“This galatine armor belonged to Urdin of the Western Drifts who fought and died for all of Tiressia.” The small yet powerful queen meets the eyes of everyone present before turning her focus back to Fleurie. “Your father might not have protected you,” she says, “but the armor of the god that ended him will.”
With her hand slipped inside the leather strap of her inherited shield and the galatine sword sheathed at her hip, Fleurie lowers to one knee before the queen. “I feel unworthy, Your Majesty. But I will do everything in my power to earn this honor.”
Fia gently grips the godling’s arm, encouraging her to stand. “You alreadyhaveearned it,” she says, her dark stare fervent. “You deserve all the protection we can offer, Fleurie. Because sometimes darkness spawns monsters. Other times it breeds warriors. Like you. Your resilience is unparalleled in this world, and that is the kind of valor and steadfastness that can end a war. We should all look to your example for courage in the days ahead.”
I don’t disagree. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have the urge to remind everyone that I’ve been trapped for three hundred years too, inside Un Drallag’s melancholy meat suit.
Fleurie, Helena, and Rhonin meet in the middle of the circle we’ve all formed. I find myself looking past them at Nephele, standing across the green. I admire the fierce determination of her countenance, the way she always lifts her chin when facing a battle, even an emotional one, if only to restrain her tears. This is a loss for her.Anotherloss. And for some reason, I can’t explain, that causes a foreign pain in my chest.
Thibault slings the leather pack that holds his journals over his shoulder and walks up to the trio that’s about to leave us. He gathers Helena close and whispers something in her ear. She smiles and nods at his words, though there’s sadness shining in her eyes as she stares up at him.
He then claps Rhonin on the shoulder. “Take care, my friend.”
Rhonin grasps his hand. “Will do, old man. I’m just a magickless human, but I promise to make you proud.”
Thibault looks the young man pointedly in the eyes. “Youhavemade me proud. And you are anythingbutmagickless, do you hear me? Your power lies in the greatness of your humanity. Never forget that.” He throws an arm around Rhonin, and after they embrace, he turns to Fleurie and takes her face in his hands.
“I am blessed to have called you friend, Fleurie. And to be able to call you friend again. Come back to me. Swear it.”
The way the godling looks at him, her golden eyes soft and full of adoration, reminds me of all the times Nephele looked upon Un Drallag while I could do nothing more than observe. The love that has been bestowed upon that man is incalculable, something I suppose I envy as much as I envy the time Dulevia and Moeshka had with Nephele. But Thibault was right.
Gods aren’t meant for such things as this.
“I will come back,” Fleurie says. “I can be at your side in a moment.” She covers his hands with hers. “We will have many more years together, Alexi. Don’t ever doubt that. Until the mountains crumble to the sea.”
The corner of his mouth curls, but only a little, as though the thought of eternity no longer holds any sort of joy for him.
“Until,” he replies, finally letting her go and stepping back.
Fleurie gathers Helena and Rhonin close, and with one last look at Thibault, carves her hand through the air, her arm falling in an arc. A gust of power whips across the courtyard as light splits the morning, and in the twinkle of the eye, they’re gone.
Moments later, Zahira says, “It’s time, Northlanders.”
Everyone moves toward me, but I can’t help but notice the way Nephele starts moving first, as though she needs to be near me, to feel me.
When she reaches me, she finally looks up, trying to maintain her composure, but her blue eyes fill with unshed tears. Just like last night, I want to soothe her, and I’ve never wanted to soothe anyone.
“They will be fine,” I promise her, a paltry effort at comfort, but she takes a deep breath and nods, as though my words are words she believes.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
As Fia and her scholars stand witness to our departure, everyone gathers around, even the reluctant bowyer. Each person links their arms to another for the sifting. As for Nephele, she voluntarily clutches my jacket, and I slip my arms around her waist. Like I’ve taught her, she squeezes her eyes shut and leans into me. Again, my heart reacts, kicking hard in my chest.
“Don’t miss, wolf,” Thibault says as I summon the aether and a desert wind to carry us north.
Worry that I will do just that trickles hot through my veins, but I refuse to buckle under the weight of apprehension. Instead, I focus my mind on the woman in my arms, on seeing her safely home.
“I mean it,” Thibault repeats at my side. “Don’t. Miss.”
As though he knows my struggle.
When the wind comes, stirring our hair and the sand, I close my eyes and think of Starworth Tor. “I won’t.”
11
NEPHELE
Malgros, The Northland Break
