“Nerys is dead,” I told them simply.
“Good,” Brigid said at once. “That should have happened long ago. She hasn’t given us relevant information in weeks. There was no reason to keep tormenting her.”
“The Warden enjoyed it though,” Cira said, watching my face. “What changed her mind?”
A vision of the Warden flashed through my mind—her hand tight around my arm, her fingers brushing my cheek. Her eyes hard and black, furious.Know that every day you persist in deceiving me is like a knife to my heart.
“I did, I suppose,” I said, trying to push the memory out of my head. “She wanted to use the Box on Nerys. I told her she shouldn’t, and things became strained.”
After a moment, Brigid asked quietly, “Did she hurt you?”
I scoffed, retrieved my dinner, and sat on the floor to eat. “Why does that matter? She has hurt all of us many times.”
“It matters because I’ve seldom seen you this upset.”
“I’m not upset. I’m tired.”
“Mara, come sit on the bed,” said Cira. “It’s softer.”
“I don’t want softness,” I snapped, and then, as I chewed ferociously on my bread, something inside me broke open, and the tears I’d been fighting all day spilled out of me. I wasn’t a loud crier; one moment I was eating, and the next my eyes were burning. A tight pain in my chest made it hard to breathe.
Brigid gently took my tray and helped me to my bed, then pulled her chair close while Cira curled up beside me and wrapped her arms around one of mine. The gesture reminded me so unexpectedly of Petra—my first friend at Rosewarren, and my first kill—that I nearly shoved her away. But her warmth was too comforting to spurn, and after a few minutes, my eyes had dried.
Then Cira said, “The Warden is quite unwell, isn’t she?” When no one answered, she added irritably, “She really ought to hurry up and have that child she’s supposed to bear.”
Brigid blew out a sharp breath. “Cira, now is not the time.”
“Tell me I’m wrong, then.”
“I said it’s not the time, not that you’re wrong.”
Cira released me and sat up. “The sooner she has a baby, the sooner the baby can grow up and train, and the sooner the Warden can pass on her magic to her daughter and makeherWarden, and then she can die and leave us all in peace.”
“Hold your tongue,” Brigid said. “We’re not going to talk about the Warden dying right now, or even talk about her at all.”
“You’ll agree, though, that she’s not herself. Yelling at everyone, stalking around the grounds talking to herself, going to the outposts for days at a time without warning, leaving Mara to run everything on her own. And just look at her, she’s exhausted!” Cira gestured indignantly at me. “None of this is the behavior of a stable Warden. Did you know that of all the Wardens in the history of the Order, her tenure has been the longest? Bydecades?”
“She’s just tired,” I said wearily. “And I’m not on my own. I have all of you to help me.”
“But Mara, whenyou’retired, you don’t terrorize your students.”
“That’s enough,” Brigid said. There was a sharpness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “We all need rest, and dawn patrol is only four hours away.”
I buried my face in my pillow. “That is not nearly enough hours.”
“Fine,” Cira said with a huff. “No more Warden talk.” Gingerly she settled back down beside me, and after a long moment of quiet, she said, “Tell me the story of Ankaret and Kilraith again.”
“I’m going to scream,” Brigid said blandly.
“Listen, just yesterday I was shot by a very stupid man, and now my shoulder hurts. I like the story, and I deserve a treat. And anyway, the more we hear it, the likelier it is that we’ll uncover some helpful piece of information hidden inside it.” Cira looked at me. “Don’t you agree?”
At the sound of those two names, uttered so casually by Cira’s youthful voice, a little chill raced down my body. Ankaret and Kilraith: two accidental children born of their gods’ destruction. One a beloved queen who remembered nothing of what she had once been, one buried for centuries in the dark sea, stewing in hatred.
I could still remember the hoarseness of Farrin’s voice as she’d told us all the story that day in Ivyhill, after the destruction of Mhorghast. How gaunt she had looked, as if receiving the memories of the god Jaetris before he died had drained half her life away. If Ryder hadn’t been beside her, helping her stay upright, I’m not sure she would have been able to find the strength to speak.
“Are you saying you want a bedtime story?” I asked Cira. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”
“No one’s ever too old for bedtime stories,” Cira said promptly, a sentiment I couldn’t bring myself to argue with.
