Page 27 of This Midsummer Heart (Seasons of Legend #4)
Chapter twenty-six
Waiting to Cross
Titaine
“Y
ou’re
the
last
one,”
the ranger Lina says, double-checking the list. My worry eases, just a touch. “Just you and the horses, ma’am?”
“My companion and this horse only.”
“The other two are to be picked up and brought back to Adellor.”
Lina’s eyes light up at the mention of her home. She immediately changes to her own language, asking for news and how the curse came to be broken.
I keep the details vague. She’s clearly happy to hear of it. Maybe one day, someone will tell her it was me who broke the curse, and she’ll remember this. I hope she’ll remember that magic can still be used for good, and not become so wary of the fetes and elves, as others are.
The attention sent Auberon’s way as he walked off is plenty of proof of that. It was distinctly hostile. And I know Auberon felt it, too. His back was straight as the honed edge of a blade.
When I am through answering Lina’s questions about her home, I aim one at her and her ledger. “You said we’re in the last slot tonight. Does that mean the tide will be coming in on our heels?”
“Can’t say for sure, the way things have been going lately.
But we’ve got a system. There will still be some light in the sky when you cross, so watch carefully for the beacon.
With the help of mirrors, we can send a signal to almost a third of the way across the land bridge.
It’ll warn you when we see signs of the tide rising behind you. ”
“Behind us,” I repeat, almost dumbstruck. “You mean the waters close in behind the travelers?”
“Strange but true,” she replies. “It’s been consistent over the past week.”
“So if we see the beacon’s signal?”
“Ride south, fast.” She hesitates as Auberon joins, her eyes passing quickly over his ears and blue-tinted skin before fixing completely on me. “Don’t you need another horse for your companion?”
I shake my head. “This mare will carry us both.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Quite.”
Mostly.
I suppose that in a few hours, we’ll find out.
This outpost at the northern end of the land bridge truly has thought of everything. I catch a few hours sleep in a bunk house for female travelers, waking sore to the smell of freshly brewed tea. I gravitate towards it, my wings drooping at my back.
I find Auberon in the common room between the two bunk houses, sitting alone at a round table for two and sipping on tea himself.
“Did you get any sleep?” I ask him, because it very much looks like the answer is no.
He drags his hand down the stubble on his chin audibly, then rubs at his eyes. “Does that answer your question?”
I sit down across from him, trying not to think of the last time we were seated like this, back in Avalonne. “You’re worried about the crossing?”
“I’m worried about a great many things,” he replies. “The crossing just happens to be the most urgent one.”
“What else worries you?” I ask, pausing to sip at my own cup of tea. It’s weak and stale, but despite the oppressive humidity this close to the sea, I savor the hot steam.
“That I shouldn’t be crossing at all. That I should stay here with my people.” He runs his fingers over the handle of the outpost’s tin mug. “The entire reason to go to Nox was to preserve my remaining magic. Now I have more than ever. I shouldn’t be going south at all.”
“You’re Houselord of the Elves,” I remind him.
He blinks back at me. “You can’t possibly still believe that.”
I meet his gaze, not flinching.
“Did someone tell you, or did you figure out what it meant?” he demands, his shoulders rising higher than necessary as he leans over the table, placing his elbows and forearms down like a shield.
“The fetes who spoke with Robin told me. The Houselord of the Guild of Scribes, too.”
Auberon breaks his gaze, fixing his eyes on the wood grain in the middle of the table. “So you’ve been pretending not to know this whole time. You don’t change, do you, Titaine?”
“I didn’t want to humiliate you further.” It’s suddenly hard to keep my tone even. “If you’d wanted me to know, you would have told me yourself.”
“Which do you think is more humiliating? You humoring me, or you being honest?”
“You’re still a king! What is there to be humiliated about?”
His finger jabs into the table, the movement so quick my wings quiver as I startle. “I didn’t live up to my own people’s standard,” he says. “What could be more humbling than that?”
“Why do you care?”
“What?”
“Why do you care?” I repeat. I weigh my next words carefully as I take a long draught of hot tea.
“You lived up to your parents’ expectations.
You united dark elves and wood elves into one House.
You were worthy of taking your father’s place as king—and are more worthy today than you were when you were crowned.
The Blade of Hedril confirmed it. You cannot argue with an enchanted blade, now can you? ”
Auberon shifts in his chair, as uncomfortable as he was when the dark elves of the fireswamp showed him deference as their king.
“I think you aren’t upset with me at all.”
He arches a brow. “Would you bet on that?”
I shake my head. “I don’t bet on much, when it comes to you.
You wanted me to be honest,” I add when he flinches, physical pain etched into his face as if I had just delivered a blow.
“I would bet that you’ve never been unworthy to be king of the dark elves.
And whether you are still Houselord or not, your achievement still stands.
The House of Elves is a union of all elves. ”
“You don’t know that. We could be arriving in Nox to find everything in pieces.”
“I doubt it.”
“And why is that?”
“Because Robin outsmarted us both. I expect everything will be well in hand by the time we arrive.”
“I guess we’ll find out, in a few days’ time.”
“So we shall.”
We finish our tea in silence. For once, it doesn’t feel tense.
At last, the standing clock on the far wall chimes, informing us of the hour. “It’s almost time,” I say quietly, feeling the weight of what we are about to attempt. In an instant, I am twice as tired as before. “I’m going to ready Giselda.”
With any luck, my mare will be well-rested. What comes next is practically out of my hands. But with a little magic and the right timing, we just might be able to cross without any trouble from the chaotic tides.
I am halfway convinced of our success by the time I reach the paddock, glimpsing Giselda’s bright white through the rows of horses.
I pause at our borrowed mounts, offering them scratches and words of murmured thanks for their help.
Then they return to their oats, their meals and rest time well-deserved.
I am almost at Giselda’s stall when I sense something—a shift in the air.
The blade arcs towards my back, pointed to the space between my wings. I whirl, but it’s too late. The blade slices into one of my ephemeral wings, blinding me with pain as if it has struck one of my limbs.
As I fall to the ground, I barely choke out a scream. Giselda mirrors it, kicking at the door of her stall. My attacker looms over me, backlit by the setting sun. I reach for my magic to protect myself—
—and nothing comes.
Panic closes my throat long before her blade slices into me, the dagger driven upward in a cruel, gutting motion.
Too late, my magic sparks to life, surrounding her. But as my vision narrows, I realize it isn’t my magic at all.
Tendrils of darkness wrap around the woman, then swarm her. She barely has time to cry out before she falls to the ground like a ragdoll, her eyes still open and lifeless.
“Titaine,” Auberon shouts, falling to his knees by my side. He is trying to examine the wound, but I still his searching hands, twining my fingers with his. I just want him to hold on to me—just for a moment, I want to know I’m not alone. “Oh, gods, Titaine.”
My lifeblood pools around me, hot as the summer sun. My vision continues to narrow.
“Auberon,” I try, only to be cut off halfway as blood spills from my lips, choking me. It hurts to cough, the pain so intense I see stars.
“Titaine,” he says again, trying to free one of his hands. “Stay with me. Focus. Use your magic!”
But it’s too late for that. I always knew my magic would fail. Even now, it dances away from me, like the fireflies in the clearing.
The last sound I hear is Auberon’s bellow of anguish, his panicked calls for a healer, and I think, I should have told him.
I should have told him I loved him while I had the chance. Even if I thought it would never work—even if I were sure
it would turn out the exactly the same—I should have told him I loved him, too. Not still. Not the same love as before.
I fell for him all over again, despite my every wish not to. I fell for the man he has become, the one I always knew he could be.
I should have told him, and I should have let myself love him. For what is the point of living in anger? Where is the joy in living without summer, without sun, without love and someone to share your days with? Even if it might only last for a little while.
For the first time, I’m glad I loved, bonded and married him before. I am glad I was loved, and made mistakes, and let myself feel.
I carry that gladness into the beyond.