Chapter 21
The next morning, I unlatch my door slowly, then kick it open. I’m not going to be caught unawares again.
The door flies open and thunks against the wall.
I can’t see anybody outside; no sword is pointed at my face.
I relax slightly and step over the threshold into the courtyard.
The sun has only been up an hour, and the whole courtyard remains shadowed and cool.
The stone table where I ate with Roiven yesterday is empty. Everything is damp from rain.
I could spend a whole lifetime in this tiny garden, just admiring these plants that were strong enough to grow in the Wild Seas. And for a few minutes, I do, running my hands over them and breathing the smell in deep.
If Roiven won’t take me back, do I owe it to Malkin’s memory to find out if I can steal a ship of some kind?
I’d surely be too slow to make a difference.
With how long Sava flew to reach this island, and with how much swifter she is than any ship but a Hellion, I might not even get to Barivum before the War-Father attacks the Tower and drains all the Enchanted.
At least I could still tell the truth about what happened at the Bluff. But when I think about it like that, and remember Roiven’s point about them not listening to me, I can’t imagine anyone will care what I say. Not if the witches are already dead.
I should still figure out where I am. The open archway into the next courtyard is too big a temptation to pass up. Moving quietly, I head for it. Maybe I can find a way to the shore and see what they have in the way of boats.
I had a stack of clothes to choose from, delivered last night by the blonde witch Roiven called Nor, and I wish they were sized better. The trousers I’m wearing sag around my hips. They’re the kind of clothes that could get in the way in a serious fight.
I step through the arch and find myself in another courtyard, identical to mine, down to the open arch on the far side. But I can hardly admire any of it, because Avreen perches on top of this courtyard’s central table, using the bench as her footrest.
She’s eating an apple. A wave of emotion roars up over me and threatens to pull me under. Avreen looks so casual, but Malkin was willing to risk punishment just for a taste of one.
“You again,” Avreen mutters as I stare at her in dumb shock. Avreen scowls at me and hops off the table to stride toward me. Today she’s dressed in crimson leather armor studded with gold metal accents, from head to toe.
“What are you staring at, knight?”
“Nothing,” I whisper. If I told her about Malkin, she wouldn’t understand. She’s a witch.
“Go back to your room.”
I pause where I am and tug my baggy trousers higher, wishing I had a belt.
“The second dragon. Was it yours?” I ask. Avreen’s eyes narrow. “Would you fly me to Barivum before the enchantment comes back up?”
Avreen’s lower lip twitches.
“You want me to fly you home, into enemy territory,” she says. “Sure. Gladly. Have you lost your mind?”
“If Roiven didn’t tell you, there’s a ship headed to the council there to get more Enchanted,” I explain as patiently as I can. “They’re pinning an attack on you to get the funding. If you take me back before that happens, I can at least try to make someone listen to the truth about the attack.”
“Nice try.”
“Just ask Roiven.”
“Oh, he told me about the little incident with the ship,” she says, like she’s discussing the weather. “You’re a knight. Don’t pretend you care about the people you kill.”
“That’s not fair.” I know we need to use the Enchanted to protect our lands from witches, but Harfor is planning something big. Something I fear goes beyond the War-Father’s adage of necessary cruelty.
“Life’s not fair. Get back to your courtyard before I make you.”
She draws her sword, and my lips curl downwards. So much for Roiven’s promise that Avreen wouldn’t attack me again.
Maybe the War-Father is right, and witches can’t be bargained with. Roiven only kept the deal with me, to take me to the Bluff in exchange for removing the obedience, because he had no choice.
…Or maybe witches are just ordinary people, with attitudes and heartbreaks and good days and bad. But it’s borderline treason to even consider that.
I give the courtyard we’re standing in one last look around, trying to see if I can glimpse anything different through the doorway to the next one over. I still can’t see the ocean. The only reason I know we’re near it is the distant crash of waves and the familiar salt taste of the air.
I raise my hands in mock surrender and return to my own courtyard, walking backwards so I don’t take my eyes off Avreen.
It would be just like a witch to strike me in my back, I think, and then I think: so what would I call sinking a ship of escaping civilians? The witches weren't the ones who did that.
Once I’m over the threshold, she sheathes her sword and folds her arms across her chest. But she stays where she is, halfway between the other courtyard’s table and the open arch into mine.
“What are you doing in there, if you’re supposed to be watching me? Why not wait in my courtyard?”
These trousers are the most annoying thing I’ve ever worn. I tug them up again.
“Roiven thought you deserved some privacy. I’ll be sure to tell him he was wrong.”
“Whatever,” I tell Avreen, and head back to my room to change into something that comes closer to fitting.
Behind the locked door, I wrench the trousers off.
Years of military training has me wanting to neatly fold them into crisp lines.
Instead, I ball them up and hurl them angrily at the floor, then turn to look at my other options again.
I hold up another pair of trousers, gray ones that looked a little short to me. With a shrug I step into the right leg. Then pause, and sniff.
It smells like fire. I step into the other leg. These ones do fit much better, though they don’t fall as long as I’d like. I tie the laces tight, then turn, gasp, and jump back.
The baggy trousers are burning. With a curse I dive for them. I smack the flames out with my metal hand, then stare down at the charred hole in the thigh of the trousers.
Magic. It’s a cruel trick, and I have to assume it was meant to hurt me. My whole face hardens, lips trembling with fury. I grab the trousers and storm out of the room into the courtyard to confront Avreen.
Roiven stands at the stone table, holding a tray of food in his hands. He stares back at me, then slowly sets it down.
“Cai,” he says warily.
I hold up the trousers.
“Did one of your people make these light on fire?” I snap.
Roiven’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and his lips press together like he thinks this is hilarious. He’s just made it to the top of my suspects list.
“Your… pants caught on fire…?”
“I’m glad you find it amusing.”
“I don’t,” Roiven says. His face smooths, all emotion leaving it. “Truly. I don’t.”
“Dragons breathe fire, and you’re bonded to one.”
“What?” His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I had anything to do with that? Your familiar doesn’t determine your type of power, only how strong it is.”
A fiendish child’s giggle sounds from the other courtyard, immediately followed by a youngling’s screech. Roiven whips around and dashes toward the sound.
I’m sure he doesn’t want me following. I do anyways.
A child’s face peers around the courtyard arch.
She’s young, maybe five, with dense curls.
At the sight of Roiven coming she shrieks and runs the other way.
Giggling, another, younger child follows her on wobbly legs.
A small gray shape crashes through the flowerbed after them.
I think it’s a weasel. It must be one of the children's familiars. Aren’t they too young for that?
A painful hand tightens around my heart, as the feeling that I’ve lost something rears up inside me.
“I told you not to follow me,” Roiven says. “Wait.” He grabs both children and crouches down to their level.
I freeze in the doorway of the arch. The girl says something to him, her voice soft and whining, the plea of somebody who knows she’s been caught breaking a rule.
“Because it’s dangerous,” Roiven answers gently. “You aren’t ever to come back here without permission. Am I understood?”
Dangerous. He thinks I’d hurt these children. After all the stories about witches' sacrifices, Roiven is acting like I’m the threat. But the War-Father's warnings suddenly feel a little ridiculous. Roiven has killed, and maybe even as many people as I have.
But children?
I draw a deep, ragged breath, and remind myself what he said about the bonds not requiring blood, and the fact that he cannot lie.
“Come on,” Roiven says to them. He stands, still bent low enough to hold each of their hands. The witch glances back at me, his eyes hard. “I’m not going far. Don’t try to leave. Eat the food.”
With that, he drags them away, through the far arch.
I wander back to the tray he set down. There’s a pitcher with a yellow-colored, frothy juice, a platter with thick slices of bread, a bowl of smoked vegetables, and another bowl full of berries.
If the War-Father is wrong about witches… if the whole Empire is wrong about witches… then what, exactly, have I spent my life doing?
I'm not seeing anything but what Roiven chooses to show me. He can't lie, but that doesn't mean he can't distort the truth. I shouldn't be so quick to believe these people are good.
I haven’t touched the food yet when Roiven returns and slides across from me. He rests his elbows on the table without a word. His golden eyes watch me warily as he nudges the food towards me.
“Were those children yours?” I ask, an odd, tight feeling in my gut.
“No. You aren’t hungry?”
I chew my bottom lip and look away from him for a moment.
“Do you really believe I’d hurt them?”
Roiven sighs.
“You’re a knight. You’ve killed our kind. You still see your own people as the enemy.”