Chapter 53
Amryn
It had been one week since Ivan was attacked in the garden.
Amryn had gone to visit him right after the assassination attempt.
She had found him a little paler than usual, but he was sitting up in his bed and insisting he was fine with all the gruffness she would have expected.
She had sensed his exhaustion—an effect of the poison, no doubt—but his annoyance was stronger.
Apparently, Ivan Baranov did not like to be fussed over.
“I am fine, il mishka,” he had repeated firmly when she offered to get him food or water.
He kept fidgeting with his bandage, his irritation spiking.
That’s when she realized he was less annoyed with his forced convalescence, and more irritated by the fact one of the assassins had managed to land a blow.
Amryn had done her best to distract him, but it wasn’t long before Elowen arrived.
Carver’s sister immediately rushed to Ivan’s bed, her anxiety flaring. Her hands fluttered above him, not quite landing. As if afraid her touch would cause him pain. “Are you all right? My father just told me what happened. How badly does it hurt? What can I do? Is there—?”
“Hush.” Ivan took her hand, squeezing gently. “Take a breath, Elowen. I am well—”
“Well?” She clutched his hand with both of hers. “You were stabbed!”
“It was a small cut.”
“By a poisoned blade.”
His brow furrowed. “I received the antidote.”
The sound Elowen made in her throat was strangled. “Blazing Saints, Ivan—you could have been killed!”
“I was not,” he reassured her.
She blinked rapidly, moisture shining in her eyes.
Ivan’s expression instantly softened. With his free hand, he reached out to cup her cheek. “I am sorry this caused you distress,” he murmured. “But I am fine.”
She huffed a weak laugh. “Only you would say you’re fine after two assassins nearly killed you.”
“Nearly?” he scoffed.
Elowen’s eyes sharpened. “Don’t try to minimize what happened.”
Chastened, Ivan dipped his chin. His thumb brushed the curve of her cheek. “I truly am all right,” he told her. Then he added more quietly, “Even better, now that you are here.”
Some of the tension in Elowen’s shoulders loosened.
Amryn had quietly slipped from the room, leaving them alone. She wasn’t sure they’d even noticed her departure.
Since then, Ivan had recovered fully.
Ford was jealous, though his own recovery was coming along well.
He was no longer confined to his bed, and while he wasn’t back in fighting form yet—and he had to rest more than he liked—he intended to be ready for the emperor’s ball in six days.
He wanted to stand at Carver’s side when the trap for the Rising was sprung.
Amryn was trying not to think about the upcoming ball, though that was difficult since she was helping Jayveh, Sadia, Hector, and Chancellor Morav make all the final preparations.
While Amryn had been able to push aside her guilt for betraying Bram after how he’d reacted to the attack on Market Square, it was a little more difficult for her now that Rix and Torin were here.
Perhaps it was a blessing of sorts that she’d hardly seen them since their arrival.
They were kept busy with endless meetings as they delivered their annual reports on Ferradin to multiple people—including the emperor.
They had not yet been questioned about the Rising, or their role in sending Amryn to Esperance as a rebel.
When Amryn had explained to Carver how she’d avoided telling Rix anything that might get back to Bram, he’d agreed it was the best plan for now.
Morelli and Keats had adopted the strategy, so it meant keeping the two men who’d raised her in the dark about exactly what had gone wrong in Esperance, and Amryn’s betrayal of the Rising.
They would learn the truth soon enough.
Amryn did manage to visit her uncle’s suite—which was located in a far wing of the palace—and have tea with him and Torin the other day.
The tea had been a delicious blend they’d brought from Ferradin, and the familiar scent had instantly reminded her of the dark pine forests and snow-tipped mountains of home.
They spoke easily about what had been happening in Ferradin, and she told them a little more about her time in Esperance. But after Torin left for yet another meeting, Amryn lowered her cup and met Rix’s gaze. “Was my father training to be a cleric when he met my mother?”
Rix choked on his tea. She could feel the rush of his surprise. It was edged in panic, though his confusion won out as he set down his cup. “How did you learn that?”
Amryn’s heart sank. Saints, it was true. She’d suspected as much, but it still felt like a blow. “High Cleric Lisbeth.”
She saw the moment Rix recognized the name. His jaw tightened, and he set his cup aside as well. “Tell me,” he ordered softly.
She did, sharing everything Lisbeth had told her about Amryn’s parents. How they’d met and fallen in love. How Aileen had become pregnant with Tiras, and Ferrin had rejected his vows to the church.
Rix listened raptly, but Amryn knew none of her words shocked him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, unable to keep the hurt from her voice.
Regret pulsed inside him. “I’m sorry. I never expected .
. .” He shook his head. “I don’t like remembering that time.
Your mother was my only living family and I hated that she slipped away from me.
She would lie and evade, and it was all for him.
” He swallowed. “I’d never truly fought with your mother until Ferrin entered her life.
And after everything he did to all of you .
. .” He reached out and took her hand, which was lying on the table between them.
“I’m sorry you didn’t know. That the truth caught you off guard. I only wanted to protect you.”
“I understand.” And yet, there was so much she didn’t understand. Why Ferrin had ultimately betrayed his family to the knights, when he’d once chosen them over the church. Why her mother had spent time with an initiate in the first place. How her mother could have fallen for an enemy.
Well. Perhaps she understood that. But the fundamental difference between Ferrin and Carver was that Amryn’s husband had never—would never—betray her.
Amryn eyed Rix. “Do you know why my parents were fighting? Why we left the castle all those years ago?”
Uneasiness stirred. “No. Not really. By that point, Ferrin had isolated your mother a great deal. She wasn’t speaking much to me—not about things that mattered.
Ferrin hated me and Torin. I believe he always felt threatened by our bond with your mother.
” He sighed. “I think that’s one of the reasons they were fighting, but all your mother told me was that she and Ferrin wanted space.
They wanted to settle somewhere else in Ferradin. ”
Amryn couldn’t help but wonder if Lisbeth’s suspicion had been right.
If Ferrin had actually wanted to return to the only home he’d ever known, in Daersen.
Aileen may not have known that was his intent until they’d already left the castle, and when she’d found out .
. . That may have been the last fight they ever had.
She bit her lip. “Do you know when my mother told him she was an empath?”
Rix tensed, even as he shook his head. “I’m not sure. But he knew before Tiras was born, because he threatened me.”
“What? Why?”
A muscle rippled as Rix locked his jaw. “He said if I ever told anyone Aileen was an empath, he would kill me.”
Appalled, Amryn could only stare at her uncle. “Why would he ever think you’d betray her? She was your sister.” Rix had been protecting her secret for Aileen’s entire life.
Rix appeared a little sickened as he shook his head. “I have no idea what he was thinking. I don’t know how she ever even trusted him with the truth.”
There was so much they didn’t know. And with Aileen dead, they would never truly learn what had happened.
Unless Amryn asked her father one day.
The thought of coming face to face with him again made her shiver.
For now, she tried to put it all out of her mind. It was easier to do when she was distracted—like she was now, as she visited Ford.
She was curled up in one of the cushioned chairs in his room, watching with amazement as he painted.
Ford, as it turned out, was a talented artist. It was one of the many things she’d learned about him during their visits. His oil paintings varied from portraits to landscapes. Many, she’d noted, were jungle scenes.
Today, he was working on a painting of Esperance.
It showed the stunning, carved stone facade of the temple with the jungle encroaching on every side.
The play of light and shadow was intriguing, capturing the mood of Esperance perfectly as it depicted both darkness and beauty.
The detail on the stonework of the temple displayed not only Ford’s skill with paint, but the impressive precision of his memory.
She could understand why he was so valued as a spy and a scout. The man missed nothing.
“It’s beautiful, Ford.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Do you want it?”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Of course. I don’t have enough space to keep everything I paint, anyway.”
“You’re extremely talented.”
Self-consciousness rose. “I don’t know about that. But it keeps me sane.”
Amryn frowned, feeling a thread of melancholy weaving through him. She recalled the shadows Ysabel had sensed in Ford. What she’d seen when she’d used her gift while pretending to be a fortune teller.
He clearly caught her frown, because he faced her fully as he explained, “I always enjoyed painting, but after I returned from Harvari, it felt like I needed to paint just to keep breathing. Sometimes I couldn’t fall asleep at night, or I’d wake from a nightmare and paint the rest of the night away.
” He looked at his paint-speckled hands, flexing his fingers.
His voice was soft as he said, “It feels good to create after I spent years destroying.”