Page 4 of A Touch of Stars and Stones (Kirrian #1)

two

. . .

Ever

T he day emerges as we journey on. Thankfully, the canter that Lyle started off with only approached a gallop for a few minutes and then slowed to a more manageable walk as I adjusted to being on a horse.

We continue in silence on our path to this court place, or Kirrasia, if what I heard in her mind is true.

The relief that all the pain, voices, and other confusing things that struck me have all subsided has kept my questions at bay and gives me time to sift through what’s happened.

But the consequence is more questions bubbling up, desperate to be asked.

I won’t pretend that the episode at the shop didn’t frighten me. It was far more intense than anything else I’ve felt or experienced, and couldn’t be cast aside as a simple daydream. And then… did I make those tremors? What were the visions I saw? And hearing Lyle’s thoughts?

Mad.

I’m going insane. Possessed. A witch? Stars, I don’t know, but I do know none of this is normal. Maybe I’m sick, and that’s why Lyle’s in such a hurry.

One question tumbles into the next like stones rolling down the hillside, bumping into each other, and now I’m standing before an avalanche racing to bury me.

It’s not helpful when the only person I can ask is keeping several meters distance and her back to me.

Needing to redirect my mind, I take in the countryside, a new territory I’ve not explored. Lyle never wanted me to venture too far, but then, neither did I. Lyle was home for me, and I was happy. The desire to push for more wasn’t in me.

The scenery doesn’t keep me distracted for long, and I’m back to organising and cataloguing the questions I need to ask Lyle when the time is right.

She hasn’t looked in my direction since we slowed the pace, but Nettle’s guidance is enough to keep me going.

The comforting rocking back and forth of his steps calms me and quietens something inside of me, and I’m grateful for the small comfort amidst everything else.

Lyle’s path keeps us close to the trees, and we pick up a well-worn path, which, from what I remember about the maps, seems to be heading towards Orasia. If we are heading there first, before this court place, we might reach the town before dusk if we ride a little harder. Perhaps.

The sound of a stream drifts in and out of range, meaning we should come across the small mill at some point, too.

We’ve been visited on many occasions by the man and woman who run it, using the power it generates to weave beautiful rugs and blankets.

They traded them at our shop most years, and Lyle and I kept one to keep us warm in the winter, adding extra warmth when even the fire in the hearth couldn’t keep the chill from the house.

They have a daughter about my age, and we’d sneak off and swap stories with each other, or rather, she’d tell me hers until it was time for her to leave.

The memory is a welcome reprieve from wondering when Lyle will talk to me again.

Maybe when we reach our destination tonight, she’ll answer my questions, which haven’t stopped piling up in my mind, and are now a heap gathered at the bottom of the hill.

But there are several that keep rising to the top of the ask pile: Do you know what’s happening to me?

Why were you watching for signs? What else are you hiding from me?

The last one is more frightening than the first two because I never thought Lyle would keep things from me. She’s my only family and has given me no reason for me not to trust her. Why wouldn’t I? But her actions and behaviour over the last day have shot that to pieces.

We don’t stop at the mill, and we don’t go as far as Orasia.

Lyle takes off from the path and carves her own way through the trees, their colours growing darker and richer as we go deeper among them.

After travelling for most of the day with little rest, we come across a few houses in a clearing.

They’ve seen better days, some of them in need of a builder or thatcher.

There’s a makeshift stable next to the sturdiest building, and that’s where Lyle heads for.

Nettle plods after her, showing no concern for where we are or who lives here.

Lyle slips from her horse and leashes the reins to a tree branch.

It’s late, although light lingers, casting bright shadows around, but the temperature is dropping as the remaining day drains from the sky.

Lyle pulls at her satchel and starts to make camp in the stable amongst the dry straw.

It doesn’t look like anyone else is here, but that makes me more nervous.

How does she know about this place, and how does she know it’s safe? And why aren’t we going inside?

“Are you going to stay on Nettle all night?” she asks.

My muscles tense at the bite in her words, but I follow her actions and bring my bag with me into the covered stable. It has walls and a roof, of a sort, keeping us hidden, which is better than nothing. I stretch out my legs and back, trying not to draw attention to my discomfort.

My lips twitch to speak, but I bide my time, pulling back from snapping my questions.

Lyle offers me food—a chunk of bread and a chicken leg. “Don’t get too excited. That’s the leftovers from our meal yesterday.” My stomach growls as I take the food, and I realise I haven’t eaten since last night, too occupied with the desperation to flee.

I take the food and try to catch her eye, but she keeps her face angled away.

I wait.

Patient.

But words don’t come. And the eerie quiet drags.

My heart hardens in my chest as anger threatens to take up residency. We eat in silence as foreboding settles over me.

Why did Lyle take me in as a child? What did she mean when I came around yesterday, and she said she shouldn’t have risked it?

I knew she wasn’t my mother or a blood relation, my russet-coloured hair against her straw-yellow, and my green eyes versus her blue, were just some of the signs, but I’ve felt like her daughter my whole life.

She is all I know. I have no memories before her or of anything other than our life together, and I love her.

My rational mind hurls anything it can against the doubts that darken my mind against that fact.

I rub my hands, feeling the rough skin now forming on my palm where I’ve been holding the reins so tightly.

And then I feel the smooth metal band of the ring that’s still on my hand.

I curl my finger inward, physically stopping it from slipping off, and lean down using my bag as a pillow, careful not to crush the small cup hidden inside.

If Lyle won’t talk to me, then I won’t speak to her either.

Petty. Yes.

Childish. One hundred percent.

I wrap my hands inward to my chest and pull myself around them into a ball, trying to find a comfortable position. A tear, warm and salty, betrays me and leaks from my eye, running over my nose in no particular hurry and delaying my call to sleep.

I hope sleep will stem the heartache beating in my chest.