Chapter 11
Sabine
When we cross the tunnel beneath the border wall into Astagnon, it’s as husband and wife.
The next few days pass like a dream. Just us, the horses, and the forest—I feel transported back to the ride to Duren when Basten and I fell in love.
He might not remember it, but I’ll never forget.
I remember every stolen glance. Every brush of his skin on mine.
How, over the weeks, I went from loathing the sight of him to waking every morning famished for just a few of his words.
In the days after our wedding, Basten asks me to recount every single story, over and over, as if he hears them often enough, they’ll become the next best thing to his own memories.
In the evenings, when we stop to make camp, I practice using my affinity.
It isn’t always easy going. There are as many setbacks as there are advancements.
Sometimes, I’m able to spark a controlled fire to cook our dinner, but the next attempt, I strike myself with lightning and pass out for a full day.
When I wake, watched over by a distraught Basten, it’s covered in a blanket of living, woven vines of my own making.
Afterward, I drank so much of his blood to renew my strength that I berated myself for hours—I have to control myself so I don’t hurt him.
Or worse.
But I feel heartwarmed, in part, as we finally reach mountain ranges I recognize, and berries and mushrooms I picked when I was a little girl. This region is where my mother’s grave rests. It’s where Myst and I forged a friendship for the ages.
But it’s also where the darkest days of my life happened.
We’re about three days from Old Coros, according to Basten, when we reach a fork in the road that’s marked with a directional sign. An arrow to the left points the way to the small hamlet of Marblenz. The one to the right…
I draw Myst to a halt.
“Bremcote,” I murmur.
Basten shifts in Ranger’s saddle, his eyes on me instead of the forked path. “We can go east, toward Marblenz,” he says. “It’ll add half a day, but if you’ve changed your mind about passing near Bremcote…”
“No.” I try to sound confident. I spur Myst to the right, ignoring the ache that suddenly spreads up my spine as soon as we set foot in the direction of my childhood trauma. “I can handle it. We’re behind schedule anyway, after we lost that day near the Innis River.”
Basten hesitates, and I can feel the questions on his lips. “Sabine…”
I twist in the saddle to shoot him a stare. “What?”
He rubs the back of his neck. Finally, he lets out a sigh. “As soon as we crossed into Astagnon, your heart rate increased. The further south we go—closer to your childhood home—the more it skyrockets.”
“I’m worried there’s a chance we’ll run into Rian,” I snap.
He pauses. “There are other signs. You sweat more.”
“It’s hot!”
He nudges Ranger alongside Myst and drops his voice, though it’s only the two of us for miles. “During sex last night, a rain storm came out of nowhere and drenched us both.”
I press my lips tightly, holding in the urge to defend myself. “What are you suggesting?”
“Look.” He breathes in deeply, lets it out slowly.
“Let’s not pretend as if we both haven’t noticed it.
Nature has become more unpredictable the closer we get to Bremcote.
Not just last night’s sudden downpour. There was that frozen stretch of the Innis River, never mind that it’s sixty degrees.
Those vines that wove around my boots when I started across the footbridge, holding me back.
The sudden herd of caribou that parked themselves in the road for half a day and wouldn’t budge to let us pass. ”
I flick him a reluctant look. “You think I’m keeping us from Bremcote on purpose?”
“No.” He tugs at his breastplate as though it’s uncomfortably tight.
“That’s the problem. If you were doing it on purpose, I’d understand.
Terrible things happened to you in Bremcote.
Unjust things a young girl should never have to endure.
But it’s because you aren’t wreaking havoc intentionally that has me worried.
Some deep part of you—a piece you can’t control—is making these things happen. ”
I spent a few minutes fiddling with Myst’s reins. “I’m trying as hard as I can, Basten.”
When my voice breaks, he spurs Ranger close enough to tip up my chin, make my eyes meet his.
“Of course you are. You’re doing great. You’re so damn strong, Sabine, that in those moments, it frightens me.
To see what you’re capable of without even meaning to.
” He turns to look back in the direction of Volkany, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.
“In Drahallen Hall, I found something. Murals. They showed the ancient fae court. And…they showed Immortal Solene…”
His eyes slide to me, watching closely. When I sniffle, holding back tears, he closes his jaw. His resolve seems to change.
“What did the mural show?” I ask.
He flicks his hand. “Nothing—it was nothing. Forget I said anything.”
I study him, wondering if I should press. But then I jerk the reins, turning Myst onto the path to Bremcote. After a moment, I hear Ranger’s hooves behind me.
I don’t know what Basten thinks he’s protecting me from.
If anything, I should be protecting him.
And it’s not just about keeping him alive as my acolyte.
Since gaining my affinity, I’m stronger than any human, godkissed or otherwise.
With one spark of my fey, I could open the earth to swallow our enemies.
Well—once I can control my fey.
We wind up a jagged path to the top of a hill, and at a break in the trees at the top, the Bremcote valley stretches out into the distance. Sheep farms roll out for miles and miles.
Somewhere out there, the Convent of Immortal Iyre crouches like a cockroach.
When we make camp for the night, the silence between us is thick and hot.
A summer fog rolls in, much too sweltering for this time of year, but I don’t bother to try to control whatever part of me is calling to it.
I’m relieved, in a way, to have some space between the two of us.
There’s enough on my mind to fill a church hall.
“Saw a female grouse a ways back,” Basten says quietly. “I’ll find its trail, see if I can get a clutch of eggs for supper.”
He disappears through the unseasonable fog, and once I’m alone with the horses, I push to my feet. It’s hard to sit still, this close to home. A familiar scent hangs in the air.
Can you smell that? I ask Myst.
Smell what? She asks, swishing her tail.
Sheep dung and peat fires. We’re almost home.
She flicks her tail again, unbothered, and continues munching the tall grass with Ranger. It stirs something bitter inside me.
Home? I prod her. Don’t you know what I mean by that? I mean that we’re close to the Convent.
Her head jerks up, ears twirling forward on alert.
She stares at me for a long time—maybe she’s remembering all the pain both of us suffered at the Sisters’ hands.
My poor girl had it just as bad as I did.
After we left, it took weeks for her harness sores to heal, for her skeletal ribcage to fill back out.
But she only returns to her grass.
I nearly hiss with frustration. Myst! Don’t you care?
She flicks her tail, the horse equivalent of a shrug. I turn tightly away, sucking my teeth, flexing my hands to try to keep my blood flowing—because right now, it all wants to pour straight to my hot, angry brain.
A part of me knows I shouldn’t be cross with Myst for not feeling the same anger I do. Horses, like most mortal animals, don’t hold grudges the way people do. They only care about what’s in front of them—grass, a mate, a predator.
Fae animals, on the other hand? If I’ve learned anything from Tòrr and Plume, it’s that they hold grudges worse than anyone. I’m pretty sure Tòrr’s vindictiveness stretches back millennia.
And me?
I guess that makes me a fae animal, because when I think of how wronged I was at the convent, I burn through and through with a grudge.
I swallow back the howl of rage that wants to tear from my throat, because Basten isn’t far away in these woods. His godkissed ears would hear my cry, he’d come running, ask questions about things I’d rather keep to myself.
But my muscles are tight enough to snap, and I have to do something, have to—to—
I lift my hands to release a charge of fey at the nearest tree. Silver-hot sparks shoot out. The air smells crisp and off, like after a lightning strike.
When the smoke clears, a burned gash cuts the tree in two.
And someone behind me starts a slow clap.
Catching a gasp behind my teeth, I spin around.
Woudix leans against a river birch, still clapping, a slight curve to his lips. “You’ve been practicing.”
An exhale shudders from my lungs as I rest a hand on my chest, sinking back against the singed tree, our postures mirroring one another. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you I’d find a way to continue your training on your journey.”
“I thought you meant my lending me books.”
He rumbles a low laugh, and I feel like a fool. “Have you spent enough days playing at being human that you’ve forgotten we’re gods? We go where we like.”
He holds up the fae needle with a smirk.
In the fading twilight, I scrutinize the God of Death from his raven hair, pulled back now, to the tips of his black leather boots.
“Of course I haven’t forgotten. My blood won’t let me forget.” I swallow, flexing my sweaty palms, doing a quick scan of the woods.
Woudix puts away the fae needle and tuts knowingly. “Lord Basten can’t perceive us, if that’s what has you so attentive. Not even with his superior senses.”
I narrow my eyes. “How?”