Knees buckling, Silla sank to the cold, hard grounds of the stable. A sob choked out of her. She was so lost.
You know how to find your way back to the light.
The thought was a knife slicing through her anguish. With utter calm, Silla reached into the pocket of her cloak. Pulled out the jar. It was small, nondescript. And yet it held her salvation, the cure to her torment.
“Poison,” she whispered, but her words were so feeble.
Antidote,it whispered back.
“Trouble,” she countered.
Peace, it purred.
Silla twisted the jar back and forth. Back and forth. How easy it would be to pull the lid from the jar, to pluck a leaf and tuck it into her cheek. Her guilt would vanish in an instant, warmth bathing her from within. It would be a homecoming—a reunion with a long-lost friend.
Everything seemed to fade around her. There were only the leaves and their constant, unrelenting draw. With each passing second, Silla’s will crumbled just a little more. Why was she resisting? Hadn’t Harpa said she must surrender?
It was not the same. But how did she surrender? How did she free herself so she could move forward?
Her father would have been able to explain it to her. But he was gone, and she was alone, missing him so fiercely it physically hurt. Silla shoved thoughts of him aside, then paused.
That was what she always did—pushed the hurt aside. Locked it in a cage.
Of course, she pushed the hurt aside; it was human—instinctive.Surrender, echoed Harpa’s voice in her mind.
The knowing feeling in Silla’s stomach warned her against it. In fact, every part of her fought it. How could something that felt so wrong be good for her?
Silla toyed with this corner of her mind, assessing the bones of her hurt. So long had she sought refuge from the raw, aching wound her father had left behind. It was a hopelessly tangled mess of emotions—she missed him and loved him so much, yet Silla couldn’t shake the bitterness of his betrayal nor the guilt of his death.
It’s your fault, he whispered in her mind. The words burned as they always did. But this time, Silla ignored the instincts screaming for her to cage it away. Instead, she gave it freewill to say what it would.Your fault,it repeated.
“It’s your fault, too,” she replied sharply, surprising herself.
I died to protect you, he whispered.And now you squander it.
“I didn’t ask you to die for me,” said Silla, the words rising from deep within her. “And I didn’t want you to.” Silla’s confidence grew. “Youleftme,” she accused. “You left me alone and vulnerable.”
Silla thought of that night in the Twisted Pinewoods, the feeling of abandonment she’d silenced with an extra skjöld leaf. Realization jostled her. That was the start, the beginning of her desperate flee, not only from the Klaernar, but from her past. And she hadn’t stopped running since.
“You told menothing,” Silla snapped. “Your lies caused undue hardship for me. They endangered my life.”
I wanted to spare you from the pain.
“You did nothing but make it worse.”
Like the skjöld leaves. Like Jonas. They’d done nothing but form a temporary dam against her grief. And when they were removed, it had only made the flow so much stronger.
Was it the same with her father? Perhaps he’d begun lying in an attempt to protect her when she was young, but with time, the pressure had only grown. To tell her the truth, to admit what he’d done, would have caused anger and strife between them, when already they’d faced so much.
A strange sort of compassion settled in Silla’s stomach. Her father had been put in an impossible situation—to shield Princess Eisa from detection. He was not a father by choice, but a warrior, potentially not suited for the task he’d been given. After King Kjartan’s death, Matthias could have abandoned Silla and made an easy life for himself, but he had not. Instead, he’d loved her; had dedicated his life to her protection; had sacrificed his own safety, his own well-being. And perhaps, in his mind, shielding her from the truth was merely an extension of this protection.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Father,” she whispered. “I do not agree with what you did, but perhaps I understand.” She paused, knowing what she must do, though still she fought against her instincts. It was like walking against the currents of a rushing river, and yet she trudged on. “I forgive you,” she whispered. “And I forgive myself.”
Silla did not quite believe the words. Did not feel them in the marrow of her bones. But speaking them, even in the barest whisper, felt monumental. The first step toward something.
Surrender, Harpa had said, and Silla opened the cage in the corner of her mind, surrendering herself to the tide of anguish. The pain was acute, invading each corner of her body. She weathered it like a battering storm, braced against the lashing torment.
Time ceased to exist. There was only feeling—only raw, basic emotions, and Silla let herself feel it all. She wallowed in her pain and anger. Reveled in her love and grief. On and on and on it went, and just when she thought it would never end, the current began to ebb.
