Chapter Forty-Three
We take the long way home. The river crossing in Iola may or may not be safe by now, but I’m not taking chances. So we head
west along the Edge of the World, visiting the Suratian city-states of Blava, Jihali, and Redstone Canyon.
Though it’s only mid-spring, the days become unbearably hot, and I can’t imagine how the people of the Surat Confederacy survive
high summer. It’s with no small amount of relief that we reach the headwaters of the Iolandria River’s west fork and turn
southward toward cooler climes.
Dahlia is a quiet traveling companion, speaking only when spoken to. But one evening, after she’s started our campfire, I
overhear her talking to Lilac as she removes the gelding’s saddle and rubs him down.
“You’re such a good boy. Did you know that? My mum would have loved you. I’m going to take care of you forever and ever. . . .”
She and Lilac drift away, and I can no longer discern her words, but the soft murmurs go on a long time.
After that I make a point of talking to her every day as we ride, about nothing important at first—the weather in Grimsvold,
the horses and dairy cows I’ve raised, daily life at the inn. It feels like talking to a stone wall.
Until one morning, after we’ve traveled far enough south that the shadow of the Grimsvolder Mountains rises on our right, she blurts, “That boy you were with. He was a prince, right? How did you end up with a prince? What happened to him?”
I want to snap at her. Tell her to shut up. I don’t want to talk about him.
Instead, I take a deep, steadying breath, and I say, “Chance threw us together for a time. But then he had to go off and do
princely things.”
“Huh. I thought you were a pair. Like, childhood friends or lovers or something.”
“No.”
She’s silent a long moment, and I dare to hope she’s going to drop the subject, but then she says, “Broke your heart, did
he?”
I almost choke on the sadness that bursts unbidden from my chest. “No,” I say. “Not him. The gods.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Our conversation looses something inside her, because after that, she talks freely. By the time the land’s gradient has transformed
from sunset rocks to forest greens, I’ve learned that Dahlia’s parents died when she was very young. She was raised by an
indifferent uncle, who sold her into indenture as soon as she manifested a useful Gift. She loves all animals, but especially
cats. She hates radishes. She’s never seen mountains up close. She wants to know what snow feels like.
It may be summer back in Cathira, but springtime has traveled with us.
Orange poppies and sunshiny mustard carpet the foothills, ceding to crimson paintbrush and purple lousewort—all heavy with bees and butterflies—as we begin our climb into the Grimsvolder Mountains.
The higher mountain meadows explode with lupine and bluebells, so richly hued that the land mirrors the sky.
I love seeing my mountains for the first time through Dahlia’s eyes, which are perpetually wide with wonder. She exclaims
over the bursting color, the crystal brooks, the herd of deer that leaps away, white tails held high.
One gloomy day, Morvinrog of the Storm sends us so much rain that our path turns to mud, water runs from our hair down into
our eyes, and each squelching step forward comes with an extra splatter. “So much water!” Dahlia says, delighted. “And it’s
not even the storm season!”
We make camp that night caked in mud, and not even Dahlia’s Gift is up to the task of starting a fire with wood so thoroughly
soaked. As we’re munching on dried fruit, she tosses a glob of mud at me. I launch one right back, which hits her in the nose
and makes her laugh so hard she falls over. It turns out even a deluge is worthy of wonder, but I had to leave Grimsvold to
know it.
Our mounts are round with grazing, our lips stained with summer lingonberries, when we finally reach the Three Corners Inn.
My heart swells to see my home—so familiar and so changed. The burned-out walls of the common room have been rebuilt with
fresh river stone and mortar. It looks stronger and sturdier than ever, though a few scorch marks remain on the front chimney
and around the second-floor windows. Maybe that’s as it should be. Inns should have stories to tell.
“This is your house?” Dahlia says. “It’s huge.”
“Well, I only live in part of it,” I say.
Two little girls barrel out of the entrance and run to the creek to play, squealing.
From inside come the strains of a lute, the clatter of dishes, some muted conversation.
Everything in me yearns to step inside, but one of the most important rules of travel is to see to one’s mount first. Reluctantly, I lead Blackwind uphill toward the stable.
My stallion tosses his head and steps with high knees. He acts up around new horses, especially mares, so I don’t think anything
of it until he starts blowing gusts from his nostrils.
I lean down and stroke his neck. “What is it, sweetheart?”
The stable is full, with two additional horses and a mule tied to the overflow posts. I’ll have to find another hitching for
Blackwind and Lilac, but it makes me ache to get inside even more. The inn is clearly busy, and Ma undoubtedly needs my help.
I’m steering Blackwind past the stable toward the pasture, passing the milk cows, Willow and Juniper, in the last stall, when
I hear hoofbeats. A stout sorrel barges toward us, his crooked white blaze bright.
“Apple!”
I’m out of the saddle and on the ground before I know it, but Apple trots right past me to nuzzle Blackwind. The two exchange
snorts, tails swishing. Blackwind rears up in play, the saddlebags flopping at his sides.
A human head pokes up from Juni’s stall. “Bria?”
It’s Ma. Her pail clatters, and milk spills out from under the stall as she jumps to her feet and pushes through the stall
door to meet me. “Oh, minja, my precious girl.”
Her arms are around me, crushing me close. She smells like manure and filthy straw, but I don’t care.
She pushes me back, looks me up and down. “Your fingers.”
“Long story.”
“And . . . is that a Diamond Household ring?”
“Yes.”
“You’re too skinny.”
I roll my eyes. “Guess you’d better feed me. When did Apple . . . ?”
“He just wandered back. I feared the worst, but then Nylet came, and I knew you were still alive. Apple has the run of the
place now, like a puppy. He never goes far.”
“Nylet?”
“The permanancer you sent?”
“Oh! I’m so glad she made it.” It hadn’t occurred to me to ask her name.
“Who is this?” Ma asks, looking toward Dahlia, who has reverted to being ready to flee at the slightest provocation.
“This is my good friend and traveling companion, Dahlia.”
“Dahlia, get down from that horse and let me hug you.”
“Um, no thank you,” Dahlia says, her eyes like a cornered cat’s.
“No hugs, then,” Ma says. “Get down from that horse and let me feed you.”
“Well . . . all right.”
Less than an hour later, our horses are fed, watered, groomed, and hitched outside Jaco’s smithy, and Dahlia and I are in the family dining room eating meat and potato pie.
Ma catches me up on everything: the Corthan family—Calvus and Ovidia, and their children Salina and little Titus—have decided to stay and make the Three Corners their home.
Ma couldn’t have made it through the winter and early spring without them.
So many Corthan refugees have made the inn busier than ever, but the cost of repairs has kept it from making a profit. Now
that there’s a new queen in Corth—Ma looks at me pointedly when she says this—Ma hopes to get a decent wheat and flour shipment
after next year’s harvest.
I assure her I know nothing about the new queen and will probably never find out.
“Your boy, Titus?” Ma prompts, when I’m not more forthcoming.
I just shrug. I’ll tell her everything eventually. But not yet.
“Minja,” she says softly, placing her hand over the top of mine. “Are you all right?”
“No. But I will be.”
She gives me a sad smile. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
I give her a sharp look. My whole life, she has known when I’m lying. Finally, I understand. It’s her Gift.
“That’s how you could trust Titus so quickly,” I say. “How you knew Calvus and Ovidia were good people. You always know.”
Her smile brightens. “There are advantages to keeping such things a secret.”
Dahlia is oblivious, so focused on her food. I join her in scraping the last bits of meat pie from our plates, even though I’m reeling from finally learning my mother’s greatest secret. Only one thing to do when my mind is so busy. I get to my feet, saying, “I’m ready to work.”
Over the next several days, Dahlia settles in as our new spark maiden. She and Nylet figure out how to work together to start
fires that burn longer and brighter than any I’ve ever seen, which they ultimately decide is a very bad idea.
Nylet and I make several cold stones, ensuring that the inn’s cellar will remain cold even in the hottest summer. We sell
a few to travelers heading into Suratia, which results in enough coin to pay everyone a fair wage. Next year, we’ll buy supplies
to finish the fancy stable Da always dreamed of.
One afternoon, I pull Nylet aside and say to the Suratian girl, “I’m not saying you’re the permanancer who escaped King Jaydeth,
but whoever did that was brave and good and probably saved the whole city of Cathira. Maybe even the Sunderland.”
Nylet’s lips twitch, and I can’t tell if she’s hiding nervousness or a smile. She says, “I have no idea who you’re talking
about.”
“Of course. But I’m deeply grateful to her, whoever she is.”
She turns her head to avoid my gaze, but there’s no mistaking the moisture in her eyes.
As the new queen establishes herself in Corth, the stream of refugees eases to a trickle, giving us all a break from nonstop
work. I tell Ma that I’d like to bring Anja home and bury her next to Da, and she gives my blessing to go—so long as I don’t
go alone.