Chapter Thirty-six #2
‘There is if you cook it,’ Everard replied, his brows raised in apprehension.
Torj strode into the room with an armful of firewood and fed it to the flickering flames. ‘This might be the last hot meal a lot of us have for a while. Let’s not fuck it up by getting Kipp or Cal to make it. Show me where the kitchen is, Ev.’
At this, Dratos snorted. ‘I’ve had meals cooked by Warswords, and I’m not sure the rest of us have the same love for salt. I’ll supervise.’
The main part of the tavern became a hive of bustling activity. Breakfast was being cooked by the unlikely duo of a Warsword and a shadow-touched Naarvian ranger, while chairs and tables were set up by Cal, Kipp and Gus, who’d managed to part with his knitting temporarily.
Thea and Wilder helped Marise and Everard fetch more firewood from the storehouse outside.
The icy wind churned that restlessness back up inside her; it had been temporarily quelled by the busyness of the tavern.
She breathed in the crisp winter air and longed to take a step towards the woods, despite the kindling bundled in her arms.
‘Thea?’ Wilder said from the door.
Her gaze snapped back to him. He looked every bit the warrior with a cloak of grey furs around his shoulders, his eyes as sharp as steel.
‘Coming,’ she told him, with a final glance at the whispering frost-kissed woods.
At last, the unusual party settled around a long table, several trays of steaming food laid out before them, Kipp already digging a big spoon into a pile of scrambled eggs. As hungry as she knew she should be, Thea felt nothing but the insistent nagging sensation that she needed to move.
Fucking magic , she cursed silently.
As everyone served themselves and started eating, Anya stood at the head of the table. To Thea’s surprise, Wren sat beside her.
‘Today’s the day we make hard choices,’ Anya told them.
‘By the end of this meal, I want everyone to know exactly what they’re doing and where they’re going.
Remember the missions we discussed last night – if you can,’ she added with a pointed glance at Kipp, Marise and Everard.
‘Think about your strengths and where you might be best suited to serve the midrealms. Talk to each other. Discuss your options. Then we’ll finalise the details. ’
Chatter broke out once more across the table and Thea couldn’t help but admire the command her long-lost sister had not only over those she knew, but those who had been strangers, adversaries even, only a night ago.
Beware the fury of a patient Delmirian.
As the words came back to her this time, Thea looked across at Malik, who was staring into the fire. He had known, even all those years ago, who Anya was, and what she was capable of.
‘You’re not eating,’ Wilder murmured, glancing at her untouched plate.
Thea pushed around a strip of bacon with her fork, her toes tapping the floor. ‘I can’t.’
Wilder gave her a pointed look and she sighed, shovelling food into her mouth.
‘You’re insufferable,’ she mumbled.
That earnt her a hint of a smile.
As the meal continued, Thea listened to the various conversations at play about who should go where and why. Kipp, as usual, was at the centre of all things strategy, and she felt reassured by his cool head, in spite of his hungover appearance.
Torj was insisting that he take the alchemists to Naarva, but Kipp was shaking his head.
‘We need someone we trust at Thezmarr. Who better than a Warsword to shed light on the truth of what we’ve learnt here?
We need the fortress onside. It’s a stronghold we cannot afford to lose, particularly with its proximity to the Veil. ’
‘Esyllt remains at Thezmarr. If he can be convinced, he can be trusted,’ Torj countered. ‘If the alchemists are as vital as Anya says —’
‘They are,’ Anya chimed in.
‘Then they’ll need a worthy protector,’ Torj argued.
‘And they shall have one,’ Dratos replied. ‘I’ll escort them. I’m a seasoned warrior, and I know Naarva like the back of my own hand.’
‘But —’
Thea turned to Wilder. ‘What makes the most sense for us?’
‘You don’t want to tell me?’ he said, amused.
‘My first instinct was to go to the rulers,’ she told him slowly. ‘But I’m not sure they’ll take kindly to your presence after the lies they’ve been fed.’
‘Alternative?’ he prompted.
She thought aloud. ‘Rally the Guardians dispersed across the midrealms into a unified force?’
‘Might encounter the same problem…’
Thea sighed. ‘Perhaps the search for proof of Artos’ treachery? At least we could do that in the shadows.’
Wilder glanced at Anya, who was in deep conversation with Audra, Wren listening intently as well. ‘I don’t think we’ll be keeping to the shadows this time, Princess.’
Suddenly, Thea was on her feet, unable to remember making the decision to stand. Her chair scraped across the floor as she left the table, the room falling silent around her.
Wilder was at her side instantly, cupping her face in his large hands. ‘What is it?’
‘I have to leave,’ she insisted. The restlessness that had been simmering since the night before had grown all too much, utterly unbearable if she remained still. She surged for the door.
Wilder blocked it. ‘What’s happening, Thea?’ he asked, voice calm, but silver eyes aflame.
She paced erratically. ‘My magic,’ she murmured. ‘I’m not used to it. It’s tugging at me from inside, making me feel…’
Wilder’s hands came down on her shoulders this time, stilling her body but only fuelling her desire to move.
‘Tell me exactly what you feel,’ he commanded, his voice resonant with authority as he lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. ‘Look at me, Thea. Tell me.’
Thea took a trembling breath. ‘It feels like I’m in the wrong place. It feels like something is pulling me away from here, like I should be somewhere else. Outside, somewhere.’ She looked at him, not bothering to hide her fear, her panic. ‘My magic… It’s out of control, isn’t it?’
For a moment she couldn’t understand the expression that passed over her Warsword’s face. Pain and pride, longing and fear, all in one beautiful, intense stare. He rested his forehead against hers for a moment.
‘That’s magic, alright,’ he said at last. ‘But it’s not yours.’
He took a deep breath of his own, as though he were steeling himself for what was to come.
‘It’s the magic of the Furies. What you’re feeling, Thea, is the call to the Great Rite.’