Chapter Fifteen #2
“At the inn, they met Liatris of Dhakar, an indentured servant who was assigned to them for the evening. My father raped her.”
I gasp but say nothing. No words would suffice.
“Serith and Liatris made a plan and escaped together,” he continues. “Something about fleeing from constant danger really
brings people together, I guess. They fell in love.”
I’m definitely not looking at him as he says this, and I’m certain he is definitely not looking at me.
“Nine months later, I was born.”
“Have they been on the run from your father your whole life?”
He shakes his head. “He lost interest in pursuing them before I was born. I would have stayed a secret if I hadn’t insisted
on meeting him. Did I mention that I was a foolish little boy? It was the biggest mistake of my life.”
“I’m . . . sorry. Everyone deserves parents who love them.”
“But I already had that. I have two mothers who would die for me. I didn’t realize how perfect my life already was.”
Mine was perfect too, and now it’s gone. I know how he feels.
“On my thirteenth birthday, my heart mother said she’d introduce me to my father, but we had to do it her way.
So we packed up and traveled to Iola, where she met with her own father.
She hadn’t seen him since he traded her away to Jaydeth.
Before the entire Iolan court, she acknowledged me as her son and declared King Jaydeth my father. ”
Something is dawning on me. “The Iolan king has no male heirs.”
“He does not. That we know of, anyway.”
“You’re the heir to the Iolan throne.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And the heir to the Corthan throne through King Jaydeth.”
“That’s arguable. He certainly has more bastard children out there, but I’m the only one currently acknowledged in a royal
court.”
“Sweet gods.”
“And I’m betrothed to the daughter of Cathira’s high potentat.”
Something about that makes my stomach twist.
“Everything was carefully orchestrated by my heart mother to make it imprudent for King Jaydeth to assassinate me once he
learned of my existence. Mum may have given up royal life, but she’s a political mastermind.”
“You’re heir to almost the entire Sunderland.”
“Not Grimsvold. But give Mum time.”
“You’re going to rule the world someday.”
Our road has dumped us into a small valley with rich, rolling pasture. I recognize this place. We used to let our guests graze
their livestock here for a small fee.
“Gods, I hope not. Anyway, after everything else was arranged, Mum finally presented me to the Corthan court and to my father. He . . . Bria?”
“This is Angarsold land,” I say. “I’m almost home.” Tears prick my eyes, fueled by both yearning and dread. “Please keep talking.
Distract me.”
“It’s beautiful here,” he says.
“It really is. Please?”
“So my father pretended to be pleased. He didn’t dare move against me, with both bordering countries in my corner. And I was
thrilled to know him and to be acknowledged by him.”
“But something happened.”
“After I moved to Cathira, I manifested a royal Gift. Later, I manifested another royal Gift. Mum says it’s because I’m the
son of a powerfully Gifted king, but also because while I was being formed in the womb, my mothers were constantly augmenting
their abilities together, fighting monsters.”
“King Jaydeth has the Gift of strength,” I offer. “People at the inn talked about him all the time. They said he could lift
a horse.” It’s becoming harder to focus on Titus’s words. I hear the sweet sound of rushing water, and I know exactly what
it means.
“It’s true. He really is that strong. We kept the exact nature of my Gifts a secret. But it didn’t really matter, because
then the gods came for me.”
I whip my head to face him. Titus is not prone to being overdramatic. “The gods? Really?”
“Last year, Cerastes herself chose me to . . .”
He doesn’t finish his sentence because we’ve exited the pasture and followed a sparkling mountain stream—my stream— to a waterfall.
The road below us is steep with switchbacks and wet with spray.
Water crashes onto the rocks below. Pine boughs bend over our path to soak up the moisture, and I find myself ducking to avoid getting smacked in the face.
Titus says, “I thought you said it had burned to the ground.”
Because a little farther downstream is a waterwheel and grain mill, fully intact, churning, churning, churning. And just beyond
that is the Three Corners Inn, blackened by char with a full third of the roof caved in, but still standing. Pine smoke puffs
into the sky from the main chimney.
I loose a lungful of air that sounds remarkably like a sob.
A woman sits in a rocking chair on the porch. She wears a hood tight over her scalp, and her right leg is bandaged with linen.
She’s knitting something.
Apple and Blackwind kick up gravel as we descend into the switchbacks, and the woman looks up in surprise. A cane leans against
the wall beside her. She grabs it and leverages herself up with great effort.
Even at this distance, even though she’s wounded and limping and hooded, I recognize Ma. I’m home. My inn is still standing.
My mother is alive.