Chapter Fourteen
“How far are we from Arbinj?” I ask, dry leaves crunching beneath my boots. It’s been hours since we left Georgaina’s cottage—the drizzle cleared after fifteen minutes of walking. “Well, uncontested Arbinj.”
We’ve avoided the rebels so far, but we’re deep in their territory now. I’m surprised we haven’t encountered any.
“About two weeks out from the army base. The men will recognize me—we’ll be safe.”
Safe. A big promise.
Will I ever truly be safe in Arbinj? A Tundrayni within their borders, my blue eyes a reminder of lost loved ones.
The thought plagues me more often as our journey nears its end. It’s a bittersweet feeling—I’m not ready for it to be over.
I don’t dwell on why.
“You summoned that rain. Back at the cottage,” I say instead, the words bubbling over. “Why?”
He glances at me, then back to the path. His shoulders are stiff. “The same reason you healed the boy, I imagine.” He’s quiet for several heartbeats. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “We’ve taken so much from them. I wanted to give something back.”
Heat prickles behind my eyes, my throat cinching tight.
I don’t ask him any more questions.
I’m starting a fire at our camp for the night when a loud boom of thunder cracks through the air. A sharp yelp tears from my lips, the dried branches dropping to the leaf-ridden ground. I whirl, expecting to find a wrathful Zevayr looming behind me, poised to summon lightning.
I blink.
He’s still sitting a few paces away, skinning a large hare. His lips tick up softly, an apology in his eyes. “That’s not me,” he says, pointing skyward. “It’s a natural storm.”
Right. We’re in Arbinj now. The land of thunderstorms.
The wind picks up, and something inside me buckles. I don’t want to ask. I don’t want him to know. But the crackling air clamps down on my lungs like a vise.
“Can you—can you make it stop?”
I hate the vulnerability in my voice.
His eyes soften, a look of regret crossing his face. “I wish I could. But I can only control storms that I summon myself.”
I nod too fast. I want to tell him it’s fine, and that I’m not a baby. But there’s another crash of thunder, and my hands jerk at my sides. The words die in my throat.
Zevayr pretends not to notice.
It starts raining while we eat—the rabbit tastes different tonight, more flavored—and Zevayr quickly strings up his cloak between two trees as a makeshift tarp, leather side up.
We huddle beneath it, shoulder to shoulder.
Since the weather has been warmer, we haven’t necessarily needed to sleep so close together—but I haven’t said anything, and neither has he.
And now, with the storm overhead, lightning flashing in the distance, I’m glad I didn’t. Because the second the storm raged too hard, I’d have crawled back, desperate for comfort, for reassurance.
That I was safe.
A thunderclap rattles the sky, and the rain pelts down even harder, like the storm wants me. I should have died that night with Mama, and now the thunder has come to collect its due.
A soft whimper slips out, and Zevayr draws me against his chest. His arms tighten around my shoulders, a ghost of a kiss brushed across my forehead, so faint I might have imagined it.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re safe.”
I am. I know I am, and I hate it.
I shouldn’t feel safe with him. I shouldn’t want to be here, in his arms. I shouldn’t crave the press of his hands against my spine every time thunder shakes the sky. But I know without a shred of a doubt, Zevayr would go to any length to protect me. I’d bet my life on it.
But will that still be true once I marry his brother?
Lightning flashes, and my heartbeat races, faster than the rain bursting forth from the swollen sky.
Throughout it all, Zevayr doesn’t let me go, not even for a second.
The storm eventually recedes, but I remain wrapped in Zevayr’s strong arms. He doesn’t ask me outright, but the question flickers in his concerned gaze.
What happened to me?
“I was a little girl,” I whisper. “Six years old. Mama and I were somewhere new. A holiday, she called it. Just the two of us. I don’t remember where, only that there was no snow. She’d read stories to me every night and let me help her in the kitchen.”
“Was she a healer like you?”
I shake my head. “She was a nonwielder.” His brows shoot up, and a watery laugh escapes me.
“I know. Father’s council was outraged, but he wouldn’t be swayed.
He loved her. I wish I remembered more about her, but it’s all faded.
Her name was Meerah. She—” My voice cracks, and I struggle to swallow my sob.
Zevayr’s hand rubs gentle circles against my back, and it comforts me far more than it should.
“I don’t remember much of that night. But she told me to hide in the closet and not come out, no matter what.
I listened. There was a horrible storm. Lightning and thunder and rain.
It shook the bones of the house. I was terrified.
And the smell—it still haunts my dreams. Burnt flesh with the tang of metal.
” Zevayr stiffens. “Father said it was a stormwielder. Sent by Arbinj.” I swallow hard.
“He never recovered from her death. A piece of him died that day, too.”
The carefully constructed dam in my chest breaks open, and all my pain and grief and anguish rush out in an unstoppable tide.
Sobs rack my body, but Zevayr is the anchor in my storm, holding me close to his chest until they subside.
Ever so gently, he wipes away my tears, and Tides damn me, I let him.
“My mother was a nonwielder, too,” he says so softly, the words are almost lost to the night.
“Not my birth mother. My father would never risk a nonwielder child. Faramir’s birth mother was a powerful earthwielder from a noble family.
Mine was a stormwielder—I’ve never met her.
Don’t even know her name. It’s common practice in Arbinj for noble families to treat their daughters like broodmares—trade powerful heirs for wealth and respect. ”
I stifle a gasp. It’s barbaric. In Tundrayn, wielding is valued, but daughters aren’t sold for their abilities.
Zevayr continues. “But my mother—Tairna—the woman who raised me, she was a nonwielder. She tended to my scrapes and cuts. Held me after nightmares. She saw me, not the stormwielder with unlimited potential that everyone else did.” He swallows, his throat bobbing with the motion.
“And then one day, she was just gone. I was maybe fifteen? My father says she returned to her home in Volca, but I knew he was lying. I could never get him to admit otherwise, and I had no proof. I suspect he had her killed. Probably didn’t want her influencing me. ”
My heart aches for the boy he once was and the man he’s become, even as rage thrashes in my belly—rage for his father who snuffs out lives as if they’re nothing.
Zevayr’s mother.
And my own.
“I’m so sorry, Zevayr,” I whisper, palm splayed over his heart.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Your necklace. Did it belong to your mother?”
“Yes.” I clasp the teardrop pendant with reverent fingers. “It’s all I have left of her.”
“It’s beautiful.” He reaches between us, his fingers tracing the pendant, brushing against the dip between my collarbones. “It suits you.”
We fall asleep, cradled in each other’s arms.