Zander
Asingle wave rolls across the water’s glassy surface.
Romeria’s lips stretch with a childlike, prideful smile.
And I can’t help but smile along with her from my vantage spot on the far side of the lake.
Abarrane roused the camp twenty minutes ago, when the sky was clinging to its last moments of night. Our stay here has been brief. We would have forgone it if not for the mortals and the horses.
While the Legion folded tents and strapped skins and supplies to their horses, Romeria stumbled over to crouch at the lake’s edge. She didn’t notice me sitting here on the opposite side, and I didn’t make myself known, content to watch her splash the sleep from her face. She’s never been a quick riser, preferring to burrow into blankets and warm bodies. I learned that once we began sharing a bed. Each morning I left her like a caterpillar within its cocoon, wishing I could stay with her all day.
When Gesine emerged, I expected Romeria to rejoin the caster, but instead, she slipped off her ring—the one I once slipped on a different woman’s finger—and tucked it into her pocket, her focus intent on the water, as still and smooth as a mirror.
And I watched.
It was five minutes before a small wave formed at the edge closest to her, crawling across the lake’s surface, and I realized what she was attempting to do: channel with her elven affinity to Aoife, without the aid of her ring. Since then, she has sent several more waves across. This last one—the one that stretched her lips with such pride—reached the bulrushes and sent several resting ducks to flight.
I can’t imagine this innocence ever morphing into anything I should fear. That has always been the crux of the issue with key casters, regardless of how history has painted them as villains. They’re too powerful to remain unleashed. Far too powerful to exist in a world where kings and queens rule.
What about in a world where Malachi ruled?
Romeria is so concentrated on practicing her newfound skills, she doesn’t seem to hear the approaching footfalls of the warrior behind her.
I can’t hear their conversation, but I doubt it’s pleasant. Jarek has never been one to show deference to Ybaris, despite the crown’s recent position. I wonder if that would have changed had she become queen. It certainly won’t with all that has transpired.
Romeria rises and slips on her ring, her stiff posture confirming her distrust is mutual. Though, I already knew that based on yesterday’s exchange in Freywich.
Jarek holds out Romeria’s sheathed dagger.
My jaw tenses. I told her to never let that out of her sight.
She snatches it from his grasp and affixes it to her belt.
He says something and then strolls away, carrying himself with that pompous air. But she charges after him, grabbing hold of his gauntlet. Jarek’s posture changes instantly, like a coiled snake ready to strike as he peers down at where she grips him. Even from this distance, I can sense the air around him morph from mocking to ominous.
I’m on my feet, fist curled around a blade at my hip, ready to launch it across the expanse of water.
“You cannot make that throw.” Abarrane is suddenly beside me. She’s the only one who has ever been able to surprise me like this. “And your interference will not help her earn their respect.”
“And if he should slice open her throat before she can earn that?”
“It’s a good thing you have a powerful caster to put her back together.”
“Reassuring.” A warning shout waits at the tip of my tongue. Whether it will do anything, I can’t be sure. My blade driven into Jarek’s skull certainly would, but again, it will be too late. The cook fire still glows with embers. I seize my affinity, just in case, as we watch the scene unfold.
Romeria releases her grip on Jarek and steps back, but she doesn’t concede, her chin high as she responds to him with words that are no doubt acerbic. I’ve come to enjoy that about her.
Jarek’s attention strays to our side of the lake. He knows we’re watching. Worse, he knows he is indispensable, more so now than ever before. Perhaps that is why he keeps testing boundaries.
Romeria follows his direction, and squints. Now that the sky is lightening with the dawn, surely she can make out the two figures standing here.
With a mutter of something, Jarek marches away.
After a pause, Romeria follows, veering toward her tent.
I wish I could have heard that exchange. “Is he going to be a problem?”
Abarrane observes Jarek’s path through the camp. “I have vouched for her amnesia and pushed him to see her as an ally rather than an enemy, but honestly, I do not know.”