Light Wielder (Fire & Metal, #2) — Chapter 15

Chapter 15

JO

The capital of Maile sits at the base on Mount Zallis. The salt from the gulf mixes with the snowy draft sliding down from the top of the mountain, creating a rejuvenating sensation in the air, adding energy to my tired bones. The horses are all but dragging their feet, heads lulling with each step, but we don’t push them. It’s best to be quiet as we pass through the city in the dead of night, anyway.

Fredrich didn’t protest when I suggested returning home in the earliest hours despite the lack of sleep we’ve gotten the last couple of weeks. This is exactly what I needed: to be able to return without the weight of my title on my head. Without eyes watching my every move and the shame over my decisions trailing behind me.

The lamps dotting the paved streets stay lit all night. Cottages sit along the winding roads, their stoops leading to brightly painted doors. Their shutters are closed, but they’ll open at sunrise and the streets will flood with people. The scent of ocean and ice will be masked by cafes, warm breads and spiced teas, and horses as they move their cargoes and carriages.

That’s my favorite time of day. To have breakfast on my veranda and watch the city wake up as the sun rises over the gulf in the distance.

While I found something striking in Alaha’s resilience, in their survival in a nearly uninhabitable place at sea, and saw the appeal of Kenta’s grandeur, the true beauty of Maile is in its people. Everyone plays their part, not because they have to in order to survive, but because they understand that if Maile prospers, the people prosper, too.

I cover my yawn in the crook of my arm. When I look up, I’m equally relieved to see the yellow door to the palace courtyard as I am filled with dread. But a warm bath and clean clothes call to me and the remaining distance feels nearly insurmountable as we trudge onward.

Tucked between the neighboring cottages, the single door looks unassuming. The white-washed stone walls framing the courtyard match the walls of the palace behind it. The third and tallest story is just visible above the trees surrounding the property’s edge. My mother said she wanted to live near the people, but she still appreciates privacy.

Dismounting, I untie my bag from the saddle and turn to Fredrich, handing him the reins to my horse. I look up and meet his stare.

The need to acknowledge the journey we’ve been on together nearly suffocates me, but nothing I could say would ever suffice. Any words at all

would be an injustice.

He nods. “Drink the tea,” he says.

The tea?

Without elaborating, he clicks his tongue at his horse, continuing toward the stables near the training arena at the edge of the city.

Shouldering my pack, I move to the potted garden next to the yellow door and dig my fingers into the soil. It’s early winter, so I’m not sure if I’ll find anything of use but am relieved when my fingers find a hard root. I pull the carrot out. It’s small, but enough to pacify my mother’s guard animals.

I dust off my hands and grip the iron handle to pull the door open. The courtyard is beautiful, even at night. Lamps flicker off the trellised vine- covered walls, highlighting the winding pathway through the gardens and to the front door.

Within just a few steps, the hissing begins.

They call to each other as territorial instincts take over. The light of the moon reflects off their red eyes as they move in. Six—no, seven of them.

Scattered throughout the decorative landscaping, they bare their teeth at me.

I click my tongue placatingly, but it’s no use. What they really want is the food in my hand … or the soft flesh of my ankles.

The first rabbit to hop within striking distance has its fangs fully extended and I know from personal experience that its warning hiss isn’t just for show. I break off a bit of the carrot and toss it at its feet. The rabbit’s

nose twitches, fangs retracting as it leans down to inspect the morsel. Then it chomps down, the loud crack of root between its less threatening teeth signaling to the rest that I’m not an intruder. The chorus of their hissing ceases as they hop closer, standing on their hind legs to get my attention. I break off more and more carrot pieces and scatter them on the ground as I continue forward.

I fuss when they begin squabbling with each other, snapping my fingers to break them up. “Dang rabbits,” I mutter.

My mother’s choice of guard animals is unusual, but they’re vicious and surprisingly efficient in taking down unwanted intruders regardless of size.

They are also just an overall nuisance to anyone entering or leaving the courtyard with permission.

I knock on the inner door and the wicket slides open. Iona, the palace’s nighttime doorkeeper, appears in the small opening. She doesn’t react to my arrival. I’m fairly sure I’ve never seen the old woman blink, let alone smile.

The peephole snaps shut again and a moment later the locks click and the door swings open to the entryway.

Iona looks me over, eyes stilling on my feet. The floors are polished to perfection and her unspoken reprimand for having dirty boots is loud. I murmur my apologies as I bend over to remove them. Only then does the old woman allow me to pass.

“Please don’t alert my mother,” I tell her. “There’s no need to wake her at this hour, okay?”

Iona stares at me, still unblinking, and the best I can do is assume she’s in agreement.

As always, a lamp hangs at the entryway, lit and available for any and all who enter. I lift it from its post and hold it high to help me navigate the wide hallway. The flame licks at the darkness, but it never fully recedes.

Not that I need it to, really. I’ve walked these halls enough to know them like the back of my hand. They’re the very halls I walked night after night when I nursed my broken heart. Where I learned of my past and who I really am when my mother kept me company in my grief, unable to sleep herself.

The main floor of the palace is mostly empty. There’s a dining hall, sitting rooms, and guest bedchambers that sit empty, not having visitors in many, many years. Aside from the kitchens, not much of this area gets

utilized. The entrance to a curving stairwell is tucked at the end of the hall and I take the stairs up to the landing that leads to my room.

Movement catches at the corner of my eye and my mother comes into view from the opposite side of the landing where the stairs continue up to the third floor. Appearing like an apparition, her fair skin and red hair shining in the lamplight as she moves closer. Her eyes are like glass as she tries and fails to hold in her emotions.

My voice breaks in the stillness of the night. “I’m fine—”

She has me in her arms as soon as the words are out of my mouth. The lamp swings in my hand, throwing shadows against the walls. I drop my boots to hug her back. It hurts, muscles aching from the journey, her embrace tight as she squeezes, but I don’t pull away. I hear as well as feel the tremble in her breath as she holds me. I know I reek, but her familiar scent envelopes the both of us. Like lilacs and clean bedding; I soak it in.

Pulling back to cradle my face in her hands, she gets a good look at me.

The intense gaze feels like it lasts forever, but I let her take as long as she deems necessary, knowing she needs this. The reassurance that I’m alive and well and before her, not lost once again.

“My girl,” she whispers in a shaky breath.

I risk a smile.

She doesn’t return the gesture as moisture continues to collect in her lashes. Guilt fights to overwhelm me, but I shove it down as I hold my own metaphorical ground. I won’t let her see my regrets. She can’t suspect I’m anything less than sure of my actions.

“Go,” she says, releasing me. “I’ll have Karla send you some tea.”

“There’s no need to wake her—”

“I already did. She’s making it now.” She bends and retrieves my boots.

I reach for them, but she pulls back, pinched between her fingers with disdain. “And I’m throwing these away.”

She leaves as quietly as she had come. On a mission.

In a daze, I walk the remaining distance to my room. Right next to my door is Beau’s own, and there she stands in the threshold. All of my plans to sneak inside without anyone noticing have failed spectacularly.

Arms folded, Beau eyes me suspiciously as I come closer. “Your colors are muted.”

The words hurt, but only because I know they’re true. “I feel muted.”

Sadness lines her features as she lunges in to hug me. It’s a short, tight embrace and then she’s pushing me away again. “Go wash up,” she says, shoving me in the direction of my room. “The stench of war clinging to you is making me nauseous.”

The door creaks as I push into my bedroom. It puts the tent I’ve been sleeping in at the border to shame. Fur rugs line the stone floor, panels of sheer linens drape across my bed’s canopy, cocooning the made bed against the far wall and a clawfoot bathtub on the other. In the center of the room sits my desk, angled to face the terrace doors so I can look out over the city when they’re open. That’s where I set down the lamp, on the edge of the surface, which is just as messy and chaotic as I left it. Books and parchments scattered across it.

It’s the same bedroom I apparently used as a child, although I still have no recollection of it from before I returned to Maile four years ago. When I escaped from Kenta, I was hopeful that being back in my childhood home would jog the forgotten memories free, but I was only left disappointed by the lack of familiarity I felt when I walked through the door. The very same feeling I have right now. This doesn’t feel like home any more than anywhere else ever has.

But that shiel back in Alaha calls to me still.

I note the soaps and towels left beside the tub and surmise General Samasu must have given my mother ample warning of my imminent return.

I strip off everything but my necklace of mangi stones, dropping my clothes on the floor, also in desperate need of being discarded.

Kneeling in the barren tub, I undo the knot from the base of my braid and begin to untangle the matted strands. I did my best to care for it during my time at the border, tying it up and rinsing it as soon as I could after battle, but it was little use. Its length stopping just below my breasts. I turn on the spigot, waiting for the water to turn warm before I dip my head under. Brown sluices from my hair as I work my fingers through it and it takes a long while before the water runs clear. I then scrub my skin raw with a cloth and a liberal amount of soap and rinse myself clean before filling the basin fully. I pour in a generous amount of oils and soap before settling back into a more comfortable position so that I can finally—finally

—allow myself to relax.

It doesn’t last long.

A knock at the door rouses me. “Come in,” I call, voice cracking from underuse and exhaustion. I look over my shoulder to see Karla stick her head into the room.

She must deem me decent enough, because she scurries in with a tray.

“I’ve brought some tea.” The older woman keeps her eyes averted as she deposits the cup and saucer on the bedside table before carefully placing the steaming teapot down as well. “It’s to help you sleep,” she explains.

There’s an awkward moment where her gaze locks with mine. As my mother’s longest-serving maid, Karla’s the only person my mother would trust to deliver anything to my personal room. For good reason. She doesn’t linger unnecessarily or gossip among the staff. This is her duty, and she treats it with the appropriate gravity. It’s why I’m taken aback by the worry in her eyes. Fretting with the material of her skirts, she averts her gaze again before swiping my dirty clothes from the floor and making her way out.

“Thank you,” I tell her, but I’m only met with the sound of the door squeaking shut.

I drop my head against the basin’s side, sinking further into the water.

Exhaling slowly, I turn my focus to my next breath, then the one after, and continue this way until breathing feels natural again. I wanted to avoid all of this. My mother’s concern sometimes feels heavier than my title does.

I poke at a few bubbles clinging to each other, and the black line of crust under each of my nails snags my attention.

Gross.

I call for my blade, the black dagger appearing in my hand in an instant.

I twirl it in my fingers. Over my knuckles, under, over again, and back into my palm. The blade is dull and the hilt tweaks as I manipulate it. I’ll need to repair it soon. For the moment, however, it still serves to pick the grime out from under my nails.

My mind clears as I perform the task, body going lax. To think I once was horrified by the thought of eating with a knife used for killing. Yet, here I am, picking at my nails with one. Each scrape and snick of the blade feels cathartic. Like carving out the last remnants of the weeks I spent at camp, the night scaling the rocky hillside, digging my hands and fingers into anything I could find purchase on, sometimes places slick with mud and clay and—

The earth is cold beneath my knees, but the blood coating my skin is warm. It doesn’t stay that way for long as the freezing air whips around me.

The man underneath me is ghostly white, eyes vacant as he stares up at the

night sky. He never saw us coming.

My hands shake.

They’re saturated with red, and I try to wipe them clean on my pants. It’s futile. The more I wipe, the more it spreads. It drips from my fingers like water from a faucet, flooding the ground around my knees. Panic takes over as I try to stand, only for the ground to slide out from under me, melting into a rising tide and all of a sudden I’m drowning in a sea of blood. I open my mouth to scream, but the liquid chokes me.

I go under.

I break through the surface, sucking in a lungful of air before breaking into a coughing fit.

Not a red tide, but soapy bath water as it sloshes over the sides, slapping onto the hard floor. I clutch onto the rim of the basin, heart slamming in my

chest as I attempt to ground myself.

I’m home.

I’m safe.

My magic is surging underneath my breastbone. A violent stirring that sets my skin alight. It’s not the first time this has happened, although it is still rare, given the gyve of mangi stones I normally wear; the necklace I currently wear around my neck apparently isn’t strong enough to stop my magic from bursting out.

I place my palm against the place it emanates from, reassuring it that I’m fine. I must have fallen asleep. It was just a bad dream.

Then I feel it.

Him.

The tether that twines through my magic. One doesn’t exist without the other and the longer it takes for my magic to calm, the more likely it is the other side of the Bond will respond. A ghosting of what feels like breath on the back of my neck makes goosebumps spread across my skin. I spin toward the door to see what’s behind me, only to find nothing.

An echo of a familiar chuckle sends fear flooding through my veins.

I leap from the bath, throwing even more water onto the floor as I hurry to my bedside table. Jerking open the drawer, I grab a handful of mangi

stones and necklaces from the hoard I have stashed there and hold them to the place my magic resides. It’s nauseating, stifling it this way, but I swallow down the bile until it eases and the glow of my skin no longer leaches through my closed eyelids. When I find the courage to open them again, I’m met with humiliatingly loud silence.

There’s no one here.

But I affix an extra layer of stones around my neck, and another. Just to be sure.

I look down at the porcelain cup Karla left and pour the tea from the teapot with shaking hands, splashing some of the liquid onto the saucer in my haste. It’s black and opaque and I bring the cup closer to my nose before recoiling from the bitter scent. It smells worse than the bootleg mead I had in Alaha.

Fredrich’s words float through my mind. Drink the tea.

I sit on my bed, heedless of my damp state, and down the terrible liquid in two gulps, holding the back of my hand to my mouth to stop it from coming back up. Anything is better than feeling like I’m slowly losing my mind but still being aware of it, because there’s no other explanation for the sensation at the base of my neck. Like I’m being watched.

Then the world goes dark around me … I don’t remember anything else after that.