No Kyor. No Llinos. No Kay.
I thought I was motivated before I came into this. It’s nothing compared to now. I am determined to win this. Determined and exhausted. And hungry.
As we climb out of the carriage, we head to the dining hall to see Jonas already leaving, his hands full of baked goods.
‘Are you not going to sit down?’ I ask him, gesturing to our table. It’s stupid that it’s still the only table I want to sit at given that it’s right at the end of the hall and there are so many others completely empty, but I’m not ready to let go of the memories that live with it.
‘No,’ Jonas says stiffly, shaking his head. ‘My legs are soft from sitting so long on the boat, and then in the carriage. I’m going to stretch my legs in the battle yard.’
‘Give me five minutes and I’ll join you,’ Benny replies.
‘No offence, but I could do with a bit of time by myself,’ Jonas says with a flatness that leaves no room for argument. ‘Just … you know, the whole paired thing is over now. We need to focus on solo skills.’
‘Well, that’s me told,’ Benny mutters, rolling his eyes as Jonas begins to walk away.
‘I’ll spar with you later,’ I offer. ‘I’m going to sleep for a bit, and then I need to head to the library.’
‘Really? Why?’ Jonas stops in his tracks six feet away from us and turns back, his eyes fixing on mine. For a reason I can’t fathom, I feel the cold fill my palms. I assumed the iciness I felt from him earlier was a residualreaction to Kyor and me being together, but now I’m not so sure. ‘What do you need the library for?’
My throat feels as though it’s wedged shut. Still, I try not to show it, speaking as casually as I can. ‘To speak to Caroline,’ I lie. ‘I saw Llinos’s family, remember?’
His eyes linger on mine, his lips twisting as though he’s trying to pull more information out of me by his gaze alone. And then, without warning, he sniffs. ‘Right. Of course. Well, I’ll leave you two to your food,’ he says, then turns around and leaves.
This time, Benny waits until Jonas is fully out of earshot before he speaks. ‘I never realised that being involved in a trial for ultimate power would involve such complex love lives. They kind of left that bit out of the history books, don’t you think?’
This time, when I hit him, I make sure it hurts.
Chapter 67
Thank the Gods, the room still smells of Kyor. I lie on the bed and bury my head in the pillow, drinking in the faint whisper of him in the fabric before sitting up and moving to the desk where his drawings remain scattered. I’ve never looked through them before. I’ve wanted to, but he’s never offered to show me. Now, though, he’s not here for me to ask him permission, and I’ll do anything that gives me a chance to feel closer to him.
The top drawing is of Zelle, fighting through a storm. Water drips from the old man’s beard, but even in the monochromatic shades of charcoal, I can tell the storm is of Kyor’s making; there’s just something about the way the clouds streak across the sky. The commander holds his sword arm raised as if he’s about to strike, and a playful grin twists his lips, the type he almost solely reserved for fighting with Kyor. Is it a real memory or just a representation of how they felt when they used to train together? It’s impossible to know, but it doesn’t change the feeling that emanates from the page. One of respect. Of loss. Of a mentor – a father – sadly missed.
Beneath the drawing of Zelle, there are two of Elska: one of her prowling through the forest, the other of her face alone. Once again, he’s captured the two colours of her eyes in nothing but tones of black and grey, but it’s her body that I can’t draw my eyes away from. The way he’s shaded her so that her white paws fade into the white of the paper is utterly masterful. A prince, a fighter, a protector, an artist. I have towonder if there’s anything this man can’t do. I lift the papers and begin to flick through them, stopping on a drawing of me. Me asleep in his bed, hair splayed across my face, arm folded up over my head. I should look a mess, yet somehow, the way he’s captured me, I look, well … beautiful. As I stare at my own image, my heart burns beneath my ribs. I suspect he drew it while he was avoiding lying too close to me, trying to be a gentleman. I was so angry at him at the time. Angry at him for not wanting me the way I wanted him. But this … this shows just how wrong I was. Even I can see that. See the yearning in his lines. I want to crush the paper to my chest, but instead I lay it back down reverently.
I flick through several more images – some of buildings, some of weapons and animals – until I reach another person. Or rather, two people. It’s one of the smallest pictures, and yet the level of detail in it easily surpasses the rest. It looks as though Kyor came back to work on this one time and time again.
The woman is sitting in a comfortable-looking chair, with a book on her lap and a child at her feet. The child has a pencil in his hands and is scribbling on a piece of paper. There’s no sign of a crown or even a ballgown on the adult, no hint of palace luxuries in the background, and yet I know exactly who I’m staring at: Kyor and his mother, the son and the mourned queen.
It’s a perfect portrait. The ease with which she sits. The light smile that traces the curve of her jaw. And while there’s no visible interaction between the two of them, you can feel the connection they share just being in each other’s presence.
I didn’t know it was possible for a picture to show so much love, and yet here it is …
With a burst of guilt at invading Kyor’s privacy, I grab the papers, wishing to straighten up the pile. In my hurry, one of them drops to the ground.
As I pick it up, a cold chill runs down my spine.
It’s me. Me standing in the temple, dressed in my rags from the slums. If the picture with his mother is the epitome of peace and love, then this captures pain and rage. My face is harsh, and pure hatred jets out of my eyes. It stabs me to my core, knowing that this was how I looked to him in our first meeting after so long. He knew my identity even then, and though that hatred wasn’t there then, when I didn’t know his name or who he really was, it came, and he was right to anticipate it.
Tears leak down my cheeks and guilt hollows out my stomach. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes to stem the tears, and I wish to all the Gods that I’d told him that I love him. That I’d said the words aloud. If I die in the Ofur, and he doesn’t even know…
I sniff back the tears. Any thought of sleep I had is gone.
He’s still here, I remind myself. Still alive and safer than he was in the Retterheld. I should be grateful that he is no longer part of this, but it’s not that straightforward, and not just because I wish he was still with me.
He might be safe, but I’m not. I know these powers are growing stronger; I can feel them changing and shifting, and I have no idea how to control them. It was one thing back when my green magic came through. That was expected and I had my mother to guide me. But this … this is magic I know nothing about, appearing at a time when I should have nothing. I suddenly feel piercingly alone.
I need something to do, and the library seems like the perfect distraction.
