nodded toward the pastry with a smirk on his face. “Before the others get back and fight you for it.”