“Doesn’t matter,” Raithe said softly. “Even that doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the way I feel. Can’t say I know much about it, but I know that’s not how love works.”
Persephone’s hands gripped the covers. She opened her mouth, but he no longer wanted to hear what she had to say, and he wasn’t done. She deserved to hear all of it; at least the Persephone he knew, or thought he knew, deserved it. That’s how it felt—not like she had rejected him, but like someone he loved had died. She had evidently passed away some time ago, but he was only now hearing the news. Not having been invited to the funeral, Raithe offered his eulogy. “I’ve loved you from the start. Maybe from the moment I first saw you in the forest, but certainly after you spoke to me like a real person, even though you knew I was Dureyan. And it doesn’t matter if you can’t love me—whether it’s because you’re still in love with Reglan’s memory or because you want to marry Nyphron. None of that matters because…” His voice cracked. “Because even now…even now…”
His voice broke the way his father’s sword had. He was left with the shattered, useless remains, except Malcolm wasn’t there this time, and he wasn’t saved. Raithe spun away and headed for the door. He’d wanted to see her so badly for so long, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to get away.
“Raithe!” she called, but he didn’t stop.
He moved past the group waiting in the hall. Why do there have to be so many witnesses?
“Raithe?” Brin called. “What happened?”
He headed for the stairs, wiping tears from his eyes.
There’s just no winning for some people. Doesn’t matter if you do everything right. Once the gods hate you, there’s no happiness that can be achieved, and hope is just another torture.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dawn’s Early Light
I honestly do not know what happened that morning. Only one person alive did, and I never had the courage to ask her.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Mawyndul?. Mawyndul?!
He opened his eyes to find a dark world where a stretched canvas tarp quivered in the wind. Took a moment to remember where he was: in a tent on the edge of a barren battlefield. Depression filled him. He had been dreaming of Makareta. He’d spotted her in a crowd on the streets in Estramnadon and had struggled to reach her, then woke up. That left him in the lonely dark, listening to the gusts and thinking about her again.
No one knew what had happened to Makareta, or maybe they did and chose not to tell him. He thought it possible that she was locked in the same cell where they had held Vidar. Or maybe they gave her to Vidar to make up for his wrongful imprisonment. As much as he hated Makareta for what she’d done, he thought he would kill the senior councilor if he’d hurt her. That’s why he thought he might be in love with Makareta, and maybe that was also why everyone had lied to him about where she was.
A gust of inexhaustible wind made his tent sing a dull note. I hope the stakes were driven in deep.
Mawyndul? was bundled up in a pile of wool blankets topped by a bearskin. Only his head was exposed, and his nose felt numb. The sound of the wind made it worse. He couldn’t actually feel it, but the howl spoke a rumor of bitter cold.
Mawyndul?, answer me.
Mawyndul? cringed. He’d thought it was fun to listen in on Jerydd’s conversations or turn the kel into a personal storyteller as he rode. But having Jerydd invade his mind uninvited in the dark hours of the morning, left him feeling violated. While he knew Jerydd couldn’t hear his thoughts, Mawyndul? didn’t feel safe even in his own head.
He considered not answering. He could even pretend to snore. He was thinking just how annoying that could be when Jerydd spoke again. I know you can hear me. I know you’re awake. I’ve listened to you breathing for hours, and I can tell the difference.
“I was sleeping,” he said.
Sleep tomorrow. We need to get to work.
Mawyndul? yawned, wiped his eyes, then began to moan. He moaned a lot, a dull low tone that he was certain made dealing with life easier. “What kind of work?” He hoped it wouldn’t be any more lessons. He was sick to death of them. At the academy, they made him do all kinds of repetitive tasks that made him wonder whether jumping off the Talwara balcony would really hurt so bad, or would it be better to just die instantly.
We’re going to kill Arion.
Mawyndul?’s head came up off the pillow. “How? The Spiders tried that yesterday. They can’t find her. She’s hiding.”
She can’t hide from Avempartha.
Mawyndul? pushed up, letting his covers slip and swung his bare feet to the ground. Forgetting that the floor of his tent was the field, he flinched when he felt the brittle grass poking against his soles and tickling his bare legs.
I thought the Spiders and Kasimer could handle it, but she’s crafty. Should have guessed. Did you know Fenelyus named her Cenzlyor?