Chapter 20 Blame
Blame
As though from a great distance, I hear Glo offer to show Jasmeen the basics of conjuring—an obvious excuse to be alone.
Jasmeen agrees, and I watch as they walk to a patch of grass about twenty yards behind our tents.
With my daze broken, I focus on the last dregs of my ale and attempt to ignore Brynn’s sharp eyes raking over me from his seat on the ground.
“You seem awfully quiet tonight, Thea,” he says softly. “Do you want to take a walk? Perhaps find a stronger drink?”
Wordlessly, I stand and once more extend my hand. He cocks an eyebrow, his pretty black horns shimmering in the dimming firelight, but he takes it. Again, a slight sensation buzzes at my wrist. And again, he lets go first. I guess he does not want to push his luck.
We stroll to the nearest tottering barmaid. Her tray of fizzy shots gleam bright green in the dark, reminiscent of absinthe. Brynn reads the wince on my face and chuckles.
“Trust me, it’s good,” he says with a smile. He grabs one for each of us. “This is called a Verdant Whisper. Two or three of these will definitely make you forget your woes.”
“I do carry a lot of woes,” I say with a melodramatic sigh.
Our fingers graze on the small glass as I take it.
I squint at him before knocking it back.
He smirks and downs his. The taste does not bite at all.
It’s dangerously sweet, like very ripe green apples.
We hand the empty glasses to the barmaid and Brynn slips her a shiny silver coin.
I observe the way the elven barmaid smirks at him, fluttering her pretty eyelashes.
Even though it is not directed at me, my own stomach flutters in response.
But, as we start our walk, everyone has eyes for Brynn.
He said he makes this trip often—I guess his reputation extends here, too.
Between the faeplum ale and the Verdant Whisper, my head already turns misty.
The edges of my thoughts grow fuzzy and loose.
“I can’t help but notice—everyone loves to stare at you,” I say after a brief silence, observing the crowds as we pass.
“Do they?” Brynn asks with an impassive shrug. I glance at his profile. The nearby campfires cause his horns to cast strange shadows across his cheeks. “Perhaps they’re staring at you.”
“Doubtful.” I turn my gaze on a young faerie boy who unabashedly points Brynn out to his mother.
“Does it make you jealous?” Brynn quips.
“Not in the slightest. I much prefer being invisible,” I say, despite knowing that’s not what he means. Before he can dwell on this, I add, “I know you’re dying to ask me questions. Go ahead.”
“Are you sure? You need not cater to me,” he says, but his hard gaze burns into the side of my face.
I understand why they call it the Verdant Whisper—it’s whispering irritable things like why not in my head. “I don’t have much to lose at this point. Ask away.”
“What are the vials in your bag?” he blurts. His brow creases in a silent apology and I chuckle humorlessly.
“They’re not Yield, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” I say with a sigh.
Our eyes meet and I can tell he wants more.
“When I found Mavick’s cottage empty and covered in blood, I panicked.
I had no time to go back to my quarters and pack a bag—I thought they may be useful.
Good for bartering. I grabbed a random handful.
It’s how I stayed my night at the inn. I traded the satyr a cure for Ficklewarts”—his eyes widen at this and I nod—“and it’s how I met Jasmeen.
I needed someone to identify what they were.
She asked for nothing in return. I think that’s why we became fast friends.
What remains is Miridium, Slapstick, Philm, and Clot.
I traded a vial of Ringbane to that rude warding lady in the bazaar for information on the dagger. ”
“Yes, leading you to attempt to slit my throat,” he says, grinning as though fond of the memory. “I’ll thank Madam Pux for that one. She hates me anyway. What would you have done if you actually killed me?”
“Not sure,” I confess. “I would’ve been sadder than I’d like to admit.”
Brynn stops walking and stares down at me. “Truly? Or do you jest?”
“Truly,” I say, heat flooding my cheeks under his gaze. “Like I said before. I don’t meet a lot of people. I don’t have many… friends.”
“Why did you use Yield on your father?” he asks bluntly, I assume for the purpose of studying my unbridled reaction. I take a deep breath.
“I… My mother died years ago. It’s embarrassing, but I hadn’t left the castle grounds since.
I’m not allowed to meet people. Father is too afraid of the outside world.
More often than not, I feel like a prisoner.
I have Mavick, my”—so very close to saying lady-in-waiting, but I catch myself in time, clearing my throat—“another maid, Alma…”
He’s too quiet after this admission, and I endeavor to fill the void by rambling: “And Edwin, I guess.”
I want to smack myself. Why did I even say Edwin? We’re not friends. The unwelcome image of Alma and Edwin fondling each other in the gardens floats into my swirly mind.
“Edwin,” he repeats in a curious, flat tone.
I stare at the buttons of his tunic instead of his face as I speak. “He’s a kingdom guard. We’re not friends, by any sense of the word.”
“Lovers?” Brynn asks, his voice too low, and I wish to crawl under a rock. If only I had another drink in hand.
“A lay of convenience, you could say,” I blurt. “Whatever the opposite of lovers is, actually.”
Brynn laughs, and I stare up at him in sheepish amusement. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh so freely. But his expression turns stony with alarming speed.
“Is he the reason you don’t like to be touched?” he growls. A muscle in his neck spasms.
“Oh—no. No. Edwin is harmless, considering,” I say. “There was… an incident when I was seventeen. I was mugged. Beaten.”
The molten gold in his eyes darkens when he asks, “Are they dead?”
I nod, unable to speak.
“Good.”
He made me promise not to touch you unbidden again. My chest tightens.
“Anyway,” I croak, breathless. “The day Glo robbed me in Aston. That was my first time out of the castle in years.”
We pass another bar maiden, but I decline a third drink. It’s unwise, with how my head already swims.
“You permit Jasmeen’s touch,” Brynn muses softly. “Do you…” He trails off, cheeks flushing.
“I believe Glo would incinerate me if I professed my love for Jasmeen,” I say with a wheezy chuckle.
“Ah. You’re probably right,” he admits with a bemused tilt of his head.
“Though, as I told you, I do have the capacity to love anyone—my relationship with Jasmeen is purely platonic. She is easy to trust.”
Brynn flinches ever so slightly. He seems to want to say more on the matter, but only offers a hint of a smile.
“About your mother’s passing,” he says, changing the subject and resuming our walk simultaneously. “Was she sick or… Did something happen?”
His brows knit together, as though realizing a beat too late that he wades into personal territory. I tilt my chin in reassurance. Few have ever cared to ask for details about my life, for they assume they know everything they need to know—how could I mind?
“She was sick for a very long time. Frail. It wasn’t unexpected but…
It happened shortly after I was attacked and…
My father took it all poorly. We’ve grown distant since.
Some of the last words I spoke to him before—albeit unwittingly—taking away all his autonomy were along the lines of ‘you are my captor, not my father.’ I was—I was cruel. ”
The vivid memory of my last honest words to Father, before betraying him, replays in my mind.
Tears well up, sudden and stinging. I halt again, fanning my face in an effort to quell the onslaught of uninvited emotions—this embarrassing outburst. Brynn freezes, again stepping too close, as though shielding me from the outside world.
A teardrop escapes and he reaches to brush it from my cheek.
He hesitates at the last second, uncertainty clouding his expression. His hand drops.
As does my heart. I hate that I wouldn’t stop him.
“I’m fine, really,” I say, wiping my face with the backs of my hands. “So stupid—I’m sorry—I don’t want to cry to you.”
“Thea… I’ve been thinking,” Brynn says, voice soft.
“About the riddle. Did you ever give more thought to the line: are you strong enough to forgive blame? It’s one we didn’t dwell on much.
If the line about chains is about you feeling stuck with your lot in life, maybe the paired line is about forgiving yourself for what you did to escape. ”
I am struck, literally winded, by this epiphany.
I neglected this line, assuming the blame to be forgiven was my general resentment toward my father—for the simple fact that I blamed him for my imprisonment.
Once spoken aloud, in Brynn’s honeyed and soothing voice, the lines fall into place.
Am I strong enough to forgive myself? I don’t want to read too much into the riddle’s nuances, but it feels like Brynn is right.
I did, of course, take away my father’s agency, but we are on the path to fixing it.
That must count for something. Perhaps I’m allowed to be hopeful.
Maybe not all is lost. I cannot help anyone, Mavick or my father, if I wallow in my mistakes.
To carry on, perhaps I must lay down this heavy guilt.
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that, Brynn,” I say, offering a watery, but genuine smile.
Brynn’s warm eyes catch on my dimples again before settling on my lips.
I’m reminded of the way Glo admired Jasmeen by the fire.
Curious. What’s even more so is the way I turn on my heel and start walking again in an effort to compose myself.
He seems momentarily frozen in place, but catches up with ease.