Chapter 65 A Prayer, an Elegy
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A Prayer, an Elegy
Levan’s entire body clenched at the sight of Saffron. Her wet hair slicked to her face and collarbones like tendrils of seaweed. Beneath her sodden black cloak, her tunic clung to every curve and slope, revealing the whitebeam relic wand tucked into her waistband.
“Levan.”
The word had a strange, haunted quality. Like a prayer, or an elegy.
“I’m surprised you’re here.” His voice sounded far away. “I thought you’d already be halfway across the Rapier in pursuit of a weaverwick. There’s a throne with your name on it, after all.”
His words were petulant, yet the day had been long, and his life even longer, and his restraint was failing him.
Shivering violently, Saffron crossed to a lit lantern and cupped her hands over it. Levan was surprised to see the steady fall of tears down the pink apples of her cheeks.
“I don’t want any of what we just saw,” she whispered.
“You know I don’t. I don’t want the throne, to wage wars, to decide the fate of the country or the world.
I don’t want to rule alongside Harrow, of all people.
” A sad sniff; she sounded so young. “I just want my parents back. I want my parents back, and I want you.” Her eyes were red raw as they finally met his.
“And I still think that by turning back those twenty years, we can avert the utter hell Harrow and I foresaw.”
The na?ve little boy inside him—the one who’d allowed himself to fall prey to the schemings of Alucia, and then Saffron herself—longed to comfort her, to scoop her into his ruined arms, to warm her and soothe her and reassure her.
But he thought of what Harrow had described, a burning city littered with the drowned bodies of innocent children, and had to smother his foolish desires.
“Perhaps the crown is what will allow you to turn back those twenty years.” He wrested his tone back into something detached, stripping out the bitterness and dread he truly felt.
“That throne room filled with ascenite. My worst fears were right—you do represent a direct threat to my mother’s claim. ”
Saffron’s eyes fluttered shut. “She can have it.”
Her speech was slurred, slightly, as though she’d been drinking plentiful bivkar.
Levan’s Healer brain kicked in. She’d been out in plummeting temperatures in soaking-wet clothes, and now she looked drowsy, disoriented.
Her breathing came fast and shallow, and though her cheeks were pink from cold, the rest of her face was bone white, almost blueish around her lips.
Early signs of deepcold.
“Silver, take off your wet clothes and get into the bath. Now.”
He knew things were bad when she didn’t offer a filthy quip, only nodded once, slowly, and fumbled with her tunic strings. Her garments fell to the floor with a wet smack.
Climbing into the bath was awkward, inelegant, but as she sank herself into the warm scented water opposite Levan, a sigh loosed from her lips, and a flush returned to her skin.
In the golden light of the lanterns, the stark redness of her bloodshot eyes was all the more evident.
Her palms were a mess of frayed skin, and he knew the backs of her thighs were in no better shape, but she didn’t react to the sting of hot water against the wounds.
He’d mend the cuts and grazes once the deepcold had dissipated, once his own well was full enough.
“There have been three points in my knowing of you,” she began, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around herself, “that I’ve feared new revelations would destroy the way you looked at me.
First, that I was undercover. Second, that I was a Timeweaver.
And third, this. But you know me, Levan.
You saw me grapple endlessly with the killing of those wardholders.
You know I would rather end my own life than let so many die because of me. ”
She seemed so sure that this was true, and yet Levan had watched her kill the innocent croupier Neatras to save her own skin.
She had killed a Whitewing to earn her place back in the scarlets following the Havenwood.
And he knew as well as anyone how fast those single kills added up, how they all blurred together into one terrible smear on the soul.
“I’m going to stop it, Levan. If it’s the last thing I do, if it costs me my own life to do it, I’m going to circumvent the hell we just foresaw.
What’s that Aymar Wevelren quote? Greatness does not belong to those who win the battle, but to those who prevent the battle from ever being fought.
I have a purpose inside a purpose now. Save my parents, and save the world. ”
The Lost Dragonborn quote cleaved through Levan like an axe.
“I want to trust you.” He stared out of the window, watching flakes of snow flurry and drift.
“But all of this can wait. We need to get Miret to T?lun. He’s physically stable, but I want him checked by a Healer more adept than me.
And then…we need to find a way to get his soul back.
I have to believe there’s a chance of that.
So we’ll take the portari gate down to Almere, then rent a couple of axelmares to carry us over the border to Lunes, since Miret can’t walk and I can’t carry him all that way. ”
“How is Miret?”
Horror clenched its fist in Levan’s throat.
“I’m yet to fully understand what soul death means.
He still talks like he used to, is still capable of deep thought, but something’s missing.
He says it’s his faith. He can no longer feel the Saints’ presence, much less believe in them.
For someone as devout as him, that is a fate worse than death. ”
“Omedari’s fist,” Saffron muttered—one of her mother’s favorite curses, and one Levan usually enjoyed hearing her utter.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Where’s Harrow?”
Saffron grabbed a bar of soap and ran it softly over her knees. “He said he needed time. Vanished into the woods.”
Relar’s words rang like clamorous bells.
You can’t trust the King’s Prophet.
“Levan.” Saffron reached out a hand, rested it on his scarred forearm.
Despite the bath, she still felt freezing to the touch.
“I’m devastated—truly. I wanted, more than anything, for the Fifth Prophecy to show me saving the world.
I wanted, more than anything, to exonerate Timeweavers once and for all.
I wanted, more than anything, for us to both have true fresh beginnings as children.
For your mother to become a Hand, and for you to become a Healer, and for us to be free of all the pain and tragedy that has plagued us for decades.
But we can still do as we planned, still unmake those twenty-something years.
Save our parents. Yes, your mother will still have cause to pursue power. But she will live.”
Levan’s eyes burned. “You don’t seem afraid.”
“I’m terrified.” Her grip on his forearm tightened.
“Not of the Fifth Prophecy—of me. You’ve seen the lengths I will go to for my mother’s legacy, and yet you’re assuming that I won’t hurt, incarcerate, or kill you to prevent you from stealing the throne.”
Saffron raised a pale, fluffy brow, pulling her hand away.
“You were so worried about me succumbing to deepcold that you insisted I get in the bath with you. Why not let Mother Nature run its course?” As though to affirm her lack of fear, she slid deeper into the bath, head back, letting the warm water soak her hair, her ears, the soft line of her jaw.
When she surfaced, her words were more serious, loaded.
“Isn’t some part of you…relieved? If you do believe in the prophecies, in the Augurs, then your mother will never reclaim her crown.
Isn’t that permission to walk away from all of this?
To finally abandon the doomed quest you’ve been forced to pursue since childhood? ”
From the intensity of her hazel stare…it was almost as though she knew the brand was no longer active.
“Do you want me to walk away?” he asked softly.
“I want you with me, fighting to save our parents.” She rested her chin on her knees. “But more than that, I want you to be happy. Or at the very least alright.”
Tears rose behind his eyes, warm and heavy. He blinked them away and stood abruptly from the bath. Saffron made no attempt not to brazenly ogle him, which he almost had to admire.
“Let’s go,” he said, suddenly unable to tolerate another moment.
Saffron peered up at him. “Where to?”
“You want to save the world, but first, I need to save mine. Save Miret.” A sharp, definitive nod. “To Almere—and then to Lunes.”