Chapter 2
Indifference Is the True Weapon Against Fear
Taven pressed his interrogation the entire harrowing ride from Whitechurch, but Elloven was in no mood for questions he already knew the answers to.
Yes, she killed her husband and his four friends.
No, she didn’t know precisely how.
No, it didn’t matter. They were dead.
No, she would not tell him about her years of isolation, neglect, and torture.
And yes, her feelings for him, for the man who had been protector, friend, and lover at varying points in her young life, were undeniably complicated.
She counted his questions. Twenty-eight in total.
They’d snuck out of Whitechurch by blending in.
Taven had draped his cloak over her, and they pretended she was his son, which had been surprisingly effective due to how she disappeared under the bulky fabric.
They’d cleared inspection at two checkpoints because Taven had had the foresight to attach a wagon to the carriage and fill it with fresh fruits and vegetables, many of them too expensive for the average citizen.
She’d hidden at the bottom of a deep crate full of cabbage while he told the guards he was making local deliveries for the gentry.
Hassling him had seemed more trouble than it was worth for guards who’d been pulled from their warm beds, so they’d waved them through.
Instead of gratitude, she felt resentment. If he could sneak into Whitechurch and abscond with her hidden in a crate of vegetables, why had he waited so long? He’d waited until she’d become a murderer to swoop in like the hero of a story he’d written to suit himself.
Taven had come into her life when she had only been eight, an orphan from her mother’s homeland who had been the son of someone important.
Her mother had taken the almost fourteen-year-old in, at first assigning him chores, and later treating him as well as she treated her own son.
After Elloven’s father died, Taven had stepped unceremoniously into the unofficial man-of-the-house role, even acting as a paternal figure to Gennady.
When Elloven later confessed that Taven had snuck into her room on her fourteenth nameday, her mother’s eyes had darkened, but all she’d said was I feared this would happen.
Esmeray’s reaction, in a letter to Elloven, to Gennady’s murder two years ago had contained a similar sentiment. The worst has come to pass, just as I’ve feared. Your brother is gone, and we will never know who took him from us.
But she was wrong. Elloven would. She’d find out, and when she did, she’d deal with the soulless swine herself, in her own way.
Her sweet baby brother had been the brightest light in her life, in all their lives, and the thought that anyone could ever snuff it out made her utterly sick.
Esmeray said he’d died quickly. Well, Elloven wouldn’t say the same for his murderer.
But to weaponize her magic with precision, she first needed to understand it, and there was only one place she could.
Avenging her brother wasn’t her only motivation for wanting to find her mother’s people, but it was the most significant.
Her hunger for vengeance was sometimes the only thing that kept her going.
She was still thinking about her brother when they made their final approach to Riverchapel, just as midnight made itself known. It hit her suddenly that it would be her first time home without him there to wrap her in one of his warm hugs.
“I must prepare you, El, for what you’ll face when we reach town,” Taven said, like she were still a child in need of unwelcome counsel.
“You mean the stoning?” Her sardonic edge matched her tired, dark heart. She didn’t know if she was more annoyed with him, for the way he spoke down to her, or herself for rising to it. “I never expected to be welcomed home.”
He studied her with a pensive frown. “You don’t deserve this.”
“When has that mattered?”
He sighed. “The past is... It can’t be changed. But you’ll be home, and you and I can begin anew.”
“You and I?” Elloven probably should have been more mindful of her expression, for his froze in anger.
“I plan to speak to Esme first thing in the morning. I’m confident she’ll see the wisdom in us marrying immediately.”
“Marry?”
“So I can protect you, Ellie.”
There were so many things wrong with his words, she didn’t know where to begin, but she could already hear the distant noise of Riverchapel, the song of night dimming as the village grew louder. Every creak of the wheels, the shouting bakers, and the whistles from stills scattered her focus.
Taven’s long fingers wrapped around her knee with an affectionate squeeze. “Almost home, love.” He’d never understood her, or he’d know she found far more comfort in the quiet. Silence was the only truth still available to the universe.
Rumors had traveled faster than the carriage. The village gates, usually narrowed to a gap at that hour for the infrequent evening traveler, were flung wide. Torches adorned the row of market stalls, busier than noontide.
“They all think this is some sort of mummer’s farce?” Taven started as if to jump out of the carriage, but she knew he wouldn’t. “No one values minding their own concerns anymore.”
“The woman who murdered the spare heir to the Easterlands has returned to seek sanctuary. Wouldn’t you be curious?”
“How can you be so flippant about it?”
“About my own life?” Taven hadn’t understood when they were younger either. You have me, he’d say, never quite seeing the irony in assuming he was the solution to a problem he’d helped create.
Taven bellowed when something hard and wet struck the carriage. Elloven merely flinched. Her late husband had taught her to anticipate the worst at any moment.
After another handful of splats, the carriage slowed. Hands clawed and banged at the door and windows on both sides. One shattered, sending shards onto the benches and floor.
Their frenzied shouts were more or less what she’d expected. Send her out! We want to see her! Show your face! Lord Quinlanden demands justice! No sanctuary!
Taven’s eyes widened with each assault, both of his arms braced against the seat back. “Have the good sense to be terrified, Elloven.” He pounded on the roof. “Faster!”
“He can’t go faster, unless he wants to run over half the town.”
“I know you see me as your protector, but I cannot fight dozens of crazed lunatics!”
Her protector? She stifled a laugh. “What will happen will happen,” she muttered, but her calm had been eroding with each turn of the carriage wheels. She counted their full rotations, measured by where the front left wheel’s divot caused the light skip in an otherwise smooth ride.
One.
“The witch is home! The witch is home!”
Two.
“We need to get off this road. Now.” Taven’s head darted back and forth. He pounded on the carriage wall, but the riotous crowd overtook the sound. “I’ll have to get out. There’s no other way.”
Three.
“Elloven, did you hear me?”
Four.
She listened for the fifth turn, frustrated at the disruption. The counting was all that prevented her heart from exploding. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, but you’ll obviously do as you please.”
Five.
“I feel like I hardly know you anymore. Where is the girl who would spit fire with her words if I was even a step out of line?”
Yes, Fabrien liked it better when I fought back too.
Six.
“They’re not going to let us pass without trouble, Taven.” Seven. “So we can take our chances inside, and pray our driver can outmaneuver the mob, or you can do the foolish thing and martyr yourself.” Eight. The rotations slowed. “I won’t stop you.”
“I never imagined it would be this bad...” he said, more to himself it seemed. “We should have taken the east entrance. Foolish not to.”
“They’ll be there too. And west. And south. This is the most excitement Riverchapel has seen in years.”
“Are you unmoved by what’s about to happen, or do you just want me to think so?” Taven gaped at her in impressively restrained suspicion.
“People think courage is the true weapon of fear. But it’s not. Indifference is.”
“Are you intoxicated?” He flung back against his bench when something hard struck a window, splintering it. “Guardians deliver us.”
Elloven didn’t believe the village people intended to actually hurt them, at least not intentionally. But a mob by nature was violent, and the festering energy would soon outgrow reason.
She’d lost her place in her counting. There was no telling how many rotations she’d missed, and it was too late to start over.
Guessing wouldn’t satisfy her need for accuracy, and she was already too distracted.
Taven was wrong. She wasn’t unmoved at all.
She was just trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.
Once she lost her calm, she couldn’t control the result.
She closed her eyes and started hyperventilating.
“Ellie?”
Elloven shook her head, tears swimming and spilling.
Taven sighed sharply through his nose and shifted on the bench. She couldn’t see what he was doing, and she didn’t want to. If he leaped out and got himself killed, it wouldn’t be her fault, but it would sure feel like it.
A different pitch of clamor echoed beyond—surprise. Elloven opened her eyes and found Taven peering out the one window still intact. He wiped away the condensation and smashed his face to the pane.
“Is that...” He peeled back some. His expression contorted, wavering first on annoyance before settling on disgust. “What is he doing here?”
“Who here wants to be indicted for treason in the name of Mathias Skylark? Well, come on then. Raise your hand!” a man yelled. Some of his words were garbled by the melee, but they were clear enough. “No one? Ah, come on. Let’s have some fun!”