Rey forced in a deep, steady breath, trying to corral his thoughts. When he spoke at last, his voice was low. “No, I would not, Silla.” Her gaze snapped to his, eyes wide and shining. “Now listen, Silla, as I will tell you this but once. Ilías’s death is not yours to own.”
Her brows furrowed, and Rey wanted to reach out and smooth the line that had formed between them. “I loved Ilías like a brother, but he died because he lacked control in that battle. Had he waited for Jonas, for Hekla or Gunnar to cover his flank, he’d most certainly have walked away from it. His death isnot yours to own.”
“He would not have been in battle were it not for me.”
“How greedy of you to take his death wholly,” said Rey. “Do not I bear some of the blame for leading him into this battle? And what of Ilías himself? Yes, this was the fight that ended Ilías’s life, but if not this one, it could easily have been another. He rushed into the fray without waiting for one of us to guard his flank. Do you know how many times I tried to help him master this impulse? How many battles he survived by sheer luck? I warned him time and time again to work on his control. And at last, his fortune ran out.”
She was silent for a long while, and so Rey continued. “Understand this, Silla: each battlefield we step onto, we do so knowing it might be our last. It is the risk a warrior takes. And do not forget, we sat around the fire and voted on entering that battle. Ilías accepted the risk—we all did. Unburden yourself from his death. I know Ilías would not wish for you to carry it. He would want you to forgive yourself and to move on with your life.”
Minutes passed as they sat like this in silence—Rey crouched before Silla, holding her hand in his. In this moment, she could have asked him for anything,and he’d have done it. Anything to make her smile, to make the light come back to her eyes.
“I have something for you,” he said, remembering the chicks. Setting her hand down, he trudged outside to fetch the crate. But when he returned to the shield-home, Silla was gone, the curtain slid shut.
Rey sank onto the bench. Pried the crate lid open. Pulled a little yellow fluff ball into his hand and stroked the tiny creature’s head. The corners of his lips hitched up as he looked at the thing. The chick looked back.
“I suppose,” said Rey, “you’ll have to settle for me tonight.”
The chick peeped.
Rey’s gaze traveled to the curtain, and he released a long sigh. At the very least, sleep would serve her better than training in the cold.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The birds chittered, and the sun shone with cheer as Silla crossed the yard, yet inside, there was only gloom. The jar was heavy in her pocket, bumping her hip with each step forward. But she didn’t need to feel it to sense its presence. Ever since Silla had descended from Harpa’s, she’d been hyperaware of the jar.
The cravings slithered through her, the whispers relentless. It was too much on top of all else, and Silla feared it was a foundational stone pulled—at any instant, she could crumble down.
She’d thrown herself into practice to distract until Rey had put an end to that. Distantly, she’d appreciated his attempts to assuage her guilt, but his words were no match for its all-consuming burn. She’d stolen the leaves while a woman lay dying, and with that, Silla had lost all sense of who she was. It had been a vile thing to do, so despicable she did not recognize herself.
Who was she?
Loathsome, and guilt-ridden and so very tired.
Her hand found the jar, curving around the smooth surface.
A sign. Silla yanked her hand away. She needed a sign. Something—anything—that would tell her to keep trying. Last night, she’d nearly slipped. Had been staring at the gnarled leaves lined up on her bed. But then a crate had slid under the curtain, a flurry of soft peeps meeting her ears.
Rey had brought her chicks.
It had been the sign she’d needed. Hold strong for one night. Hope that witha good rest would come some clarity of mind. And as Silla had gazed through the slats in the crate at the tiny creatures within, she’d fallen asleep.
And now it was morning, and the clarity she’d sought was nowhere to be found. Brown Horse. If her mount accepted an oatcake, it could be the sign she needed. Silla’s guilt burned hotter as she recalled Rey’s expression when she’d told him she would not be going to Harpa’s today.
“Why not?” he’d demanded, scooping a baby chick away from the table’s edge. The chicks tottered around the tabletop like little drunken fluff balls, gorging themselves on a pile of grain in the middle. Ordinarily, she’d have found the scene delightful. But today was different.
“You should ask her yourself,” Silla had said, tugging the curtain shut and retreating within.
He’d made as much of a racket as possible as he’d banged through the shield-home, putting the chickens back in the crate. It sounded as though one had escaped as he crashed around the room. And as the door had shut behind him, she’d pulled the jar from her bag. Clutched it against her chest. Pulled off the lid and breathed in the scent.
Just one. She’d stop at one.
Some slim measure of logic remained in place, hanging by a bare thread. Because Silla knew it would never stop at one. Taking a leaf would open a box that was nearly impossible to shut. She tried to recall the pounding of her skull, the cold sweat slicking her brow, the fever dreams which felt terrifyingly real.
“A sign,” she said aloud, stepping into the stables. This was it. If Brown Horse took the treat, she wouldn’t take the leaves. But if she didn’t…
She’d weathered so much. Surely she deserved one. Only one.
Silla fetched the oat treat from her pocket and held her palm beneath Brown Horse’s nose. She found herself holding her breath, the last vestige of hope wriggling deep in her chest as this weighted moment stretched on. Brown Horse’s tail swished. Her ears flattened. And then she stepped backward with a loud warning snort.
