I spent a few minutes fiddling with Myst’s reins. “I’m trying as hard as I can, Basten.”
When my voice breaks, he spurs Ranger close enough to tip up my chin, make my eyes meet his. “Of course you are. You’re doing great. You’re so damn strong, Sabine, that in those moments, it frightens me. To see what you’re capable of without even meaning to.” He turns to look back in the direction of Volkany, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “In Drahallen Hall, I foundsomething. Murals. They showed the ancient fae court. And…they showed Immortal Solene…”
His eyes slide to me, watching closely. When I sniffle, holding back tears, he closes his jaw. His resolve seems to change.
“What did the mural show?” I ask.
He flicks his hand. “Nothing—it was nothing. Forget I said anything.”
I study him, wondering if I should press. But then I jerk the reins, turning Myst onto the path to Bremcote. After a moment, I hear Ranger’s hooves behind me.
I don’t know what Basten thinks he’s protecting me from. If anything, I should be protectinghim. And it’s not just about keeping him alive as my acolyte. Since gaining my affinity, I’m stronger than any human, godkissed or otherwise. With one spark of my fey, I could open the earth to swallow our enemies.
Well—once I cancontrolmy fey.
We wind up a jagged path to the top of a hill, and at a break in the trees at the top, the Bremcote valley stretches out into the distance. Sheep farms roll out for miles and miles.
Somewhere out there, the Convent of Immortal Iyre crouches like a cockroach.
When we make camp for the night, the silence between us is thick and hot. A summer fog rolls in, much too sweltering for this time of year, but I don’t bother to try to control whatever part of me is calling to it. I’m relieved, in a way, to have some space between the two of us. There’s enough on my mind to fill a church hall.
“Saw a female grouse a ways back,” Basten says quietly. “I’ll find its trail, see if I can get a clutch of eggs for supper.”
He disappears through the unseasonable fog, and once I’m alone with the horses, I push to my feet. It’s hard to sit still, this close to home. A familiar scent hangs in the air.
Can you smell that?I ask Myst.
Smell what?She asks, swishing her tail.
Sheep dung and peat fires. We’re almost home.
She flicks her tail again, unbothered, and continues munching the tall grass with Ranger. It stirs something bitter inside me.
Home?I prod her.Don’t you know what I mean by that? I mean that we’re close to the Convent.
Her head jerks up, ears twirling forward on alert. She stares at me for a long time—maybe she’s remembering all the pain both of us suffered at the Sisters’ hands. My poor girl had it just as bad as I did. After we left, it took weeks for her harness sores to heal, for her skeletal ribcage to fill back out.
But she only returns to her grass.
I nearly hiss with frustration.Myst! Don’t you care?
She flicks her tail, the horse equivalent of a shrug. I turn tightly away, sucking my teeth, flexing my hands to try to keep my blood flowing—because right now, it all wants to pour straight to my hot, angry brain.
A part of me knows I shouldn’t be cross with Myst for not feeling the same anger I do. Horses, like most mortal animals, don’t hold grudges the way people do. They only care about what’s in front of them—grass, a mate, a predator.
Fae animals, on the other hand? If I’ve learned anything from Tòrr and Plume, it’s that they hold grudges worse than anyone. I’m pretty sure Tòrr’s vindictiveness stretches backmillennia.
And me?
I guess that makes me a fae animal, because when I think of how wronged I was at the convent, I burn through and through with a grudge.
I swallow back the howl of rage that wants to tear from my throat, because Basten isn’t far away in these woods. His godkissed ears would hear my cry, he’d come running, ask questions about things I’d rather keep to myself.
But my muscles are tight enough to snap, and I have to do something, have to—to?—
I lift my hands to release a charge of fey at the nearest tree. Silver-hot sparks shoot out. The air smells crisp and off, like after a lightning strike.
When the smoke clears, a burned gash cuts the tree in two.
