“You want me to trust you across…that?!” She squeaked out the last word, and part of me crumbled.
I did want her to trust me. I also intended to betray her trust. Those truths made me a worse villain than when I’d tried to take over the Sun King’s throne.
But my motive for betraying her was good. That should count for something. Plus, my new plan was to convince her to change her mind, and that wasn’t entirely a betrayal. “I told you I would protect you.” My voice strained, already cracking under the weight of conflict I struggled with. “That has not changed.”
She clenched her fists. “I’d rather make an ice bridge. There’s not a lot of moisture in the air, but there should be enough.”
I kept my hand extended. “That might work on this side of the chasm, but no winter magic will stick tothe other side. It’s… a safeguard that’s been reinforced by all three summer kingdoms.”
She pursed her lips and stared at the far side of the chasm. Her eyebrows puckered, her eyes closed, and magic filled the air around us. I bit back a chuckle. Of course she would want to test that.
The muscles in her face clenched for almost a full minute before she sighed dramatically and opened her eyes. “I don’t like this.”
I frowned. “Trusting me?”
She met my gaze, and I saw it again. Behind all her frosty glares and cold statements was a layer of fear. “Trusting you is bad enough, but depending on anyone is even worse. I have no way of finding an invisible bridge in the future. What if something goes wrong? How will I get back to Kalshana?”
There were other ways for her to return home, but this was the most frequented path.
And that wasn’t what she was asking anyway.
I knelt on the ground and beckoned for her to kneel next to me. I reached over the ravine and patted the invisible bridge. “It starts here.”
She touched it too, setting her hand next to mine.
I spread my fingers as far as they’d reach. “This side is bound to the winter realm. You can attach a beacon of your own magic to it, so that you can find it again in the future if you ever want to return without me.”
A flash of gratitude crossed her eyes… or at least, I imagined that’s what she felt as the skin around her eyes relaxed and her heartbeat stopped jumping erratically. Ithad taken days to get a simple, “Thank you,” out of her, so I didn’t expect anything dramatic now.
A few seconds later, she stood up and—with a big, shaky breath—offered me her hand. “Let’s do this.”
I wove my fingers between hers and gave her a solid squeeze. “You will reach the other side safely. I swear it.” I hadn’t made an oath like that in centuries, but I meant it. And I hoped she could tell.
She tipped her chin in a tight nod and slid closer to me, brushing my leg. I swallowed, dreading what would happen on the other side of the chasm far more than the hundred steps it would take to cross it.
With every step we took, she tightened her grip on my hand. Her breathing grew more and more shallow, and her gait shortened. I needed to lighten her mood. “After you flew us around on a chunk of ice when we first met, I never would have guessed that heights make you nervous.”
It was a poor distraction, but she took a shuddery breath and said, “I have no problem with heights.”
I nudged us forward, resisting the urge to point out that she very clearly had a problem with heights.
“I do,” she added, “seem to have a serious problem with depths.”
A huffing laugh escaped me.
She gave me a frosty glare and tried to pull her hand out of mine. “You’re not supposed to laugh at other people’s fears.”
I clutched her fingers closer—she’d scare herself right over the edge if I let go of her, and I’d promised to get her across. “You’re right,” I said quickly.
Burning ashes, I’d say anything I could to keep her calm. “I don’t normally admit to being wrong.” I guided us forward while I spoke. “And never when it would make me appear weak, but you’re absolutely right. I should not laugh at your fears. I wish I had not seen humor in your statement.”
We managed another ten steps before she slowed down again, this time facing me. “Admitting you’re wrong doesn’t make you weak.”
I stared at her, completely lost in her grey eyes and mind-breaking words. “It doesn’t make you strong,” I whispered.
“I think it does.” She glanced down at the endless black below us and gripped my hand with both of hers. “Or rather, I think it is a sign of strength to admit you are wrong. It is clearly harder to make that admission than to pretend you are right, so it must take more strength.”
What a wild idea.
