2. Wren
Isit in the shadows and stare down at the wife of the man I killed.
Well, one of them. I killed at least eight people directly in the wake of Evander’s death. A dozen more died the day of the invasion. They sit on my conscience too. I only know which kills were mine because of the ones listed as missing in action, presumed dead.
Because I turned their bodies to ash.
Fey, mortal—it hadn’t mattered. I’d just enough humanity left beneath my rage to throw up a shield to protect Evander and Runara, but everyone else I’d obliterated.
Riverspire was one of them.
I drank with him, laughed with him. He was Evander’s friend, someone who, like the prince, didn’t believe in killing the fey unnecessarily. A good man.
And I killed him.
If I’d seen that he was there, perhaps I would have found the ability to protect him too, but I didn’t, and I hadn’t. He is dead because of me, and his wife is without a husband.
From my place among the leaves, I watch her peg another sheet to the line, her hands quick and sure despite the damp.
The white fabric billows, ghostlike, before snapping back against the cord.
Her name is Amma. She lives just outside of Caerthalen now, but she, like her husband, originally hailed from Riverspire.
She moved here when he took up the sword.
I wonder if she’ll move back. I wonder what her hopes and dreams are, if they’ve shifted in the wake of her husband’s death.
I’ve been watching her for a while now, trying to peek into her mind.
She doesn’t give much away, but she stares often into the distance a lot, as if she, too, dreams of flying away.
Somewhere inside the house, a baby cries—a thin, startled sound that makes her turn, skirts swaying as she vanishes through the doorway.
I stay where I am, hidden in the shadows.
The baby’s name is Holly. She has bright blue eyes and dark hair like her father, and she’s as much one of my victims as he is.
I knew Riverspire had a daughter. For the most part, he was the picture of professionalism, but she was the one thing that could make him lose all composure, and he could gush about her for hours.
I lost my own father before I could remember him. Now I’ve stolen someone else’s.
Did he love me the way Riverspire loved Holly?
Does it matter? a voice whispers to me. You don’t deserve it.
It matters, I reason, because if my father had lived, Riverspire would not be dead. My grandmother wouldn’t hate the humans as much as she does. She would never have ordered Cassiel blinded, never have sent me into his service.
My mother might still be alive, if my father had been there to help me understand my powers, or get her out the night our house went up in flames.
Holly’s father might have been my latest victim, but my own mother was my first. I was a killer by the time I was seven.
I’d killed plenty by the time I arrived at Caerthalen: usually people that deserved it, or when I wasn’t given another choice.
My grandmother would send me into the homes of those accused of harming us, ascertaining who was guilty before a judgement was made.
Smugglers, kidnappers, torturers. I never much enjoyed killing my marks, but there was always satisfaction in a job well done, contentment in the idea that the world was likely a better place without them.
On the few times I’ve been made to kill because my life was threatened, I’ve barely felt anything at all.
It was that or die, and they knew it too.
Riverspire and the rest of the dead from that night are the first I truly regretted.
Parenthood shouldn’t make a person’s life more valuable, but I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, invisible scales exist, weighing worth in who depends on you, who aches when you’re gone.
At least two people loved and needed Riverspire. There were likely others I never knew.
Me? No one needs me. No one would miss me. My death would weigh on those scales as lightly as a feather.
I wonder what Cassiel would think, if I died. Would he be pleased? Disappointed? Does he dream of ending me himself?
Where is she? He’d hissed at the fey man he’d killed, merely an hour or two ago. The fey called Serawen—do you know where she is?
Not the words or the actions of a loving man, and he has no reason to care about me. Not now. He probably imagined me on the end of the blade as he thrust it into the faerie’s chest.
I don’t blame him.
I don’t blame myself for telling him to duck, either, though maybe I shouldn’t have.
The baby’s cries soften inside. Amma will be back soon to finish with her laundry.
I slip from the hedge and cross the patchy lawn, keeping to the shadows of the flapping laundry.
I shift back into my normal form and retrieve something from my pocket.
My hand slides the jewel into an apron. The reason for my visit today.
It’s fat and faceted, the kind of thing that catches the light in ways that make rich men feel powerful.
I stole it weeks ago from a lord who won’t even notice it’s missing.
Money doesn’t bring a loved one back. But grief is easier if you’re comfortable, and may help Amma form new dreams for herself. She and Holly will want for the dead for the rest of their lives. At least I can make sure they never want for anything else.
It’s not penance. Nothing could be.
My grandmother, Nubaia, is a thousand years old—one of the oldest of our kind. I doubt I will live as long as she does, but I’m likely to outlive any human. My grandmother has spent centuries hating the humans, decades plotting her revenge against them.
I swear to devote all my years to doing what I can to make up for what is done.
No matter the cost.