Instead of gratitude, she felt resentment. If he could sneak into Whitechurch and abscond with her hidden in a crate of vegetables, why had he waited so long? He’d waited until she’d become a murderer to swoop in like the hero of a story he’d written to suit himself.
Taven had come into her life when she had only been eight, an orphan from her mother’s homeland who had been the son of someone important. Her mother had taken the almost fourteen-year-old in, at first assigning him chores, and later treating him as well as she treated her own son. After Elloven’s father died, Taven had stepped unceremoniously into the unofficial man-of-the-house role, even acting as a paternal figure to Gennady. When Elloven later confessed that Taven had snuck into her room on her fourteenth nameday, her mother’s eyes had darkened, but all she’d said was I feared this would happen.
Esmeray’s reaction, in a letter to Elloven, to Gennady’s murder two years ago had contained a similar sentiment. The worst has come to pass, just as I’ve feared. Your brother is gone, and we will never know who took him from us.
But she was wrong. Elloven would. She’d find out, and when she did, she’d deal with the soulless swine herself, in her own way. Her sweet baby brother had been the brightest light in her life, in all their lives, and the thought that anyone could ever snuff it out made her utterly sick. Esmeray said he’d died quickly. Well, Elloven wouldn’t say the same for his murderer. But to weaponize her magic with precision, she first needed to understand it, and there was only one place she could. Avenging her brother wasn’t her only motivation for wanting to find her mother’s people, but it was the most significant. Her hunger for vengeance was sometimes the only thing that kept her going.
She was still thinking about her brother when they made their final approach to Riverchapel, just as midnight made itself known. It hit her suddenly that it would be her first time home without him there to wrap her in one of his warm hugs.
“I must prepare you, El, for what you’ll face when we reach town,” Taven said, like she were still a child in need of unwelcome counsel.
“You mean the stoning?” Her sardonic edge matched her tired, dark heart. She didn’t know if she was more annoyed with him, for the way he spoke down to her, or herself for rising to it. “I never expected to be welcomed home.”
He studied her with a pensive frown. “You don’t deserve this.”
“When has that mattered?”
He sighed. “The past is... It can’t be changed. But you’ll be home, and you and I can begin anew.”
“You and I?” Elloven probably should have been more mindful of her expression, for his froze in anger.
“I plan to speak to Esme first thing in the morning. I’m confident she’ll see the wisdom in us marrying immediately.”
“Marry?”
“So I can protect you, Ellie.”
There were so many things wrong with his words, she didn’t know where to begin, but she could already hear the distant noise of Riverchapel, the song of night dimming as the village grew louder. Every creak of the wheels, the shouting bakers, and the whistles from stills scattered her focus.
Taven’s long fingers wrapped around her knee with an affectionate squeeze. “Almost home, love.” He’d never understood her, or he’d know she found far more comfort in the quiet. Silence was the only truth still available to the universe.
Rumors had traveled faster than the carriage. The village gates, usually narrowed to a gap at that hour for the infrequent evening traveler, were flung wide. Torches adorned the row of market stalls, busier than noontide.
“They all think this is some sort of mummer’s farce?” Taven started as if to jump out of the carriage, but she knew he wouldn’t. “No one values minding their own concerns anymore.”
“The woman who murdered the spare heir to the Easterlands has returned to seek sanctuary. Wouldn’t you be curious?”
“How can you be so flippant about it?”
“About my own life?” Taven hadn’t understood when they were younger either. You have me, he’d say, never quite seeing the irony in assuming he was the solution to a problem he’d helped create.
Taven bellowed when something hard and wet struck the carriage. Elloven merely flinched. Her late husband had taught her to anticipate the worst at any moment.
After another handful of splats, the carriage slowed. Hands clawed and banged at the door and windows on both sides. One shattered, sending shards onto the benches and floor.
Their frenzied shouts were more or less what she’d expected. Send her out! We want to see her! Show your face! Lord Quinlanden demands justice! No sanctuary!
Taven’s eyes widened with each assault, both of his arms braced against the seat back. “Have the good sense to be terrified, Elloven.” He pounded on the roof. “Faster!”
“He can’t go faster, unless he wants to run over half the town.”
“I know you see me as your protector, but I cannot fight dozens of crazed lunatics!”
Her protector? She stifled a laugh. “What will happen will happen,” she muttered, but her calm had been eroding with each turn of the carriage wheels. She counted their full rotations, measured by where the front left wheel’s divot caused the light skip in an otherwise smooth ride.
One.
“The witch is home! The witch is home!”
