He still imagined the way the blood had dribbled from Kinlear’s lips...and Arawn thought he was dead.
“What do you mean,Kinlear?”
“Please tell me you aren’t that daft.” Soraya just shrugged at him. “We send ravens, you know. He’s still my friend, even if he’s too good tobe in the Citadel. No, he had to go toTouvre,with its fancy clothes and flowers and---”
She didn’t know the true reason Kinlear left.
Nobody did.
Arawn was forbidden to speak of it, for it made his bloodline look weak. At least, so his father said. They believed he was seeking training elsewhere...receiving the special treatment reserved for a prince.
It couldn’t be farther from the truth.
“Kinlear knows about my predicament, seeing as he’s never Settled. And I was nearly dead last,” Soraya sighed, looking up at him from below. “He said you’d help me, because you care about the weakest ones...like him.” A shrug of her small shoulders. “I guess he was wrong.”
And then she turned to go, leaving him there on the stairwell with his heart hammering in his chest.
He sighed. Ofcourse,Kinlear would be half a kingdom away, and offer up Arawn’s services... and saynothingof it through the Speaking Stone. He’d probably laughed to himself as he’d suggested it, knowing how much it would irk Arawn.
As if Arawn wasn’t already losing sleep, late to meals, because of his own endless trainings. His father wasn’t as obsessive as he once was about his time, but Arawn still had to attend every War Table meeting, every prayer hour in the temple. He still had to complete his studies, and of course there was the thirty minutes he woke up early, each morning, so he could ensure his clothing was freshly pressed.
But as he watched Soraya go, her small body and her wind magic, the weakest of them all, in war...he thought of Kinlear and his cane.
Kinlear and his cough.
Kinlear and his constant paying of penance.
“Wait,” Arawn said, before he could stop himself.
He sighed.
Soraya whirled around, expectant.
“First light,” he said. “Don’t be late.”
She smiled, her amber eyes aglow, and nodded.
“And bringtwocinnamon rolls.”
“For each of us?” Soraya asked.
“No,” Arawn said. “For me. One is never enough.”
He turned and rushed up the stairwell before she could say another word...wondering why, the whole time he’d spoken to her...he felt like butterflies had come to life inside his chest.
6
He spent every day with Soraya, after that.
She was a terrible fighter.
A gods-awfuldisaster,when it came to her form. Her arms were too weak. Her legs were like sticks ready to snap. She’d trained her entire life inside the Citadel, and yet...she was perhaps the worst swordsman Arawn had ever seen.
And if it were possible, she was even more dismal sparringwithoutthe blade in her hands.
But one thing was different about her.
Sorayarefusedtoquit.
