Eventually, he says, “We will be taking actions to secure the castle. Patrols and guards have doubled. But as Harper mentioned, if there is anything you should need or want, I will be happy to provide.”
I’d have to be staring death in the face before I’d ask him for anything at all, and I think we both know it. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He turns away.
“Thank you for fixing Will’s shoe,” Harper says.
“Thank you for the lecture,” I say, and she smiles.
“See! I fixed it alittle,” she whispers.
But I’m not smiling, and the prince takes hold of her hand as they lead the horses out of the forge.
Once they’re gone, I head back to the Shield House. I pull open my wardrobe, and I find the bag with the artificial foot that Captain Ammax provided. It’s lying against the armor I wore on the journey from Syhl Shallow—armor I haven’t worn since, because I’mnota soldier.
My entire life has taught me that wishes are good for nothing: I couldn’t wish for my mother back. I couldn’t wish for my father to be a better man. I couldn’t wish for coins to save the forge.
Now that I’m here in Emberfall, my wishes are just as pointless. I can’t wish for Tycho to return, or for the scravers to be gone, or for anything to be easier.
My father used to blame me for every moment of misfortune that befell our small family. I spent so long hearing him say that I was worthless that I believed him.
But I think about everything that happened, and I consider what Prince Rhen just said.
Soldier or not, it rather does sound like it was mostly you.
I pull out the bag and I pull out the armor, then dig to find the boot I’ve never used.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that my wishes won’t come true.
Maybe instead of wishing, it’s time to startdoing.
CHAPTER 37
JAX
I fetch Teddy and head for the archery fields almost every night. Anytime Sephran and his friends have leave, they’ll join me. Sephran usually brings food from the mess hall to share, and we’ll eat as we ride across the grounds. I can’t quite have full conversations yet, but I listen to their gossip and stories, parsing out what I can.
The soldiers tell me that there have been reports about more scraver attacks throughout Emberfall, that there are more rumors about the “monster” returning. When we shoot, there’s an edge to our practice now, a pressure to be faster, more accurate—as if the soldiers are more acutely aware their lives might depend on it.
I feel that same pressure. At night, when Kutter and Sephran give Leo instruction, I listen, trying to understand as much as I can. When Sephran notices my focus, they begin to include me in their lessons, adjusting my stance, my angle, my hands. Practicing with the false foot pays off, and after a week, I can stand and shoot without needing to kneel for stability. I practice rapid firing so many times that I earnblisters on my fingers, but after four days, I can put five arrows into a distant target in less than ten seconds.
Sephran whistles, then grins and gives me a good-natured shove in the shoulder. “They should putyouon patrol.”
“I no soldier,” I say. But his praise makes me blush, pleased.
The last time Tycho was gone for months, he began to feel like a dream, like someone I conjured from my imagination.
It’s beginning to feel like that again. My loneliness has started to twist into something darker. Sharper. I always have to shove it away. But it clings.
One evening Sephran shows up at the forge alone, and he tells me Leo has watch duty and Kutter is on patrol. He asks if I still want to go shooting.
It’s quite literally the best part of my day, so I look at him like he’s crazy. “Yes,” I say. “I want.”
We race across the grounds, my hair whipping back from my face, the speed taking my breath away. The wild sense of freedom is still so new, soforeign. I sometimes think about the first moment Tycho let me ride Mercy, the way he was leading me at a sedate walk, but it felt like we were going twice as fast as I could manage on my own. Now, riding with Sephran, I feel like I’m flying.
I have bread and apples wrapped up in my saddlebag, and Sephran has dried beef strips in his, so after we shoot, we sit against a tree and share. He’s also got a small flask of something that smells sharp and sweet, like cinnamon, but when he holds it my way, offering, I shake my head.
He takes a long swallow, then tilts his head and looks at me sideways. “You never drink,” he says.
