She shrugs. “Not exactly. More like I noticed how quickly my tutors like to change the subject when it’s brought up.”
“Mm,” I grunt. “It’s destroyed a lot more than some flowers now. We’ll be heroes if we’re able to stop it spreading into the other reaches, nevermind saving ourselves.”
“How are we supposed to…?” Her question trails off as she looks back toward the barren throne, her thigh brushing against mine when she turns.
I want nothing more than to wrap her in my arms, pull her against my chest, and forget all the things we’ve just talked about. Nothing sounds more appealing than her soft curves and sweet scent enveloping me.
“Valenar and I hoped a new king would help Crownwood find the strength to fight back. We never considered it would be so reluctant toacceptthe new king. The Dealmaker suggested it might also like a queen.”
Ingrid’s quiet for a long time, and I don’t dare look her way.
“Me?” she squeaks out finally, incredulous. “I’msupposed to be what fixes this?”
“In part,” I admit, only now realizing what an enormous burden that puts on her. “Emerald has never faced anything like this. What—if anything—can fix it, is anyone’s guess.”
“Well,” she says, some of her composure regained as she pulls herself up to her feet. “I think thefirstthing you have to do is stop speaking about the problem as if you’ve already failed to solve it. Ifnothingcan fix this, then anything we do is inconsequential. That possibility bears no weight in our choices because neither of us are content to be idly helpless. So we only have to decide which course of action is most likely to yield results.”
I look to my bride, standing above me with her hand extended, and my heart swells.
We.
Our.
Us.
Small words. Weightless in other contexts.
Solid enough to anchor me in this one. I’ve felt uprooted for so long, but when I take Ingrid’s offered hand, I’m not drifting anymore.
“What do you feel?” Ingrid asks.
“I— What?”
“Here,” she says, taking our hands to the throne and flattening her palm against the bark. “What do you feel?”
All I can think about is her. Her bronze eyes, her warm heart, her stability no matter the storm…
She’s waiting for me to give her an answer about the tree, though, not about how I’m falling for her.
I close my eyes, focusing on the feel of the smooth bark under my rough hand. It’s cold as ice, and I’m afraid if I grip too tight, it’ll splinter and shatter between my fingers.
“I don’t—”
“Shh,” Ingrid whispers. “There, deep down. Don’t you feel it?”
Faint, so weak I originally mistook it for my own pulse, I feel the power of the reach feeding the roots and the roots feeding the reach in turn. The flow should be a raging river, but it’s a slow trickle, nearly still enough to escape notice entirely.
“You do,” she says, convinced.
Her hand slides over the back of mine and my eyes open, every other part of me frozen in place.
“The reach hasn’t given up the fight yet,” she says, soft like she’s saying a prayer. “You shouldn’t either.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ingrid
Convincing Xandril to let me join him on his travels wasn’t difficult (“It’ll be the perfect opportunity for the Unveiling!”), but Morwen was another matter altogether.
