Chapter 35 The Tears
We are a half day's flight from the capital when the tension breaks.
It is Marton's fault, of course. He has been good natured and sweet for days of travel, smiling at me and fixing a plate for me at all our meals and sitting close beside me and finding every excuse to touch me.
He is trying to make me feel loved, and it's working.
There is a warm glow in my chest that will not go away, and my stomach dips precariously every time he looks at me.
As if I had been flying and suddenly tucked my wings in for a dead plummet toward the ground.
But tonight Marton is not touchy and sweet and giving me warm looks.
He sits pensively by the fire, forehead creased in thought.
It is a cold night, the coolest we have had since traveling south.
Autumn is reaching down to meet us as we travel back north, and the humans both sit with blankets over their shoulders.
We are camped in the Royal Wood, the stretch of forest surrounding the capital for miles to the south and west of the palace.
The Royal Road stretches through these woods from the capital city all the way to the port town of Gilchrest Landing, across the strait from Rohus, which most of the palace's trade moves through.
We have been following the road for days, careful not to camp too close in case there are others passing on the road at night.
Marton's gaze moves thoughtfully from Cherry, to me, and back again at intervals.
He chews his lip.
I try to ignore him in favor of listening to Vakhrin's story of a time he tried to out-riddle a sphinx in a tavern down in Umrahs, but my attention keeps getting dragged back to the deep-thinking scholar beside me.
I know when Marton's face looks that way it means he is coming up with lists and plans and things he is going to want to talk to me about.
I worry it will be nothing good.
I am proven right when, before we retire for the night, Marton takes me aside with a serious look and a light touch at my elbow.
Just beyond the tree line of the clearing where we will sleep, he stops and turns to me.
"You need to speak to Cherry before we arrive at the palace.
"
"I—" I consider his serious expression, eyes concerned and brows pinched in worry.
His hand is still at my elbow, gently holding contact.
The confession is pulled from me as if by fish hooks, plaintively honest. "She will not speak to me.
"
His hands tighten, mouth sympathetic.
My words do not stop.
"She is angry at me for something.
I think. She has been ignoring me for days.
You know. You have seen. She—"
I realize my eyes are welling with tears only after they have overflowed.
Marton brushes them away with his thumb.
Buries his fingers in my hair to tip my face up.
His voice is otherworldy gentle and it flays me alive.
"Sweetheart."
He doesn't tell me that she isn't angry.
That I am mistaken. He has noticed it too.
"It will be well between the two of you again.
I know it will. You love each other so much.
But you have to speak to her. Not of stories or travelling or the kinds of things we all regularly speak about.
You have to speak to her honestly of what you have both been feeling.
"
I don't have any idea how to do that.
It occurs to me belatedly that I can say that aloud, explain it to Marton.
"I never know how to talk about what I'm feeling," I tell him.
He gives me a knowing smile.
"I think you have been getting better at it all the time.
"
I wipe my own eyes impatiently, sniffing.
The tears are no longer falling, but my cheeks are wet.
I hate that I have cried in front of him, no matter how briefly, but Marton is unfazed.
"What do I say?"
"Ask her why she is ignoring you.
Tell her it upsets you when she shuts you out, and you wish to know the reason.
"
"But, that's so...
" Honest. It is so honest, to say it aloud would be like peeling my chest open and leaving all of my vital parts exposed.
Marton nods in understanding.
Some of his gentleness recedes, leaving the pragmatic scholar in its place.
"We will arrive at the palace tomorrow afternoon.
And then there is no way of knowing what we may experience.
We need to be unified, before we go in. If we must keep the truth at the center of us," he lightly taps my breastbone, "then the two of you must speak honestly, and soon.
Don't leave us all vulnerable to save your pride.
"
I know he's right. I scowl at him anyway.
I wake before dawn the next morning, my eyes peeling open as anxiety swirls in my chest, flooding my bloodstream with crackling energy.
There would be no going back to sleep, even if I wished to.
Marton's arms are around me, holding me to his chest with a double layer of blankets between us.
We did not go to sleep snuggled next to each other, but at some time during the night, I have migrated from my bedroll to his.
I peel myself out of his arms, careful not to wake him.
He is a fairly heavy sleeper, so he doesn't stir as I rise and look around our camp.
Fear and nostalgia fill me at the sight of the gray morning, mist shrouding the treetops and the grass blades shiny with dew.
A trickle of smoke rising from the remains of our campfire.
Bedrolls and saddlebags are scattered in a ring around the fire.
My friends still sleep peacefully.
This may be the last time the four of us sleep camped together like this.
Our long journey, our foolish mission, has led us here to this moment.
Today we will arrive at the palace and face the king.
Today, perhaps, we will learn the truth once and for all.
But first I must talk to my oldest friend about why she can no longer look me in the eyes.
Every muscle dragging with reluctance, I approach Cherry and bend down, gently shaking her shoulder to wake her.
She is a lighter sleep, and wakes almost as soon as I touch her.
Blue eyes meet mine, bleary with sleep and confusion that sharpens into something else.
"I need to speak to you," I tell her in a whisper.
Narrowing her eyes at me, she sits up, holding the blanket to herself to ward off the chill.
I would offer to keep her warm against my side, but I know it would not be welcome.
She rises silently to follow me as I lead her to the same spot where Marton and I talked yesterday.
Once we stop, she looks at me expectantly, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "Well?
"
I consider telling her that Marton said we should talk and clear the air.
That way it will not seem as if I need something from her.
But that would be cowardly, and a lie.
"You have been avoiding me," I tell her.
She exhales sharply through her nose, almost a sigh.
"We have been in each other's constant company for weeks.
"
"And still," I emphasize, "you have been avoiding me.
Your eyes do not meet mine. You speak to everyone but me.
You do not ask me for anything, or..." The last is said inside my head, You do not want anything from me.
Cherry is silent for a moment, emotions working across her face.
At first I think she is going to apologize, and then I think she is going to snap at me.
I think she may cry or she may laugh. But her expression settles into a look of resigned frustration.
"It has come to my attention," Cherry says slowly, enunciating each work, "that you do not respect me at all.
"
That is not at all what I am expecting her to say, and I can only blink stupidly at her in response.
"You cannot even deny it," she laughs, devoid of all humor.
"That's not what— Respect?
You are angry at me because you do not think that I respect you?
"
"I am angry at you," she emphasized viciously, voice still hushed to preserve the stillness of the morning, "because you treat me as if I am some.
.. some stupid child. Some spoiled princess who must be coddled.
Gods, you must hate me. You must have h-hated me my whole life.
" Her stutter turns into a hiccup, and then she is crying in quiet streams and my hands ball into fists at my sides, unable to reach for her.
She does not look away from me, eyes livid on my face, despite the tears that stream down her flushed cheeks and the way her chest hitches with each breath.
"You lied to me when I told you I wanted to go and face my father.
You let me believe you thought it was a good idea, that you supported me.
But you were just...obeying. And you told the others—the boys—the truth before you told me.
And before that—before that, my whole life, you just—you've always—you've never— Vakhrin never allows me to treat him badly.
He tells me what he thinks. How he feels.
He scoffs at me when I act like a spoiled princess.
You—you let me be my worst self. And I— I'm sick of it," she spits.
She breaks off, red-faced and puffing.
Glaring daggers at me.
"You're sick of me," I say.
She says nothing, but her eyes say yes.
I can hardly process if there is any truth to what she has said, the things she has accused me of, because that one truth echoes in my head.
She is sick of me.
My princess.
My oldest friend. For so long, my reason for living.
I don't think she has ever understood what she is to me.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.
I wish Marton were here. He would know what to say.
Or he would hold me and I would feel...not like this.
"You're sick of me and you do not wish to be my friend anymore.
" I want to make sure I understand her correctly.
"Tarah—" She rolls her eyes.
I take a step back. "That's fine," I lie.
The words are acid in my mouth. "You can— I—"
"Tarah, stop.
" Her snapped command halts my shaky retreat.
I hadn't realized I had been backing toward the forest. She grimaces.
"I—" Her blue eyes are twin, overflowing pools.
Filled to the brim with too much emotion.
"I always want to be your friend. I do. You are my.
..favorite person, in the whole world. You have to know that, you complete imbecile.
"
I flinch at the insult, and she takes a step toward me.
Her eyes are wide like she is seeing me for the first time.
"Tarah, tell me you know that." She searches my face.
She must not find what she is looking for.
A disbelieving noise leaves her. She clutches my forearms, fingers digging in hard.
"Tarah, I love you; you are like a sister to me.
And you have hurt me, as only a sister can.
I am furious with you, but I will never stop wanting to be your friend.
"
She continues looking at me, and after a long while, she shakes her head.
"How have I never realized?" she says to herself.
"You are sensitive."
"I'm not.
"
"You are. I've hurt you.
I can see it now. I've hurt you at least as much as you've hurt me.
Maybe more." She gives me a sad smile. Releasing my arms, she takes step back, hugging herself.
A slow drizzle has begun to fall, the misty morning giving way to rain.
We should be on our way soon.
Travel will be miserable for the humans in this weather, but there is no shelter to be had here.
"Say something, Tarah.
For once. Tell me what you are actually thinking.
"
I know she doesn't mean what I am thinking in my head.
She means what Marton was talking about last night.
Feelings.
I swallow thickly.
"I suppose I have been thinking...that I have let you down.
It was my job to protect you, and I have failed you in so many mind boggling ways these passing weeks.
And this latest way. I have failed to protect.
..your heart..." I mumble the words.
"And, and when you began ignoring me I thought that—well, Vakhrin must be a better protector and friend for you than I am.
He makes you so happy and you are never angry at him except in jest, or temporarily, and you ask him for all the things you used to ask me for and you said.
You said it yourself he—he isn't like me.
He's better."
"It—" She splutters.
"There isn't a competition between you and Vakhrin.
The two of you are completely different in every way, not the least of which is the way I feel about you both.
You are my sister, Tarah. Vakhrin is a new friend, whose company I enjoy, and who I think will be a faithful ally when I am on the throne of Ithyma.
There is no contest."
"But he makes you smile and I don't. I made you cry.
"
"You are so sensitive.
"
"I'm not.
" The words smoke.
She is opening her mouth to retort, and I am bracing to argue back at her, when Vakhrin's voice comes from the direction of our camp, raised slightly in worry.
"Um, Cherry. Tarah. I think you had better come out here.
"
I do not understand the tone of his voice, high and off-kilter.
I have never heard him sound that way before.
I share a look with Cherry, and push in front of her as we make our way back to the camp.
Sunlight glints off metal and it takes me a moment to make sense of the image before me.
In the middle of our camp, arrayed in the livery of the nation of Ithyma, five knights stand with weapons drawn.
From where they are scattered throughout the clearing, I can see they have come from the direction of the Royal Road, but I can't even think to appreciate what that means.
Not when one of them has a sword held to my boyfriend's throat.