Moria was gone. She’d mumbled something about possibly spending the evening with Tyrus but had said nothing more on the matter. Then, Ashyn had returned from the library to find their quarters empty and dark. There’d been a note.
I went out. Don’t wait up.
That was it. Six words. Ashyn did not expect more. These days, even when Moria was in the room with her, she seemed not truly there—at least not as the brash, boisterous sister Ashyn knew. If their father were with them, he’d scarcely recognize Moria. Of course, if their father had been there, Moria would have less cause to be so unrecognizable.
They were orphans now. More than orphans—young women without a home or family, having only each other and an uncertain future. Life was not kind to those without kin. Ashyn knew better than to broach these fears with her sister. If Moria hadn’t realized their predicament, Ashyn wouldn’t add to her burden by telling her.
That burden was already great. Whatever Ashyn had gone through, it was a pale shadow of her sister’s travails. Both had walked through their village after the massacre, but Ronan had protected Ashyn from catching more than glimpses of the horrors. Gavril had not shielded Moria—he’d known better than to try. Both girls had lost their father, but it was Moria who’d found him, possessed by a shadow stalker, and been forced to kill him to escape. Both girls had journeyed across the Wastes, separated from each other. Moria had faced down a thunder hawk—twice. Ashyn? She’d gotten a smattering of death worm venom on her skin, leaving burns so minor they’d all but vanished by the next day.
The worst of it, of course, was Gavril himself. Ashyn remembered seeing them fighting mercenaries together, back to back, and where before she’d always failed to comprehend beauty in battle, she’d seen it then, in her sister and Gavril. He was a true match for her matchless sister. Even if Moria refused to entertain thoughts of more than friendship, when Ashyn watched them together, it was like looking through a scrying glass and seeing the summers fly past, the two of them together, happily bickering and battling into old age.
Then came the revelation. The betrayal so incredible Ashyn’s breath stopped even thinking of it. As difficult as it was for her, it was devastating for Moria. She had trusted Gavril. Defended him. It was as if he’d turned in battle and sunk his blade into her back.
Moria was broken, and as desperately as Ashyn wanted to be the one who put her back together, the only person whose company Moria accepted these days was Tyrus. A young man she’d met six days ago. Moria didn’t discuss with him her father’s death or the village slaughter or Gavril’s betrayal, so there was no cause for jealousy. Yet Ashyn still felt those pangs.
She heard footfalls on the cobbled path outside. Tova rose first, going to the door. Ashyn slipped to the window. It was Moria and Daigo. With Tyrus. In the beginning, to her shame, she’d searched for darkness in him, almost hoping to see it—the devious bastard prince masking his ambitions under amicable smiles, manipulating the vulnerable young Keeper to his advantage. In a bard’s tale, that was exactly what he’d be. In life, though? There was nothing dark in Tyrus. Nothing false.
She watched them, Tyrus whispering to Moria, his head bowed over hers as she pulled her cloak hood down to listen. He said something that made Moria smile and that dagger of jealousy dug deeper.
She only smiles for him.
Ashyn balled her fists. Stop that.
Moria said her good nights and headed inside. Tyrus watched her go. Even after she’d passed into her quarters, he stared after her before wrenching his gaze away and plodding off into the dark, none of the usual jaunt in his step.
“Good, you’re still up,” Moria said.
Ashyn watched as her sister swept in, kicking off her boots, sloughing her cloak, Daigo grumbling as it landed on him before sliding to the floor. And it was like being back in Edgewood, the old Moria sauntering in after an adventure.
“I have news,” she said, and for perhaps the first time since Gavril’s betrayal, she smiled at her sister.
Once Ashyn recovered from her heart palpitations—she couldn’t believe Moria had been caught spying on the emperor—she calmed and listened. With every word Moria said, Ashyn felt like she was exhaling after holding her breath. While she’d never doubted that the emperor was doing something, she’d quietly shared her sister’s opinion that it seemed too little. This news came as a relief. Until Moria told her who’d be the envoys.
“You and Tyrus?” Ashyn said. “While I logically follow his reasoning, it seems . . .”
Coldly logical. Like admitting he would sacrifice the children and the villagers to protect the empire. She understood it, but could not fathom making such a choice herself.
She’d seen Emperor Tatsu’s warmth and affection for his son. Now to send him as an envoy after two spies had presumably perished? While she agreed the risk was much smaller, it was still a risk.
“Do you have a choice?” As soon as Ashyn said the words and saw her sister’s face, she knew it didn’t matter.
“I must go,” Moria said. “But you don’t need to.”
Ashyn went still.
Moria rose from where she’d collapsed, sprawled over cushions with Daigo, and she moved to sit beside Ashyn on the sleeping mat. Her voice softened. “You’ve been through enough. Tyrus and I can handle it.”
Of every unintended slight Ashyn had suffered over the last six days, this one cut the deepest. Before the massacre, they’d never been separated for more than a half day.
Tyrus and I can handle it.
“I’d like to go,” Ashyn said.
Moria grinned. “All right, then. If you’re sure you want to give up all this”—her hand swept across the luxurious room—“for a horse and a hard pallet.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then start packing. We leave at dawn.”
And that was it. Her sister didn’t wish her to stay behind, but simply hadn’t presumed she would join them. Life had changed. They were no longer children, tumbling on each other’s heels. They’d not been for many summers. This was but another step down a path they couldn’t avoid.
Moria rose. “We’ll need to get a message to Ronan.”
“Why?”
“Because he should know. I’m also hoping he’ll offer to come along. He can’t actually join us, of course—”
“No, he cannot. Because he has not been pardoned. He will not be until he allows us to ask for it.”
“He hoped to see you today. With me. In the market.”
Ashyn struggled to keep her face neutral. “The fact remains that he is a thief condemned to the Forest of the Dead, and until he seeks pardon, he is safest where he is. I’ll ask you to humor me in this. Please. Until the sentence is lifted, I’d not have him in any danger, and sending him that message implies we need his help.”
Moria hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I’ll take that extra time to bathe. It’ll be days before we have another chance.”
“Fetch the water. I’ll stoke the fire.”
When her sister was gone, Ashyn heard a grumble and looked down at Tova, lying by her feet.
“Ronan should not be told,” she said.
Tova fixed his dark eyes on her, and she squirmed under his stare. While she’d not have Ronan endangered, the truth was a little less selfless, a lot less honorable. But to admit her own troubles seemed to cheapen Moria’s, as if by saying, “He hurt me,” she put Ronan’s betrayal on the same level as Gavril’s.
When she’d first met Ronan, he’d seemed infatuated with Moria, which was no surprise. Yet as they’d traveled together, his attention had turned Ashyn’s way. Before they reached the imperial city, Ronan had told her how to contact him. Then, as they parted, he’d kissed her. She was not as experienced in romantic matters as Moria, but there seemed no other way to interpret his actions. There truly did not.
After two days, she’d done as he’d said—tossed a missive over the courtyard wall, to land between it and a neighboring building.
It was a simple I’d like to see you. His reply came a day later: I don’t think that’s wise.
No explanation. No apology. A cool refusal, as if she were some starry-eyed village girl asking him to the Fire Festival.
While that had stung, she’d told herself she was overreacting. He merely meant what he said—that it was not wise at the time.
But then he’d agreed to see Moria, and Ashyn realized there was no excuse other than the obvious. His kiss had not been a beginning but the ending. A good-bye.
In bard songs, love was love, and when you found it, it was forever. In life, romantic entanglements came and went, and sometimes they were not entanglements at all, but merely two people, brushing against each other before moving on.
That was what had happened here, and she ought to be mature about it. Savor the memory. Chalk it up to experience. That was certainly what Moria would do. Except, she was not Moria, and perhaps she was not all that mature, and so it hurt, and it did not seem likely to stop hurting soon.