CHAPTER 30
Where is the line between who I am and who we are? Which is her? Which is me? I am starting to get lost in the space between. I suspect it’s the poisoning of the magic taking root.
—Entry from the private diary of Jerris, Dragonbound
SERAE
I dropped yet another letter from Merria and rubbed my now throbbing temples.
It was too long before sunrise, and the small candle I’d lit made my eyes squint.
Her entire letter chastised me for not writing more frequently.
Apparently, the entire family—Father included—found my lack of replies concerning.
It was true, I had not yet answered her ten-question monstrosity.
It seemed an age ago that Dane handed it to me in the garden while commanding me back to training with my ranng.
I found it exactly where I’d tossed and forgotten it on my writing desk.
I hadn’t been writing much of anything lately, least of all in my small journal, still crammed into its hiding spot in the crack at the back of my wardrobe.
On hands and knees, and with more effort than I’d have liked to admit, I yanked it free and returned to my desk.
I sat down with Merria’s latest letter alongside the ten-question one.
There was only so much Merria I could take at a time, but I needed to send back a solid reply, or I’d risk raising more suspicions.
Since Gerta returned to Inra, I had sent almost nothing of value home, and my father’s displeasure was plain.
This was not the usual Merria, prattling on about her dresses and engagements and gossip from the nearby nobles, though she did think to ask about Eldreth.
Dragons, the things I could tell her about him alone would fill several pages, but the thought of writing home about him crippled my fingers.
I tapped my quill tip against the wood and considered my words carefully.
Between nonsense that would match even Merria’s ramblings, I wove in my coded ultimatum: send Gerta back to me, or no further information would come.
This letter marked my first with no pretense of passing along information.
No coded tidbits to hint at a greater plot lying in wait.
Nothing but bald defiance and outright demand.
Yet, even as I levied the threat, fear clawed at me.
I pulled out my little brown journal, its pages full of Riht customs and the political structure of danes, danas, and deins leading their respective cities, but all bowing to the high dane.
I had detailed the four major Riht cities, their major exports, and their general locations in a crude map.
Everything that would have helped my father had gone into that journal.
I wanted to cast it into the fire then and there, but it was my only remaining bargaining chip for Gerta.
Yet, if he did return her to me, could I really hand all this off, knowing what it held?
As full as it was, thoughts still swirled in my head over how much more I had that would benefit my father.
He would never know how thoroughly I had succeeded in his task.
Needing release, I grabbed my green journal next and purged everything that had happened since—the hidden port, the dragori, the rite of betrothal, the true identity of my betrothed.
But I didn’t stop there. Compelled by confusion and guilt and the grating anxiety that likely accounted for my throbbing headache, I wrote about the cave, Vaya’la, and my newest ability to heal.
Once done, I tossed both journals aside and sat back in my chair, relieved by the physical act of completing my duty without any intention of letting so many secrets into another’s hands.
It was my own act of forgiveness and letting go.
Never again would I be Serae of Cavendaffe.
Going forward, more than just in name, but in my heart of hearts, I was Serae, Dragonbound of Vaya’la, betrothed of Eldreth, son of Auldren, Marr Wep of the Riht, and future high dana of these people that I had a new determination to win over.
This was where I belonged. It had to be.
“So be it,” Vaya’la echoed. “Your so-called Creator’s neglected flock is no match for us.”
“You’re awake.” I smiled at Vaya’la’s voice in my head. We had not spoken much since using so much of her power to heal Eldreth and myself, and though my body had needed multiple days of rest to recover, hers needed even more.
“One cannot sleep forever.”
Dawn filtered in through the windows, gray light promising another day of drizzling clouds.
After sealing my reply to Merria and tucking it into my pocket to post, I headed to the kitchens.
The head cook that morning was a man I recognized, mostly from his red nose and dimpled cheeks.
I’d seen him on my early meal trips with Gerta when I was new to Drakh, before Dallah took over my meals after that little incident with the poison.
There was a different head cook I saw in the evenings.
She was a severe-looking woman whose garb was always pristine white from head to toe.
I avoided her at all costs. This one had friendly eyes and a severe mouth, and he wore a reddish-brown apron with no hat to cover his bald head.
When I entered, he barked something at a nearby cook and nodded my way.
“What can we make you, my lady?” the cook asked in Rihtish, smoothing down his tan apron with a kindly smile.
Glancing around the kitchen, I had little idea what I was looking at.
There were contraptions with levers, cranks, and all manner of oddities stacked on shelves and hanging from hooks.
There was a jumbo-sized pot bearing a flat lid in the center of the room, propped over an open flame.
Most of the central pot was surrounded by brick walls with gaps for tending to the fire beneath.
Though flames licked the bottom of the pot, causing the flat lid-type contraption to sizzle, I could smell that there was no food yet being cooked.
Men and women in matching tan aprons lined the various workbenches around the spacious room, most of whom were chopping all different manner of vegetables.
“Do you have a kettle going?” I asked.
The cook’s smile didn’t waver. “Just a kettle?”
“Well, a mug of boiling water would do the trick.”
After a swift glance at the box wedged under my arm, he tapped the side of his nose. “Dallah told me about you. I’ve got just the thing.”
He led me to a station with dozens upon dozens of small jars organized within wooden cubbies.
Behind me, huge kettles were arranged in a line along the longest stovetop I had ever seen, and that included the one time I toured the king’s kitchens.
The cook gestured to the myriad rows of stacked mugs filling shelves above the stovetop.
He muttered something in Rihtish I didn’t catch as he bowed and shuffled back to continue with breakfast preparations.
I moved the nearest kettle over the heat, plucked a pot-for-one off the shelf, and set it down next to my box of spices.
Then, I examined my stash. Many of the herbs Cergia had prepared were gone, and I’d begun filling the open slots with dried flowers and leaves from the gardens.
I started by adding a small pinch of cornflower to the pot.
Then, in went hibiscus flower and raspberry leaf.
I had very little mugwort, but it would have to do.
I paused, sniffed the mixture, then looked around.
Something was still missing. I tapped my chin, frowning at my box.
My eyes unfocused, and I let intuition flood me, just like I did with the patterns.
Just like I did when moving through the dowsae.
The hard lines of Eldreth’s body found their way into my mind.
I hadn’t spoken to him in days, and an uncomfortable feeling twisted through my chest. With some effort, I pushed that thought away, and at the same moment, I knew what was missing.
Just a hint of orange peel. I grabbed the jar, which I had been staring directly at the whole time, and added a bit to the pot.
After giving the ingredients one last good swirl, in went the boiling water.
While it steeped, I busied myself with replacing the jar, tidying my box, and collecting a mug.
Then, I waited.
The minutes crawled by, but with no morning training, I had nowhere to be.
I still had afternoon lessons with Dane.
At evening mealtime, I met with my ranng in the Main Hall.
But I had abandoned strength training with Eldreth, keeping up with an abbreviated version of the exercises in my room.
I had also not returned to walking with Ell, and now that I knew who he really was, I likely never would again.
The rest of my time was spent either working on my patterns or training with Vaya’la.
When enough time had passed, I lifted the steaming mug to my nose and inhaled its delicate floral aroma.
Perfect. A chair in a quiet corner was all I needed.
I turned to find a tray and nearly jumped out of my skin.
The head cook was next to me, peering over my shoulder less than an arm’s length away.
I’d been so focused that I hadn’t even heard him approach.
He sniffed loudly. “Your own blend.”
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway.
“Hmm. Our blends don’t suit you?”
I cocked my head. “Enjoyment in one’s work doesn’t diminish the value of another’s,” I said. It was a Rihtish teaching I’d learned in one of the books I’d collected from the market.
He raised a single eyebrow at me.
“Right. I’m just saying, I enjoy making my own blends. I didn’t think that would bother anyone. Your blends are lovely, and I drink them with most meals.”
“Which is your favorite?”
“Your green and black with the bergamot and lavender,” I answered without hesitation. I didn’t have to think about that one.