Kingsbane

“Would you like to talk about it?” Jessamyn asked mildly.

“About what?”

“About Simon.”

“What about him?”

“About how you love him.”

Eliana’s head shot up, heat rushing to her face. “I don’t love him.”

“Oh, please. I know that look. I’ve had that look.” Then Jessamyn leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “Tell me, was he good? Please tell me he was good, even if it’s a lie. My heart will break otherwise.”

The look on Jessamyn’s face was so wicked that Eliana couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, he was good,” she said. “He was good several times over, in fact.”

Jessamyn placed a hand to her heart. “Oh, thank God. Dare I ask for elaboration?”

Eliana hesitated. As she thought of how to respond, images from their night together returned to her, and she could no longer find her voice. Heat tingled sharply behind her eyes and nose, and she looked away, mortified.

“Never mind.” Jessamyn squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased.” Then, after a pause, she added, “You really do love him, don’t you?”

“No,” Eliana replied, her voice catching. She dashed her hand across her eyes, set her jaw. “I don’t love him.”

Jessamyn nodded, squeezing her fingers once more. “Well, then. My leg hurts like a right royal bastard. Can you help me?”

Eliana smiled and blew out a shaky breath. She placed her hands on Jessamyn’s wounded thigh and turned her thoughts away from Simon, directing them instead toward the castings nestled in her palms. They awakened, humming, and she slipped into a world of gold.

• • •

And that was how two days passed—Eliana using her castings to both practice elemental magic and bring comfort to those at Willow suffering from injuries.

She closed Jessamyn’s wounds and stitched Patrik’s broken bones back together. She soothed an old pain in Dani’s hips, which had long kept her from moving as nimbly as she would have liked, and sat with her eldest son, Evon, whose mind had been battered with far too many traumas. He slept very little, and his muscles were knotted with the tension of perpetually steeling himself against the possibility of some terrible assault. But when Eliana sat with him, stepping into the realm of the empirium to read the scars his body held, he seemed to relax a little, and he began to speak of old hurts she sensed he had never before confessed aloud.

And though it exhausted her to take on new burdens, she refused to stop. There was something reassuring in the work; healing wounds grounded her in a way that summoning fire and water could not. When she manipulated wind or earth, she felt far removed from herself, as if it were not really her body carrying out these remarkable tasks, but rather the ghost of her mother, working through her from death. But sitting with someone in a quiet room to heal their wounds, or using her power to see more clearly the map of pain they carried inside them, reminded her of her humanity, of her own flesh-and-blood fragility. Such a reminder would once have angered and frightened her, but now it reassured her.

She was not her mother. She was neither God nor queen, and she was not the once-invincible Dread.

She was a girl, and she was human.

So she pushed herself on, until nearly everyone on the estate had been tended to. Their hurts seen and heard, their pain soothed.

Nearly everyone—except for Harkan.

She recognized that she had been avoiding him, and that doing so was childish. But what was she to say to him that would be of any comfort? And anyway, it seemed he had been avoiding her as well. Every time she found him, he was huddling with Patrik or Jessamyn or Dani, consulting with them on various strategies—securing a ship for Eliana, creating diversions throughout Festival, deciding what Red Crown soldiers should be posted where and when on the various routes through the city and in the canyons and cliffs surrounding it.

Two days after her night with Simon, after the evening meal, Eliana decided she could no longer hide from Harkan. He had gone on a long walk through the gardens with Zahra, and Eliana settled on a bench near the wide terrace at the back of the house, waiting for him.

It was nearly full dark by the time they returned. Eliana watched them approach, her stomach twisting. Zahra met her first, swooping down to brush a cold, airy kiss across her brow.

Be gentle with him, my queen, the wraith urged, and then she was gone, drifting soundlessly into the house.

Eliana pressed her hands flat against her thighs. “Hello.”

Harkan stood at the edge of the terrace, hands shoved in his pockets. “Hello.”

She scooted over, making room for him on her bench. “Will you sit with me?”

He hesitated, then obeyed. They sat in rigid silence for a moment before Eliana sighed sharply and took his hand in hers.

He laughed, smoothing his thumb across her fingers. “I’m not good at this anymore. I’m not good at being your friend, and I’m sorry for it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be.” She drew a deep breath. “I feel like I should be the one to apologize.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I can’t give you what you want. Because I’ve changed, and because none of this is fair. Because I feel like it’s my fault that we’re all fighting and in terrible danger, even though, logically, I know it’s not.”

“And because you’ve fallen in love with someone else?”

She turned to look at him. He had said it without judgment or anger. He sat beside her, leaning against the wall at their backs, looking up at the sky. The lanterns flickering around the terrace threw soft, shivering shapes across his skin—white-gold over golden-brown.

“I’ll always love you, Harkan,” she said quietly. “And I think you know that.”

“And I’ll always love you.” He looked over at her, his eyes soft on her face. “I worry for you.”

She bristled. “Because of Simon?”

“No, not in that way. Because of what he wants you to do, and because of how hard you’ve been working over the last few days. Driving yourself to exhaustion. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you’ve been avoiding me.”

For a moment they stared at each other, and then Eliana began to laugh from the sheer absurdity of it—sitting there, so far away from home, with an angelic army en route to destroy them, and Simon practicing time traveling somewhere in the trees, and Patrik sitting inside by the fire, mending Dani’s old gowns for the Jubilee. And the castings on her own hands, alien and beloved, and the power in her veins, and the horrible knowledge of her mother living somewhere in the past, not knowing that soon her grown daughter would appear before her, begging her to have mercy on the world.