The three stood silent at the top of the hill, the air too heavy for words. Asterious cursed and then mounted his horse. “Keep searching.” It was a desperate command, but any hint of hope was gone from his voice.
As Caramyn settled back into the saddle of her mare, she shook her head, still in disbelief at what she’d just witnessed and the unfairness of it all. Tyrios rode alongside her as Asterious kept his distance ahead.
“What was that?” she asked, her voice low. “Why couldn’t he take the sword from the man to stop him?”
Tyrios looked at her uneasily and then at the prince in the distance. “It’s a lot to explain. And not really my place to tell you if he hasn’t already.” Tyrios sighed. “Just know it wasn’t anything the man did. It’s…the sword.”
She blinked, perplexed and distraught, but no less intrigued. “Why does he carry it then, if he can’t use it? Is it to deter someone from attacking?”
“Partly,” Tyrios nodded, his golden hair catching the sunlight, highlighting the brown threaded through the curls. “But mostly, because he refuses to stop trying, even when it might kill him.”
Caramyn watched the prince, a picture of darkness and despair—the shadow beneath his raven-black hair obscuring half his face, the dark scruff along his jaw, the black cloakcascading down to the flanks of the midnight stallion that carried him through an ashen sea of hopelessness.
They set out to return that evening, making camp when night fell on a starless sky. No one spoke of the day’s events. In fact, no one spoke at all. Caramyn rested her head on the blanket she’d brought and pulled her mantle over her despite the warm evening. She couldn’t stop thinking about the brokenness she’d seen in the prince, and she once again questioned everything she thought she knew.
She could no longer doubt his warnings about Sinevia. But that didn’t mean she would blindly trust him either. It was clearer than ever that he still carried secrets. And even if she wanted to help him, she didn’t know if she could accomplish what he was asking her to do. She hardly knew how to trust herself anymore. She’d killed men who could very well have been that broken Misthelm man. She’d told herself she was just doing what was necessary to survive, and to guard the unknown power at the Veil…and maybe she was…
But if she agreed to help Asterious, and to stay in his world for the time being, she could never let him know.
***
The next day’s ride was uneventful, and the cooler crisp air of late autumn had returned. With only a few hours left until they reached the Forbidden Court, Caramyn decided to breakthe silence between her and the prince. She nudged her horse forward to match the pace of his. “Why Misthelm?”
She was surprised when he didn’t hesitate to answer and replied without skipping a beat. “Misthelm was a bustling, popular city. A rare place where humans and Lightborn coexisted—mostly peacefully—and even thrived. Probably because of its proximity to Vaerwynd. The humans even built temples to the old gods that created the Lightborn in the Shattering. It probably started as a way to gain favor, but it grew to have quite the following. So you can imagine the resistance when my father decreed the Order.”
“I’m sure…” was all Caramyn could manage.
“It was. As hard as my father tried, he couldn’t quite eradicate the deep-rooted belief systems there. So, they were always a thorn in his side, a city of humans that revered magic long after it was outlawed. There were so few of them left after the Order purged the cities, and the magic wall around the city that once protected it was gone, so the city lost the strength to adequately protect itself from the constant thieves and loyalists that exploited its wealth of resources.”
Caramyn shuddered at the mention of the purges that came after the Veil. Her mother told her of the horrors of how Blackwynd soldiers and Inquisitors would scour every city, destroying any inkling of magic they could find. Dawnmire had been safe from most of it…until it wasn’t.
“Are you sure you never really wanted to rule this kingdom?” Caramyn asked, switching her focus back to Asterious. “Because you certainly seem to care for its people.”
“I do. But they deserve better than me.”
Caramyn wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what words she could possibly offer after what they endured at the ruins of Misthelm. All she could think to attempt was, “It wasn’t your fault what happened back there.”
“Fault doesn’t change the outcome,” he grumbled. “Either way, it wouldn’t be the first blood on my hands. And it likely won’t be the last. I could’ve stopped him if…” His voice trailed off, as if he realized he’d said too much.
“If what?” Caramyn encouraged gently. She could no longer resist the urge to ask the question burning in her veins like the smolders of the city behind them. “I saw what happened with the sword back there. Why did it hurt you?”
“You saw that.” The prince shifted his shoulders, breathing in a resigned sigh. “I suppose I’d have to tell you sooner or later…but, I hadn’t hoped it would be today.”
Another secret.Caramyn wanted to say, but it would be incredibly hypocritical of her. She was holding back everything from him, while he at least seemed to be giving her bits and pieces. Even if they didn’t make sense.
He kept his eyes ahead on the road as he went on, the hesitation in his voice clear as he spoke through a deep exhale. “I’m sure it’s obvious enough that I’m a steel singer. But, thanks to my dear sister, I’ve recently been burdened with an unfortunate curse that deflects my own magic back to me. So, when I touch a sword, axe, dagger—whatever—the very Lightborn magic that grants me speed, strength, and accuracy with my blades, is…warped…into pain that makes me unable to wield them.”
Caramyn didn’t know what explanation she expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. She twisted the reins in her fingers as she started thinking of all the things this could mean. “And Sinevia did this to you?”
She noticed Asterious, too, fidgeting with his reins, and it was the first time she’d seen him look so uncomfortable talking about something. Was it shame, or fear of the vulnerability in telling her this?
“Yes,” he snipped. “After our father’s death, she gifted me a dagger. And the moment I touched it, I knew something was wrong. It was…excruciating. And I saw something in her eyes I’d never seen before, like she was reveling in my pain, though she tried to pretend otherwise. And that’s when I knew I had to leave.”
“She wanted to make it so that you can’t fight back.” She was thinking out loud, and all too late realized perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.
He was quiet, as though deciding what to say next. “Or she wants to unleash something far more dangerous than any sword in my hand.”
Something about the way his words darkened the air sent a chill skittering through her body. What the hell did he mean by that, exactly? Clearly, he didn’t want her to know.
