Romeria
Now I understand what Gesine meant by threads.
Because I am clinging to this scorching-hot thread of Malachi’s affinity like a mountain climber clings to a ledge after losing her footing. My knees threaten to buckle from the strain, but if I relent, if I let these flames dwindle before Zander and the others dispatch the circling enemy, they will move in and cut us down.
And so I hang on as my body trembles, and I watch as flames reflect off blades as bodies drop, one by one.
“It’s okay. Romy! You can stop now!” Pan’s shout is a distant echo in my ear. “They’re all dead!”
With a groan of relief, I let go.
And crumple.
Pan catches me before I hit the ground. “I got you,” he grunts, sliding his head and shoulders under my arm to prop me onto my feet as best he can.
My senses are distorted, wobbly, like I’m underwater. An overwhelming wave of nausea hits, and I lean sideways to heave the ale I drank earlier.
“King? King!” Pan’s struggling to support my dead weight. “Help!”
Seconds later, I’m shuffled into different arms. Stronger arms.
“Romeria! Can you hear me?”
“Gesine,” I mumble. This is how Gesine feels after expending all her power. Now I understand.
“Elisaf. Get the caster!”
“No.” I don’t need a caster. I need rest. But the prisoners … they need her.
Using every bit of strength I can scrape together, I lift my head. They’re still there, huddled and in shock. Three who were shot with arrows writhe on the ground. “Help them. Save them.”
With that, I succumb to the darkness.
I wake in a room, buried beneath wool blankets. Sunlight streams through a dormer window, cracked open to allow a cool, crisp morning breeze. My pillow prickles against my skin, its stuffing of bird feathers poking through the linen sham.
Gesine’s chair creaks as she stands, moving for a metal pitcher. “They had some last-minute vacancies in the inn above the tavern, so they could accommodate us.”
“I’ll bet they did,” I croak. How many guests never made it to their rooms last night? How many bodies did they have to clean up? “Please tell me that’s not ale you’re pouring.”
She laughs. “I think you’ll do better with water for now.”
My clothes hang near the hearth where a small fire burns.
“Borrowed from one of the barmaids,” Gesine explains when she sees me peering down at the modest nightgown someone changed me into while I was unconscious.
I struggle to sit up. Every muscle aches.
“The discomfort will ease soon,” Gesine promises, slipping the mug into my grasp. “A few more hours, and you will feel like yourself again.”
“I can’t feel my affinities.” The tiny, hard ball normally in my chest is nonexistent, the buzz so faint it’s barely noticeable.
“They do not run on an unlimited tap. You burned through them last night, and they need time to replenish. As you grow stronger and use your affinities more often, you will draw upon more before you empty. You have not reached your full potential yet. Far from it.”
The cool liquid is a balm for my parched throat. “I know what you mean about the threads now.”
“You felt it.”
“Yeah. With the fire.” I take another sip. “Where’s Ianca?”