Chapter 14
‘You know she often bites those who pet her without permission?’
Arla had spotted the child – no older than twelve – stroking Vetta over the stable door. The girl tensed, spinning quickly to face Arla.
Recognition flared in the girl’s tawny brown eyes, intrigue rather than fear lighting up her face.
Arla didn’t know how to take it.
The girl turned back towards Vetta, pulling her hand gently away from the mare’s face before she spoke softly. ‘She’s bred for war. She would never hurt those that are allied with you.’
Arla huffed out a laugh.
‘Try telling that to her grooms. Your horse has the spirit of a firedrake, Dragonhart.’
‘And who would they be, exactly?’
‘Not from your world.’
She paused for a moment, watching the pair of them. Vetta’s attention was fixed on the girl with soft brown hair and gentle eyes beside her.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Elin.’
Arla stepped closer, resting an arm over the stable door and stroking the mare’s neck. ‘Well, Elin, are you? Allied with me?’
The girl met her gaze, an intensity burning there that made her look older than her face indicated.
‘I have been allied with you from the moment we heard you were trying to help us. Even if you weren’t the last dragonhart, I think the people would still follow you. They like your hope, and your viciousness. It’s the most we’ve ever seen.’
Arla struggled to swallow around the knot in her throat.
What was it about a child speaking of hope that had brought her this close to tears?
Perhaps because she had been the same. Perhaps because Arla at nine years old had clung on to the tiniest scrap of hope and turned it into something bigger than she was.
She saw it burning in Elin’s heart. Saw loyalty there that she didn’t feel she deserved because of what she had done.
‘Are you a mage?’ Arla asked.
‘No,’ Elin said, her voice so soft and lovely that Arla thought she might be able to listen to it forever. ‘My sister might be, but she’s too young for us to know yet.’
‘And how old is your sister?’
‘Two. I’m twelve. Our mother died last year from a wasting sickness. It was in her blood – the healers couldn’t do anything.’
It was exactly what Arla had seen in Elin at first glance: a loss great enough to shatter continents. It was why she recognised the fire in the girl’s soft eyes – they were like a paradox within tawny irises.
‘I lost my parents too.’
Elin smiled. A sad, lovely smile. ‘I know. It’s why I follow you. You’re stronger than I am. I want to be like you.’
An ice-cold spear plunged through her heart.
No. Nobody should be like her. Nobody should ever want to do the things she had done or have to experience all the ways she had betrayed her very soul to get the things she wanted.
This girl in front of her … gods, she should never, ever want to be like Arla.
She wasn’t strong – the loss of her parents was still a gaping chasm in the centre of her chest.
But she couldn’t say any of that, could she?
Arla reached for Elin’s slender hand, so small and gentle in her own.
‘Sometimes strength has a funny way of finding us. I find it often comes best when you lend yours to someone else who needs it more. Don’t wish to be like me, Elin. Wish to be like yourself. Your own strength will always be stronger than mine.’
The girl’s eyes filled, but she wouldn’t blink. Not a single tear fell as she nodded once at Arla and somehow found it within her to bury those tears and square her shoulders.
‘If you ever need help looking after her,’ she said with a pointed look at Vetta, ‘I know how to, and I’ve studied the war horses a lot. I know they can be temperamental but … I’m not scared of them.’
When she left, Arla felt a little less alone than before.