Chapter Eight

CHAPTER

EIGHT

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P OTS AND DISHES CLANG TOGETHER AS NYRINN TRIES TO find the serving dish she insists we use. The past four days have been a whirlwind of packing, organizing a group to escort me to the temple, and drafting a raid schedule and ration plan to ensure everyone will have enough food for the next few months. Part of me was too scared to dream that a day like this would come. It's an odd thing to fear, but they have power. Dreams can guide us out of our darkest moments, offering nothing more than the comfort of hope, but they also have the ability to break us.

Nyrinn caught me walking home last night and insisted I join her for breakfast. She's always so busy with healing people that I only planned on stopping by, but she pushed back the opening of her shop today. It's nice to spend time with her without blood smeared on our foreheads and up our arms. She taught me everything I know about healing and gave me helpful gardening tips when she could.

She and I painted her shutters bright yellow to frame her window beds, and the scent of lavender and chamomile lingers in the breeze whenever you pass. My favorite part is the several bouquets of dried herbs and flowers that hang from her ceiling. It creates the aura of an enchanted forest, like I'll catch a fairy flying between the petals.

Nyrinn flicks her short raven braid over her shoulder while setting a tray of pears and berries on the table, and a sweet scent mixes with rosemary. That and yarrow are the two herbs we use most, and the smell usually lingers on my hands for days, not that I mind.

"I don't know what I'll do without you here." She sighs while popping a berry in her mouth.

"You know I feel guilty." She doesn't accept anyone's assistance other than mine, and it fills up quickly in here most days.

"I'm teasing, but I imagine several others are succeeding in their attempts to make you feel that way." She looks me over with calculating eyes, and the pear juice turns sour in my mouth. "Idiots, the lot of them." One of the reasons I love talking to her is that she's unapologetic with her opinions and never fails to supply them.

"I think everyone got comfortable with the idea of me staying here forever," I say, not disagreeing with her.

"That's their own fault. You never chose to come here, but it's your choice to leave. I look forward to hearing of you making waves in the world." News of the alliance spread through Aestilian faster than a plague. Most people were excited about the guaranteed food supply, but I also caught a lingering sense of fear. The queen of Aestilian must leave Aestilian to keep it safe, it doesn't make sense, yet that's how it is.

"Who was it you met in the forest?" Nyrinn asks. "I've only heard bits and pieces."

My throat tightens at the mention of him. "The Commander of Vareveth, Cayden Veles." I take a sip of tea to relax. "Have you heard anything about him?"

"Not much." She purses her lips, emphasizing her Cupid's bow. Nyrinn is the best person to ask about any information I don't have. She comes off as harsh to some but transforms into something entirely different while healing. "We don't get many people from Vareveth, as you know. Most come from villages in the forests, Feynadra, or Urasos." She frowns while naming the last kingdom.

Magic is outlawed in some realms, including Vareveth once King Eagor ascended the throne upon the death of his mother. Some people think it invokes the gods' wrath if you use it by pretending to be a god. Nyrinn never used magic while healing, but that didn't matter. She was just too skilled for her village to believe otherwise. Even her former intended didn't say anything when they banished her. He went along with everyone else.

She told me his name when she was deep in her cups one night but made me swear not to hurt him. I didn't. But I did go to his house, stole several valuables, and traded them for new healing supplies and clothes for Nyrinn since she left all her supplies and clothes behind.

"It's fine; I was only curious," I say.

Recollection clears her features, and anticipation slides through me. "When I was stitching someone's head about a year ago, they were quite talkative. I kept inquiring for more information since I know it helps you. They said Commander Veles is . . . cold, ruthless, and reserved. He seems like the person whose bad side is the last place you want to be."

"Hm," I muse while drumming my fingers on the table. Those aren't the first words I would use to describe him: arrogant, cunning, handsome. Thank the gods the mug is back on the table, or else I would have spilled it. I want to smack myself when the last word flashes into my mind.

"Let's finish this outside." She doesn't wait for me to rise before slipping out the back door and is already stretched out on a chair with her golden-brown face upturned to the sun when I follow. The steady rush of the Syssa Falls draws my eyes to where I spend most of my summer mornings.

Finnian and I taught ourselves to swim by trial and error in that lake. One of us got in the water while the other stayed on dry land and held the rope tied around the swimmer's torso. If we went under too long, the person on land would use the rope to drag the swimmer to shore. Foolproof. It got the job done despite a few cases of severe rope burn.

"Don't trust their healers or court physicians," Nyrinn remarks while I sink onto a cushioned chair beside her. "I trained you better than any of them."

I laugh softly. "Do you honestly think I would let any of them give me a tonic? I don't even ask you."

"Fair point." She taps a finger against her cheek. "I wonder when you'll stop feeling guilty asking for things."

"When I stop having to ask for things."

She bends forward and reaches under her chair. "Good thing you didn't have to ask for this, then."

She tosses a dark leather satchel into my lap. My hands pause in the air, and I blink down at it. "I didn't get you anything."

"I didn't want you to. Go on, open it," she presses.

I run my fingers against the supple material, unlacing the string around the button and flipping the flap open. My jaw drops when I note several bundles of fresh herbs, even more dried herbs, new bandages, stitching needles, string, disinfectant, tonics, and salves. A strong sense of appreciation and gratitude weaves inside me, and her snort breaks me out of my shocked state.

"Nyrinn, how did you get all this? You should keep it."

"Absolutely not." She reaches her hand over and closes it around mine. "I called in a favor with one of the guards. They went out and got it for me two days ago." I can't restrain the broad smile that spreads across my face, but it falls slightly when I realize how much I'll miss her. I would take her with me if she wanted to leave Aestilian, but she has told me before that her shop gives her a sense of pride that nothing else could.

"Which guard?" I ask.

"They're all in my debt." The corner of her mouth tilts up, looking like a spider watching flies getting tangled in her web. "You should be calling in favors, too. They can be such babies when getting stitched up."

"Maybe I'll start when I get back." There's no missing the way her smile and eyes dull at my words.

She presses her lips together, suddenly looking serious. "Remember what I said about not trusting their healers. You know more than them."

I smooth my palms over my thighs. "I don't think I'll find trust in Vareveth."

She huffs. "That's a good mentality to have; keep it. I imagine all courts are the same—they smile at your face and stab you in the back."

"Well, at least I have new bandages." I knock my knee into hers, but her eyes have a glossy sheen when I look back at her face. "What's wrong?"

"You'll take care of yourself, right? The world"—she clears her throat—"it's not a kind place."

"I will, I always do," I assure her.

She blinks, and her vulnerability disappears just as quickly as it came. "No, you stick out your neck for everyone else and say you're fine until you're bleeding puddles on my floor—puddles I've had to cover with rugs."

"I'll be far away from your pretty floors." She reaches over and smacks the back of my head.

"I didn't train you just for you to bleed out in some foreign kingdom," she declares while getting to her feet. "You'll be departing soon."

I follow her inside and take one last look around to soak in the chipped paint, the tonics in glass vials on top of the fireplace, and the half-finished cups of tea. She halts her footsteps by the front door and slowly turns to face me.

"Never let anyone make you feel guilty for letting yourself choose how you want to live your life"—she blinks rapidly—"and give those bastards the hell they deserve." She reaches behind her to open the door, and I squeeze her hand, offering as much comfort as possible.

"I will." She vigorously wipes tears away from her cheeks, hardening her features again with much more effort than earlier. "For both of us," I promise.

The door shuts behind me, but I keep my eyes focused ahead. I don't want to see any more afflicted faces. If I look at them, I'll want to try to fix them. I'm sure everyone will be much happier when they see a cart filled with food rolling into Aestilian, and I keep that image burning in my mind as I enter my house. I don't think of anything else while packing my trunk. I only remove my satchel when it's time to arm myself.

I glance around my room, and a knot forms in my throat while I take in the horrendous flowers, rivers, moon, and stars I painted when I was bored. My eyes dance toward my reading chair and book wall with slightly fewer stacks because some stories are undoubtedly essential. My knuckles graze over the handles of my silver knives that line my thighs and waist, which always comfort me.

"You ready?" Finnian asks in a thick voice behind me. Inhaling a hard breath and lifting my chin, I turn to face him. He's wearing black leathers, a bow strapped across his chest, and a sword at his waist. His eyes are misty but filled with resolve.

"Always," I reply, shutting the door to my room. "You?"

"Absolutely," he answers.

I take in all the details of our home while making my way to the door. Our height chart, the playing cards on the coffee table, and the various blankets we covered ourselves in when we stayed awake all night. Beside each other on the wall hang the first knife I ever threw and the first arrow Finnian ever fired that hit the center of a target.

Turning away from everything, I whip the front door open and am greeted by cheers. The people of Aestilian line the road, clapping and hollering. Some even wave from the upper windows of shops along the main road. A drum sounds in the distance, and my heart beats in tandem with the loud booms. Finnian holds his arm out to me, and I loop mine through his.

He leans down to speak over the cheers, voice wavering in emotion. "You were the first face I saw when I woke up in Aestilian; let me be the last face you see before you leave."

The knot in my throat grows tighter when I remember Finnian first coming here. Ailliard rescued him after a clan dispute in his village led to a burned-down home and family that joined the ashes. He was little more than lanky limbs at the age of ten and fainted within minutes of arriving. He became my first friend after I stayed with him while he healed, but at age eleven I didn't possess skills aside from dabbing water onto his forehead. My home isn't the place we stand in front of; my home is standing beside me with his arm looped through mine.

"Together." I give his bicep a loving squeeze before he guides us through the center of the crowd.

For once in my life, I know I'm doing exactly what I need to do. I'm going exactly where I need to go. I can feel it in my soul. The wicked parts of me are not easily suppressed, and my blades call for payment in blood. Every corner of the world will say the lost princess has returned as a vengeful queen, and they won't be wrong. But I'm not only doing this for me. I'm doing this for the people who had their worth stripped away. The people who have only received hatred at the hand of someone who should have loved them. The people who have been shoved into darkness and clawed their way out with the sheer willpower to survive. Imirath wants me dead, but I still stand. Only now, I stand with knives drawn and a crown on my head.

I wave to my people, reaching my hand out to anyone I pass, and brand this memory into my brain. I keep my hand tight on Finnian's arm until we pass through the crowd. A few tears slip from my eyes when I mount my horse, but I wipe them away before anyone can see. My horse leads me into the mist, and I don't look back to Aestilian as the cheers fade behind me.