Chapter 31
Jesamin
Igazed down at the sparkling array of gears and cogs, the tiny chips of cloud crystal and onyx, the gold frame I’d poured last week, and two small, curved plates of paper-thin, polished malachite.
Then I swept it all from the table, flinging thousands of marks worth of materials across the room. When the soft tinkling and chiming of beautifully-machined gears bouncing off the walls died out, my rapid, heaving breath was the only sound in the workshop.
I couldn’t do this.
I couldn’t stay in the Rivers a moment longer. I’d tried, the Lady knew. I’d given every ounce of willpower into resettling myself at home, helping those few who survived, at least until I knew where to go from here.
I’d cried when Anto and Letti saw their mother, Dareia, come running towards them.
It was impossible to hold back, not while the mother was clutching her children to her and sobbing.
They were living in the manor now, Dareia having taken over the smith’s yard, while the children took lessons with a tutor.
Even Lionel had returned home, painted with blood sigils, though he would never again be able to venture near the River Iselaine.
They were damaged, their family torn apart, but as long as they still had each other, they had hope. The survivors were already speaking of forming a new settlement, as far from the faerie mounds as they could possibly get.
I’d tidied the workshop and sat down to work on something new. My Pathfinder beetles certainly needed fine-tuning, and I had pieces of Fae Artifice I wanted to study before I handed them over to the Collegium.
But nothing came to me. I felt like the past couple of weeks had been a dream, and whatever purpose I’d found within that dream had vanished utterly upon stepping foot back into this dark hole.
Even my bed didn’t feel like mine anymore. It was a stranger’s room, and I was no longer the person who had lived there. I woke every night, sweating and shaking, thinking of that last moment when he’d been mine, the machinery of my soul once again dead and rusted.
I’d packed the Artifice, unable to look at it without thinking of Wroth. I kept the chthonium knife in my boot, unable to see it, and unable to let it go. The sight of my new project made me want to scream and rage, to tear this whole room down around me.
I was back where I had started, the drapes drawn, the weight of a thousand regrets bowing my shoulders.
“It’s time,” I whispered to myself. Truly, I had given it my all, but the clock was ticking and if I was in the Rivers when the news came out that Wroth had wed Esteri lai Auvray, I thought my willpower might shatter, and I would ride to Owlhorn to bury the chthonium knife in her eye.
I looked around the shop, taking it in as a stranger might. The same dark, depressing place I’d crawled out of, and this was where I ended up again? No. I refused to stand for it.
“Anywhere but here,” I announced, my voice stronger this time.
I stood up, collected the parts I’d scattered in my brief fit of rage, and organized every last component I owned in velvet-lined cases.
Even with the tidy sum I possessed from selling past pieces, some of them were difficult to find on short notice, and no matter where I ended up, it would take me time to suss out new sources.
Finding a glass-grinder as perfectionistic as my source in Port Coran might even be impossible.
I’d replaced my tools within the first week, and the replacements were still rolled in their calfskin cases.
It had been strange to look over my new wrenches and hammers, and think about the ones I’d left behind, leagues below in the dark, lying next to my bedroll and the decomposing body of a Fae and a piece of Artifice the world had never seen before, and possibly never would again.
I threw everything into trunks and went upstairs to my bedroom, throwing my serviceable breeches, blouses, and waistcoats into a bag.
I’d thrown away the wine-red velvets from Owlhorn as soon as we’d returned home, unable to stand the sight of them.
With the intention of traveling hard and fast, there was no need to wear expensive clothes.
It wasn’t until I was dragging my heavy trunks out onto the lawn that I was interrupted. Wheels made the boards of the main walk rattle.
I looked up at my father, panting, sweat soaking through my shirt. The trunk was heavier than I’d expected, but I didn’t have the patience to wait another moment, whether by repacking or seeking Mathis’s help.
He stared back at me with loving patience. “Come in for a cup of tea, darling.”
“Papa…I can’t.” I wiped my forehead and began tugging the handle again. The trunk screamed as it was dragged across a paving stone.
“Dear girl, you can certainly spare your old man a few moments before you vanish into the world with nary a farewell.”
I plopped onto the trunk, coughing. Gods, I should’ve split the load. Papa gestured to the open door, gripping his wheels to maneuver himself around, but I stood on wobbly legs and took the grips. “I’ve got you, Papa.”
I wheeled him into the parlor. Tarja had already laid a tea service, the pot still steaming, and I positioned Papa in his usual spot before taking my place in the threadbare plush chair I typically curled into.
Today, I couldn’t bring myself to get comfortable and tuck my legs under me. I perched on the edge, trying to stop my leg from jiggling with anxiety and impatience as Papa poured me a cup of tea, dropping in two lumps of sugar and a splash of milk the way I liked it.
I took the proffered tea, staring into it and thinking of how Wroth had given me a cup in the Below, exactly in this way. Two sugars, at least. I wouldn’t fault him for the lack of milk.
He’d seen me drink tea but once, and he’d noticed, and had cared enough to replicate it for the sake of my comfort.
I took a sip, choking around the lump in my throat. Gods damn it, I needed to get out of here.
“When you left, you were glowing with purpose.” Papa blew on his tea. “A fire I haven’t seen in you in…well, quite some time. You came out of the dark, and began to blaze with it. And now that you’re home…you have retreated into the dark once more.”
I tried another sip, my hands trembling minutely.
“Talk to me, Jesamin.” My father’s voice was so gentle, so understanding, and I was powerless as it cut through the tarnished wall of iron inside me. “What doused that fire, darling?”
My face crumpled, contorting as I tried to hold it back, but the dam was broken. I set the cup aside, nearly dropping it to the floor in my haste to cover my face. My entire body doubled over with the force of the flood crashing through me.
“Papa…Papa, I love him.”
My sobs tore through my muffling hands, and distantly I heard the clink of tableware set aside, the soft squeak of wheels, and felt my father’s hands on my shoulders.
“Come here, dear one. Let it out.”
I burrowed into my father’s embrace, letting the gut-wrenching cries loose, a storm of tears flooding his waistcoat. He rested his cheek on my head, stroking my hair, holding me tightly with every sob that erupted.
The tempest inside me raged, all the days of knowing it had to end, and the terrible moment when the sun shone down upon me once more, everything I craved and feared coming to pass in one bright burst of light. But eventually, the storm gave way to showers, and finally dried out.
I sniffled, my eyes sore and swollen, my throat aching, but I felt…clean. Empty and clear.
“Do you know who you are, my daughter?” Papa raised my face, gazing into my eyes.
“I don’t know what you mean…I’m Jesamin, of course.”
“You’re Jesamin fel Arron,” he said sternly. “And has a fel Arron ever backed down from a fight?”
I shook my head mutely, a bright ray of hope piercing that washed-clean clarity inside me.
“No. We are the lion-hearted, and you have your mother’s bull-headed stubbornness, which means you know damn well what you must do.”
My reluctant laughter entwined with a sob. “I can’t do anything, Papa. He’d never leave the throne for me. It’s impossible.”
He pulled a soft handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing tearstains from my cheeks, and taking my spectacles to wipe the lenses clean.
“But you’ll try, my Jesamin. If you love him, you’ll fight for him, because you’re a fel Arron—and in the face of insurmountable odds, we fel Arrons do not yield before the impossible. ”
I stared at him, that hope filling my entire heart. I had already achieved the impossible.
What was one more insurmountable obstacle, for someone I truly wanted?
And if it didn’t work out…I could say I tried, rather than hid like a coward.
Papa handed me the handkerchief. “Life is short, my dear. It is far too short to live in a dark room, watching your wishes pass you by outside your window. Go now, and do what must be done.”
I blew my nose. “You can’t mean…right now?”
He shrugged, a crooked smile on his lips. “You were already packing to run away, child. Did you think we failed to notice? Mathis has saddled your horse for you. Now you can run in the direction you truly wanted to go.”
I stooped to kiss my father’s cheek, stood up and looked at the dirty, frayed clothes I wore, as well as the fuzzy three-day old braid I’d thrown my hair in, and my father waved a hand.
“Stop fussing. If he loved you covered in dirt, he wouldn't mind a little sweat and tears. The clock is ticking and you have a battle to win.”
“Right,” I breathed, turning on my heel and running for the stables.
I jumped over the trunk, skidding into the stableyard to find Mathis leading a fully-saddled Arion out to me, with saddlebags of provisions already prepared.
“Took you long enough,” he said, clasping my shoulder. “Good luck, Jesamin. Stop for nothing, but for the love of the Lady, do not take the Iselaine Blind.”