I sat forward, and he anticipated my question.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he warned. “Seraphim and Percy are together.”
Aethra was alone with Seth again—the last possible outcome I could have wished for.
Flinching, I found my footing. Taking a moment to glance over my torn boots and ripped cloak, I sighed.
We’d need new disguises.
I took one step and sank to my knees.
“Careful.” Phaedrus glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood. Maybe catch your breath first?”
Sitting back, I rechecked the wound—brokenandtorn open. At least I didn’t rely on it to defend myself.
Phaedrus stood over me, deep blue cape flapping in the breeze. He scanned the horizon vigilantly, watching for threats and allies alike.
“Who was she?” I asked abruptly. “The woman you think I look like?”
Blinking, Phaedrus looked down at me. “Your mother.”
I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “I think I deserve more than that.”
Sighing, Phaedrus knelt beside me. “She was a stable hand. Her parents were horse masters who had recently moved from Therapne. I won’t lie and tell you she was clever or talented. But she knew how to laugh, and she cared for everything that lived.”
Scanning his thoughts, I found only emptiness. He did not speak out of malice or grief. Not sorrow, or fondness. He spoke objectively, as though reciting history, rather than the path of his life.
“Don’t look at me so,” Phaedrus said softly. “There’s nothing special about Aethra, either.”
“She is to me,” I said through gritted teeth. “And that’s all that matters.”
“How very romantic of you.”
Biting back what I wanted to say, I chose another course. “I know how you think. None of us matters, right?”
“No,” he agreed, standing.
I flinched. Aethra wanted me to win him over, and I wasn’t doing a very good job. Leave it to the con woman to make such a feat sound easy.
Trying again, I raised my head. “You tried to reform Cynthus. What was the final straw that broke you?”
The man froze. His hand curled into a fist at his side and slowly relaxed. “It wasn’t something I did. It was one of my men.” He glanced back. “He hadn’t reported for duty one morning. We found him in his home, the walls covered in the blood of his wife and children.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Phaedrus turned away. “I think that’s what haunted me most. One day, he killed them all, then himself. And I don’t know why.”
Phaedrus walked away, ascending a hill to get a better view of the surrounding area. Looking down, I wondered if I had any right to condemn the man he spoke of, to feel horror at his deeds.
Dozens had perished by my hand.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I dug my fingers into my upper arm. “What?” I called. “What was her name? At least tell me that.”
Phaedrus turned his head, hesitating. After a moment, he answered, “Pallas,” and turned away.
Finding my feet, I took an uncertain step but kept my balance. Joining Phaedrus by the hill, I searched the dunes and ponds of reeds, hoping to spot familiar faces among them.
Pallas. I committed her name to memory.
