Page 27

Chapter Twenty-seven

The alacrity with which I fold back into life in Caeldera surprises me. In my time away, I gave little thought to how those I left behind might feel to learn of my kidnapping. I was so consumed by the blood on my hands, so convinced of my own unforgivable actions, I never once contemplated that my return would be one of open arms and raw relief.

But it is there in the wet eyes of my maids, blinking back tears as they draw me a hot bath and brush the snarls from my hair. It is there in the soft chuck of Jac’s fingers beneath my chin when he accompanies me down to dinner in the Great Hall. In Mabon’s muted smile, in Cadogan’s quick wink. In the way Uther gently pulls back my chair and takes a seat close beside me for the evening meal. In Farley’s snarky request that the next time I go and get myself kidnapped, I at least wait until his leg is healed enough to help with the rescue mission. Don’t I know he’s the best tracker in the Ember Guild?

They surround me in an impenetrable circle of protection and warmth, telling me, without ever telling me, that there is no blame for my killing of their comrade, no resentment for the taking of Gower’s life. This—their kindness, their understanding—is too much to bear with any stoicism. I almost wish Vanora would insult me again, if only to quell the emotional tide threatening to wash away any sense of composure. I choke down mouthfuls of turnips and keep my watery eyes on my dinner plate.

For all I see of his men, of Penn himself I see little. I had assumed, after what happened in the Forsaken Forest, that things would be different between us. That the newfound transparency we shared on the parapet would continue, now that we are back in the palace. That the fiery passion we had lit with our hands and lips and teeth in that dark stretch of woods would reignite, stoked by close proximity to each other, day after day, night after night.

And yet…that moment that had changed everything for me has evidently changed nothing for him. He is busy as ever, kept occupied by the not insignificant matter of running a kingdom. The fleeting moments our paths do cross are few and far between.

There is the nightly glimpse of him at the far end of the banquet table, of course. The more rare sighting of him swinging a sword or hurling a lance in the practice yards when I pass by on my way to High Street each morning, Farley hobbling after me on his crutches. And then, later in the evenings, after dark, there are the long hours I lie on my pallet in the spire, still as stone, listening hard for the moment of his return.

The power in my chest coils tighter and tighter, a loaded spring, as I feel him approach through the bond and, eventually, hear the tower door creak open through the rafters. The muffled thumps of his boots hitting the floor. The click of a wooden chest opening and closing. The clatter of a scabbard returning to its rack.

These are all I have to live on—these ephemeral glimpses, these indistinct traces of existence. For he does not seek me out, not for training or for conversation. Certainly not for anything beyond conversation. It is as though he has erected an invisible perimeter around himself, designed specifically to keep me at bay. I am not sure why, or exactly when, it appeared…I only know that it has. And I am even less sure how to knock it back down.

I absorb this blow like it is no more than a minor perturbance, though in truth it is anything but. If Pendefyre regrets what happened between us, that is his prerogative. Not mine. If he wants to pretend it never happened…

Fine.

I can pretend as well as the next person.

But even as I tell myself I do not care to share his company, all too often I catch myself longing for it with a desperation that terrifies me. My mind is trapped in a perpetual spiral of anticipation, my senses heightened to a new sort of awareness each time I find myself in his presence.

Now that I know how he tastes, now that I know the devouring heat of his lips, now that I know how it feels to fit every curve of my body against the hard planes of his chest…

I cannot un know it.

I cannot forget it.

Even if he wishes to.

On the third day after my return, I sit on a long neglected garden bed in the enclosed courtyard at the rear of Carys’s shop, pulling weeds and planting the cuttings I took from the Forsaken Forest. The blade of the borrowed spade is streaked with earth.

Reposed on a low chaise beneath a slender white birch tree, Carys chatters absently as I work. Farley, sprawled on the twin chaise beside her, interjects occasionally with a witty remark or pithy comment. We have spent many such mornings like this, the three of us, bound together by our unique confinements.

“If this baby does not put in an appearance soon, I’m placing it in the care of the fyre priestesses at the Temple of the Gods,” Carys decrees. “At this rate, I’m going to miss all the Fyremas festivities.”

I pluck a particularly large weed, unperturbed by her threats. There is no heat in them. Besides, I have heard them all before, made with increasing frequency as her stomach grows rounder and rounder, her burden heavier and heavier, and still there are no signs of labor.

“And my husband. Where is he? After putting me in this condition, he simply vanishes?” She is scowling now, but the hands that stroke rhythmically over her distended belly are utterly gentle. “ Men. ”

“Come now, Carys,” Farley puts in bravely. “Uther is doing his best to help Pendefyre secure the Ember Guild. You know how tense things are within our ranks since—”

He breaks off suddenly. In the following silence, I can hear the words he does not say. Since Gower. Likewise, I can feel two worried gazes burning into the back of my neck as I bend lower over the flower bed, my skirts pooling around me in a cloud of fabric. They never voice their worries. Not to me, not aloud. We have hardly discussed my ordeal at all. That first morning, Carys had merely clasped my cheek with one of her fine-boned hands, looked deeply into my eyes, and murmured something about putting on the tea. As if she had been waiting only the span of a single night since our last visit. As if nothing had changed.

“Rhya, dear,” she breezes now, forcing a light tone. “You’re a healer. Tell me how I can hasten this birth along.”

I sit back on my heels and wipe my hands on my apron. “Your babe will come when it’s time. This is no race. There is no need to hurry if you are healthy enough to carry a few more days.”

“Rhya.” The faint whine in her voice is familiar. “ Please. ”

“There are certain herbs to induce labor, but I would not give them to you for any reason besides as a last resort.” I heave a martyred sigh. “Some claim spicy foods can trigger birthing pains. Others swear raspberry leaf tea does the trick. Then, there’s the therapeutic massage of the pressure points, using sagethorn oil or rose-hip extract…”

“So? Which method shall we try first?”

“None of them, Carys.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because the best way to hurry the babe along requires no tinctures or teas. You only need some physical activity. Light physical activity,” I stress, seeing the excited spark in her eyes. “A very short walk. Or…well…activity of a different sort…”

“And what sort is that?” Carys prompts when I falter.

Farley snorts. “Can’t you guess? Look how she’s blushing! The sort of activity you need your husband for, I’d reckon.”

I shoot him a look. “I am not blushing!”

“Red as a beet, Ace.”

Ignoring him, I look at Carys with as much dignity as I can muster. “Annoying as he may be, he’s not wrong. Some say that…intimate activities in the marriage bed are enough to…stimulate…”

“Farley!” Carys clips sharply. “Stop giggling like a schoolboy and go get my husband. Now.”

“But—”

“No buts!” she snaps at the sulking redhead. “He’s likely at the sparring pits. If you get a move on, even with those crutches, you can be back with him in no more than an hour.”

“I’m not supposed to leave the two of you unattended,” he says with great dignity. “Pendefyre said—”

“Och! Fine! Forget it!” With considerable effort, Carys pushes herself upright on the chaise. Planting her slippers on the flagstones, she struggles to her feet with a surge of determination. “I’ll go get him myself if it’s such a great imposition—”

Her words gasp into silence as a rush of water splashes down between her skirts, onto the slate. For a long moment, all three of us freeze, as though time itself has stopped. Carys looks down at her feet with a dazed expression. Her pink lips are rounded in a perfect circle of surprise.

“Oh,” is all she manages to say. “ Oh. ”

I look directly into Farley’s eyes. They are stripped of their usual mirth, wide with shock.

“Forget the sparring pits,” I tell him. “Fetch the midwife instead. Tell her it’s time.”

In all my years of assisting Eli, I never once aided in a birth like the one of Carys and Uther’s son. Given his hesitancy in making an appearance, when at last he arrives it is with a stunning, breath-stealing speed.

I have scarcely settled Carys back on the garden chaise when the first contractions seize her in their clutches. After that, there is no moving her up the stairs to the apartments. For beneath her skirts, I can see she is already well on her way to delivery.

Healer though I may be, I have not witnessed many births. Pregnancies grow rarer and rarer with each passing year as the blight grips the land in an ever-tightening hold. Most expectant mothers do not carry to term, and if they manage to, their babies are often born… wrong . Limbs twisted, eyes unseeing. Organs on the outside of their frail abdomens. Many come out blue and still, never taking a single breath of air beyond the womb. The few that do survive seldom live long, unable to breathe on their own.

And with the babies go the mothers. Whether their bodies fail during the bloody battle of childbirth or their souls flee in the heartbreaking aftermath of losing a child, fair few survive the ordeal. Sadly, what had once been common practice, natural as breathing, is now a rarity. Healthy deliveries in which both mother and child survive are a precious gift among mortals. Successful fae births are even more rare, a maegical anomaly in a maegicless era.

I do not allow myself to dwell on these realities as I examine my friend. My voice is level as I speak soothing words meant to keep her calm, meant to convince her there are no problems. Inside, though, I am counting the minutes until Farley’s return with the midwife in tow. Inside, I am screaming that I somehow must move her inside, upstairs, to her bedchamber, where there are clean linens and fresh water and comfortable feather pillows to prop her against.

But how can I, with the babe bearing down so fast? How can I, when already her birthing pains are coming with alarming acceleration, one arriving directly after another, gripping her muscles with spine-bowing constriction and wrenching away all sense of autonomy? If she convulses thus on the stairs, there is no telling what will happen. She could fall. She could be harmed, the babe along with her.

I will not risk their lives. Not when I cannot be confident in how much time remains before the head crowns. Carys already seems far weaker than I’d like, her face white as a sheet, her breaths shallow and strained. Pain hazes her bright green eyes. And where, gods , where is all that blood coming from?

“Something’s wrong.” Carys moans, gripping my hand like a vise. “It hurts…”

“Nothing is wrong. I know it hurts, but you’re doing well.”

I swallow hard, trying to calm my own panic. It thrums fast and hot inside my veins, pricking at my Remnant mark with electrically charged fingers. I use all my self-control to keep my emotions in check, to keep my power locked deep inside. I cannot allow my rising panic to spill out in a wave that will turn a dire situation even more deadly.

I don’t dwell on what it will mean for my friend if her babe becomes lodged. Or worse, descends breech first. For the thought of taking a blade to her is enough to evaporate any facade of self-possession.

“Rhya!” She gasps as another contraction seizes her. My finger bones grind together under her grip.

“This is what you wanted, Carys. What you prayed for. Remember? Your child comes, eager to meet you.” I force a smile as my hands move over her stomach. The babe has already dropped quite low. “For one who resisted so stubbornly, they are now exhibiting remarkable haste.”

“Just like their father. That streak of quiet obstinance…Gods help me, with two of them under my roof…”

“If anyone can handle them, it’s you,” I assure her. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Slow and steady. The midwife will be here soon.”

But she is not.

An hour ticks by, and still, Farley does not return. Not with the midwife, not with Uther. Not with anyone. I fetch some basic supplies from the apartments upstairs, then do my best to comfort Carys as she writhes in increasing discomfort, distracting her with a low, constant stream of conversation. I speak until my voice goes hoarse, talking of everything and nothing—my childhood, my favorite foods, my dress for the upcoming festival. Keda and Teagan’s latest squabble over the proper steps to the Dyvedi waltz. Farley’s new infatuation with a particularly handsome member of the palace guard.

I sop sweat from her brow with a wet washcloth and hold her hand when the pains have her in their grips. All the while, blood flows from between her legs, a deathly trickle.

Is this amount of bleeding normal? I wonder, heart racing. Oh, Eli, how I wish you were here…

The time to push grows nearer and nearer. Soon, there will be no more waiting. I feel the crown of her baby’s head beginning to protrude and grip my friend’s hand tight in my own.

“Where is he?” she wheezes. “Where is Uther?”

“He’s coming. He’ll be here soon.”

“The midwife—”

“We cannot wait for the midwife,” I tell her in as steady a voice as I can manage, dousing my hands with the strong spirits I found in her kitchen cupboard. “You’re going to have to push.”

“No, I can’t. Not until—”

“You must. Carys, do you hear me? You cannot afford to delay, and neither can your child.” I adjust the towel I’ve placed between her legs. The fissure of worry that’s opened up inside me deepens further when I see more blood seeping into the white fabric. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to do this; I know this wasn’t your plan. But I’m here with you. I’m right here.”

She swallows down her protests. Pulling in a deep breath, she looks at me—looks at me with such trust, such unwavering faith, it makes my eyes smart with tears. “Okay, Rhya.”

“Can you push?”

She nods.

“I am here. I am with you,” I tell her, positioning myself between her knees at the foot of the chaise. “You can do this. We can do this.”

My voice sounds steady enough, I think. But deep within me, a voice is crying out—keening from my soul, screaming down the bond that links me to Penn.

Where are you?

I need you.

Please, come.

Come quickly.

They burst into the back courtyard armed to the teeth and out of breath, ready to fight a battle long since ended. Uther, Penn, Mabon, Cadogan, and Jac. They all slam to a halt when they see me there, sitting in the dirt of the flower beds with the newborn babe in my arms. I am wrapping him in a soft blanket I retrieved from the nursery upstairs when Carys finally let him go long enough for me to clean him. She now dozes lightly on the chaise, exhausted from the aftermath of the birth and the sedating tea I’d forced her to swallow.

I myself could use a dose. My hands still shake. The past few hours have been some of the most harrowing of my life. Even now, with both mother and child breathing steadily, I cannot settle my own frazzled nerves.

For a long moment, the men merely stare, frozen, at the scene before them. Their stunned expressions are almost comical. Their eyes snag on the blood. I’ve wiped up the worst of it already, but there are still traces littered around me. On the flagstones. On my discarded gardening apron. On the towels and blankets piled beside the chaise. It is a jarring contrast to the peaceful domesticity of Carys’s pretty courtyard.

Behind them, the door swings open once again as Farley jostles through it on his crutches. An ancient crone of a woman follows on his heels. The midwife. They, too, stop short when they see me.

“Took you long enough,” I say to Farley in a glib voice. Beneath my flippancy, there is a deep undercurrent of untapped distress. “Did you cross the Cimmerians to find help?”

Uther is the first to recover his senses, rushing to his wife’s side. He drops to his knees in the dirt, sparing hardly a glance at his newborn son. His gaze is for Carys and Carys alone.

“Is she—”

“She’s perfectly fine,” I assure him, noting the uncharacteristic fear in his voice. “There was a bit of bleeding, but it’s stopped already with the help of a few stitches. We’ll keep her under close watch for a few days, but I have no doubt she will live a long, healthy life.” My eyes move to the swaddled babe in my arms. He has a dark crop of hair and a tiny rosebud mouth. The pointed tips of his ears are so delicate, I can nearly see through them. “So will your son.”

“We owe you a great debt, Rhya,” Uther says solemnly. He looks at his son, cradled in my arms, and his steady gray gaze glosses with emotion. “One I vow to repay, however I am able.”

My airway feels thick. My emotions thrash and throttle, a raging storm within. I manage only a nod in response.

Carys’s eyes crack open. She smiles weakly at her husband. “He looks like you, handsome. But he’s got my lungs. You should’ve heard him hollering when he took his first breath…”

“I wish I had, my love. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. We weren’t at the barracks. We were on the upper plateau, securing the perimeter guard posts before the festival—”

“Shh.” She lifts her hand to cover his as he strokes her cheek. “Rhya and I managed well enough on our own.”

Uther looks to me. “Pendefyre felt your distress through the bond. He knew something was wrong. If not for that, we might never have known. It would’ve been hours before we returned.”

I pass the child into Uther’s capable arms and retreat to give the new family a moment of privacy. Before I make it two paces, Carys’s hand shoots out and catches me around the wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Rhya.”

I turn back to her, brows raised.

“Thank you,” she says. “From the farthest reaches of my heart. Thank you for being here.”

“There’s no need to thank me. You did all the work.”

My words come out in a stiff voice that sounds nothing like my own. The emotions whirling inside me are edging into a place I can no longer control. Sweat beads my forehead. My heart is pounding. My stomach is a ball of lead. I have to get out of here, now , before I break down completely. Before the intensity of my feelings overwhelms me.

I smile at her with as much warmth as I can muster, then quietly extract myself. I might feel more guilty in fleeing if the midwife were not there, swooping in to examine Carys and her son with the shrewd eyes of an expert. She nods at me, a gesture of mutual respect, as our paths cross halfway across the courtyard.

Jac, Cadogan, Mabon, and Farley all speak to me when I reach their huddle by the door. Words of thanks, words of congratulations. For the life of me, I cannot focus on anything they’re saying, even as they slap my back and smile down into my face. I am waging an inward battle against myself, fighting against the rising surge of power—suppressed while Carys needed my aid, now rearing its ugly head. My pulse is thunder in my veins; my nerve endings crackle like lightning. I place a hand against my Remnant, pressing hard through the fabric of my gown, as if to force it into compliance with sheer willpower.

It prickles defiantly.

Leaning against the far wall like he is carved from stone, Penn takes one look at my face, grabs me by the hand, and leads me away without so much as a word of explanation to his men.

“Penn,” I breathe, a note of desperation in my voice.

“Not here,” he mutters, tugging me into the empty dress shop. “Not yet.”

I say nothing more. In silence, we cross to the front door, passing bolts of fabric and half-pinned mannequins. We step out into the bright light of midday and cross from one side of High Street to the other, ducking between a parked cart of apothecary supplies and a towering stack of flour bags outside the chocolatier.

There is no need to describe to him how precarious is the thread on which my control hangs; no need to share how the coil of power at my chest is threatening to come unspooled with each passing instant. My emotions are a raw current; my every feeling blasts through the bond without restraint. There is no way to hold it back, no way to tamp it down. He shares my searing agitation, my brimming disquiet, with each step we take down the cobbled streets of Caeldera, with each breath I pull into my shaky lungs.

The crowds are thick around us, throngs of shoppers and tradesmen lining the streets. Their faces are a blur in my peripherals, an undulating sea I cannot bring into focus. They give us a wide berth as Penn leads me back toward the palace. His hand is strong and warm around mine, grounding me when the emotions grow to a fever pitch.

All sense of light and joy is slowly being crowded out by darkness and despair. Visions flash through my head with each step.

My body, floating at the center of a ripping tornado. A shattered wagon in pieces on the ground. Gower’s corpse, speared clean through. My little dagger slashing against the hollow of his throat.

A scene of devastation.

A scene of death.

At my own hand.

You killed a man.

I need a release. I am barely holding on. Try as I might to push it down, to keep it in, I have not yet learned whatever control will allow me to gather my power in like a breath but not release it in a gust that obliterates everything around me.

Penn was right when he found me back in those woods. I am afraid. Afraid of my own capabilities. Afraid of whom I might hurt. I think of Soren—his nonchalant skill with the goblet, making the beads of water dance an intricate ballet for my amusement. How is it he learned to command his power with such nuance, when I cannot access my own without unleashing a wave of raw strength that sweeps me away? How is it he mastered his abilities when Penn, in nearly the same amount of time on this earth, seems scarcely able to tap into his without incinerating everything in his path?

There must surely be some middle ground between locking in my power and wielding it like an extension of myself. But if there is such a balance, I have no idea how to strike it. When the wind rises inside me, it is like a cyclone. Unstoppable. Unfathomable. I cannot hope to prevent it. All I can do is seek high ground, or try like hell to outrun the worst of the fallout.

By the time we reach the cavern behind the falls, I feel as pale and shaky as Carys looked in the throes of delivery. Penn’s strides never falter as he leads me up the rough-hewn steps. Mist hangs heavily in the air, filling my lungs and slicking my skin. I press my lips together as though I might contain everything inside, no longer even daring to draw breath.

“Rhya.”

I glance at Penn, barely seeing him. My eyes are turned inward, to the raging storm that rattles my bones. My lungs scream for air, but I do not comply.

“Breathe,” he orders, gripping me by the shoulders. His fingers bite into my flesh hard enough to bruise. “You have to breathe.”

I shake my head. I am afraid to part my lips, afraid the smallest breach in my external control will trigger the same inwardly.

“Gods, you feel too bloody much! That bleeding heart of yours is going to get you killed.” He looses a low oath. “You need to separate yourself from it. Create distance between your mind and your heart. Between your heart and your power.”

He makes it sound simple.

“Strong emotions are a liability. They are a powerful trigger for someone like you. For someone like me. Feeling anything too deeply—pain, panic, fear, joy, desire, or”—his voice catches—“ love —” He clears his throat, hard, and continues. “Is far more dangerous than feeling nothing at all. It can make your control slip like this. It can make you spiral into chaos.”

I struggle to focus on what he’s telling me. His words are distant, muffled by a roar of wind inside my head.

“The things we want most in this world…The things that make us feel the most intensely…” His eyes are locked on mine, never shifting, trying to convey something he isn’t willing to put plainly into words. “Those are the things we cannot have. Not without great risk.”

I try to nod but can’t manage it. Despite his urgings to distance myself from them, my emotions are still running rampant. My heart hurts almost as much as my screaming lungs. Though neither aches as much as the mark on my chest.

“You are stronger than your fear, Rhya. You are strong enough to push down the power. You just have to believe it.” He shakes me so hard, my head snaps back. “You are the gate that holds the wind at bay. You are the sentinel at the threshold of chaos. You will not yield. You will not fall. Do you hear me?”

He’s scaring me—almost as much as I’m scaring myself. And yet, there is some small part of me that responds to the violence of his grip, the uncompromising edge to his words. So I close my eyes and do as he says. I seek my center, find myself floating at the eye of a hurricane. The storm clouds are black as night, billowing with malice. The waters are not calm; they churn around me, a frothing portent of the tempest to come. I know I do not have long until the wind bursts from beneath my skin. I tremble as I tread water, fighting to keep my head above the icy swells.

“You can do this, Rhya,” a voice is saying from somewhere very far away. “Contain it. Force it down. Force it deep inside.”

The cyclone encroaches from all sides, an ever-tightening noose. There is no way to hold it back, no way to keep it from washing over me.

Every time I have tried to ride it out in the past, I have faltered. Every time I have attempted to outlast it, I have been swept away.

Not this time.

I push aside my self-doubt, my simmering anxieties that the gods have chosen wrong, that I am no child of the prophecy, that this destiny is a burden too great for my frail shoulders to bear. For, like it or not, there is no one else to bear it.

I am here.

This task, however insurmountable, is mine.

I am the Remnant of Air. I am the weaver of wind. I was born for this. I am stronger than my fear. And I will hold the line of chaos. I will keep the wind at bay. I will bolt the gate within.

Even if it kills me.

Inside my mind, I conjure an air shield like the one I made on the mountain, but taller, thicker, reaching all the way from the depths of the sea to the farthest reaches of the sky. Using all my focus, I blast it outward in all directions. Meeting the storm clouds head-on. Forcing them back, bit by bit, each handspan a hard-won battle, each sliver of space draining my resolve.

Still, I keep pushing.

Pushing and pushing and pushing, until the black squall fades into a gray memory. Until the waters lap like a summer lake. Until the hurricane retreats to the edges of my mental sea and the searing mark at my chest turns cold and silent.

The power is still there—it is always there; it will always be there—but I have done it. I have finally calmed the storm, contained the threat before it can burst forth. I have done the impossible, tethered the untetherable.

I have bested the wind.

Though the war has only waged inside my mind, I feel as though I have fought a battle. My muscles are sore, my mouth parched. My air-starved lungs are sharp blades of agony. I take a shaky breath, my first in far too long.

Cracking open my eyes, I find Penn standing before me. His face is so close, I can see every fleck of crimson in his dark ember eyes. And I wish, in that moment of quiet victory, that he’ll kiss me again. I wish that more than anything.

He doesn’t.

His hands slip up from their death grip on my shoulders and find my neck. His thumb strokes over my jugular vein, where the pulse patters in triple time. His words are turbulent with pride and relief.

“Well done, wind weaver,” he whispers. “Well done.”