As if his ears were burning, the warrior and his white stallion trot toward us.
Eden smiles at him as he approaches. “I told you he can be sweet.”
His horse is heading straight for me, forcing me to step back or risk getting run over. I tell myself it’s coincidence, but Jarek’s half turn to check over his shoulder, to see us in his peripherals, tells me he knew what he was doing. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“Ready!” he hollers, his intense focus swinging to those still lingering in the square, watching the spectacle, probably holding their breaths until we’re gone. The legionaries mount their horses and shift to form a perimeter around our expansive caravan, their swords drawn and senses vigilant.
“I should go. Do you need anything?”
“No. See you at the first rest.”
Pan is already perched next to Bregen in the driver’s seat, and his new best friend Fearghal sits on a horse. I assume he’ll be riding alongside us for the journey.
“Is it true you got a seer and a caster in there?” Fearghal’s eyes are wide with genuine awe.
“Maybe.” I still don’t trust the Woodswich mortal—as much as I’m beginning to like him—but I smile like I do. If he is planning on trying something, it’s better if he drops his guard first.
Climbing back into the wagon, the air stale and pungent, feels like a punishment after being out of it for so long. But when I see Ianca, lying beneath the furs, the skin hanging off her face as if there’s nothing for it to cling to anymore, I understand why I’ve been summoned.
Gesine nods, confirming it.
Ianca’s time in this world is almost over, and they both know it.
The seer’s vacant, clouded eyes stare at the wagon’s ceiling. “Come closer, child.”
With caution—I never know what to expect—I edge in and sit on the bench across from her.
“You can hear them, can’t you?”
“Who?”
“The nymphs.”
I assume she’s talking about the Islorian immortals. “I can.”
“They await your arrival.”
“My arrival where?”
But she doesn’t answer, working her mouth as if struggling to pull words.
“Ianca, here is water.” Gesine moves in with a mug, reaching to tilt her head.
But Ianca waves her off. “Islor must fall before it can rise, and the queen of two moons shall reign as none other before her.”
Queen of two moons? “Do you mean of Islor?” Or Ybaris? Or all of it?
“You must bleed for them to bow. That is the only way.”
I frown at Gesine, but she shakes her head.
“You should have let the warrior slit my throat while I was sleeping. She wanted to do it, you know.” Ianca shuts her eyes.
“Zorya?” Gesine flinches. “Fates, no. You know I would never allow that.”
“There are no fates where I am going, but I will know silence again soon enough.”
Another shout sounds outside, and then our wagon jerks forward.