Romeria
The day is as long as Jarek promised it would be. It’s dark when we reach camp—a field five miles off the king’s road, next to a small lake and sheltered by trees. Others are already unloading their bedrolls and meager supplies. A cook fire blazes, and the first of several tents stands on its own.
The servants Zander rescued from Freywich huddle by their horses, sharing whispers and wary glances at the warriors who pay them no attention, until Abarrane barks at them. They jump to action. What will their roles be here? It’s naive to think more than one warrior hasn’t considered who they’ll feed off tonight.
There is one who is not on the menu.
I search out faces and quickly find Eden’s, pale and streaked with tears. Sitting in a saddle all day at our pace is painful enough, but doing it with a back scored with whipping wounds?
Jarek’s boots haven’t hit the ground when I’m wriggling out of the saddle and rushing for her, my body stiff and aching. Before I can reach her across the campground, Gesine whisks her away, both of them disappearing inside the tent.
Elisaf steps into my path, handing me a metal cup. “The caster has talents like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The girl will be healed soon, as if it never happened.”
Physically, sure. I swallow my lingering guilt with a gulp of cold water. Only then do I appreciate how thirsty I am. “That was a long day.”
“And how was the ride?”
“Fine. Jarek didn’t talk to me.” A strange dynamic, to ride for hours on a horse with a stranger, his body against mine, and not acknowledge him. But I was more than happy to match his silence, occupying myself by slipping my ring into my pocket and attempting to compartmentalize my affinities, to no avail.
“They set up camp fast.” I scan our surroundings, pretending my focus is on the Legion when really I’m searching for Zander. I don’t know what to say about the brutal judgment he passed today, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
“We will not stay long. Expect to be woken well before dawn.”
“And we are going to Bellcross this time, right?”
“Yes. We have another two and a half days of travel. We must assume Atticus’s messages have reached Lord and Lady Rengard and that the reception may not be as warm.”
“So, you’re saying we won’t be invited to stay at the manor?”
Elisaf chuckles. “More likely their dungeon, though it is hard to say. Scouts will travel ahead to gauge the temperature.” He motions toward the tent. “Gesine asked that you join them. You’ll be sleeping in there tonight.”
“And what about the other servants?” I seek them out. Brawley the stable hand is helping Zorya with the horses. Several others carry buckets of water.
“They will find meals and rest, and safety. Go. I’ll bring you something to eat.”
I guess that’s all I can hope for. With my murmur of thanks, I head for the tent.
Inside is cozier than I expected, a layer of animal skins smothering the grass and a lantern burning in the corner. Eden lies on her stomach, her dress pulled down to her waist. Thanks to Gesine’s skilled healing, most of the lashes Lady Danthrin delivered are nothing more than red welts. But one gaping split remains across her backbone, and that is where the caster’s intent focus rests now.
Eden’s eyes stay closed.
“Is she asleep?” I whisper.
Gesine nods but doesn’t answer otherwise.
The girl looks so peaceful in slumber, not a hint of the anxiety that seems to absorb her every waking moment. She appears so much younger than her eighteen years. And yet, she’s seen so much. In that way, she reminds me of myself. But she’s gentle, kind, and meek, and she’s been broken by this world and her circumstances. Maybe that’s why I’m so protective of her.
Raised white lines mar the pale skin on her shoulder blades, old scars that magic can’t heal.
A dark, vicious side of me wishes Lady Danthrin hadn’t been pregnant.
I settle onto the ground, cross-legged, and slide off my ring. The buzz arrives almost instantly and doesn’t relent until I slip the ring back on again. I sigh, my frustration mounting.
“Close your mouth and breathe in through your nose, count to three, and then release it through your nose. Over and over again,” Gesine instructs, her back still to me. “You must find your center. Focus on that, and your affinities will follow.”
Her instruction echoes that of Hessa, the yoga instructor who works in the studio two doors over from my old apartment.
My old apartment. Has someone else moved in there already? Did they bag and toss my things? What about all my sketches? My art supplies?