Lightfall, p.11
Lightfall, page 11
“Do you mean losing your crown? Or nearly losing your life in Kalt Hasa?” For a long moment, they stared at one another. Then Mira added, “Tell me in your own words. Take all the time you need.”
Cistine bore down a steeling breath and made her mind like a fist, rolling her body forward, with determination centered and squared, into the blow—not toward herself or Mira, but toward Salvotor and all the things he did to break her, to lock her away in silent fear.
With a deft strike, she opened her mouth and let the truths spill out.
Cistine hardly noticed when the sunlight brushed low along the walls, when Sander’s other lovers brought soup for lunch, then pork sandwiches for dinner, or when Ariadne silently returned. She talked and talked, and whenever she was tempted to stop, a conjuring of Salvotor’s sneering face loosened her tongue again.
She told Mira of cold walls and dark stone, the balcony above the chasm, the Wound and the bathing chamber, the prison, the dining hall, and the hewn room. She told her of the people—leering Grimmaul with his cruel mouth and crueler touch, the quiet prisoners with only thin strands of defiance left in them, the Vassoran guards divided between their loyalties; of Dain’s bashful smiles, Krusar’s harsh laugh, Selanus and Suandi like twin tempests, Markvard’s quick wit and Baldvin’s unerring brashness.
When dusk hushed the world, she told Mira of Kristoff: of nobility clawing through nearly two decades of harsh stone and ruthless hurt, of a man with a compass around his neck who carried in his heart a dead valenar and two boys now grown into men.
“I’m alive because of him.” Her knee pressed tight to Ariadne’s as she bent forward and gripped the sides of her neck in both hands. “But I don’t feel like I’m really living.”
“You’re afraid to disappoint him?” Mira asked.
“I’m afraid I’m not honoring the sacrifice he made. He could’ve fled with us if he really tried. He could’ve seen Aden and Maleck again.” She hadn’t even let herself feel the deeper ache of missing him until now, another pain she shut out just to survive.
“But he didn’t flee. He placed your worth above his wants.” Mira tilted her head. “Do you feel you have to do something to be worthy of that? Or are you just worried about honoring his life?”
Cistine wiped her wet cheeks. “I’ve never wondered before.”
“No need to answer now. But think on it.” Mira stretched a kink from her back, and Cistine startled upright at the soft pop, realizing only then that Hana had built the fire back up and it was late, utterly black beyond the windows.
“Have I been talking all this time?” Embarrassment colored her cheeks. “Mira, I’m—”
“Don’t apologize. Thank me,” Mira said. “Apologizing unnecessarily will only make you feel inadequate. Don’t apologize for my time, thank me for it.”
Rubbing the heat from her face, Cistine said, “Thank you for listening. I thought if I talked about Kalt Hasa, it would make it easier to remember, and worse because I’d remember new things. But it’s not like that at all, it’s…” She spanned her hands, searching helplessly for the right word.
“Lighter,” Ariadne offered. “Because others carry the weight with you.”
Cistine nodded. “But without the nightmares.”
Unease coiled at the base of her spine, reminding her just how unexpectedly those bouts of panic could arise, but Mira interrupted with another question. “Tell me which season is your favorite.”
A storm of memories blew through her: gentle spring rains tapping her bedroom window in Astoria, everything budding to new life, her fingernails caked with fresh dirt; summer birthday galas and late evenings of firebug catching, hot hours of training on the rock top and rainstorms in the lower mountain crags; dark, moody autumn afternoons as heat and chill made war, the last gasps of summer dying out in puffs of copper leaves while the whole world smelled of cinnamon and pumpkin, and then—
“Winter,” she decided.
“Why?” Ariadne asked, brows drawn together.
Cistine grinned. “Because of the snow fights and spiced hot milk and plenty of time for reading and games. And I love the smell of the hearths in the Citadel, especially that first time when they burn off all the dust. Besides, the hush after a good, heavy snowfall…there’s nothing else like it.”
Mira’s eyes darted to Ariadne.
“Ice skating,” Ariadne murmured after a moment. “And dancing in the snowbursts, the kind where the sun still peeks through the clouds. Then your skirts and socks are soaked, so you dry out by the fire with a cup of hot cocoa and nothing to keep you company but books to read and papers to write.”
Smiling, Mira picked up her sandwich. “It seems you two have a bit more in common than trauma and stubbornness. And what is your favorite part of winter, Cistine?”
She didn’t know how this woman always sensed when there was some stone unturned. “Darlaska.”
Ariadne cocked her head. “What is that?”
Cistine told them of the festival of gifts honoring the gods’ love for people, spinning out her vivid memories of silver garlands and gold wreaths; the sea’s saltwater aroma mingling with the balsam and cedar from the vending booths; the ghostlit dapples splashing along the ice-crusted cobblestones and the frigid air cut by ringing fiddles and laughter from hundreds of mouths throughout the city.
Her city. Her people, for whom she was here, for whom she endured all of this…because they deserved every drop of sweat and blood she could shed to protect them.
When she talked herself breathless again, Ariadne squeezed her knee. “No one ever told us Talheim gave gifts.”
“There’s plenty we didn’t know about each other.” Cistine gripped her wrist gently in turn. “But you know, if it really will make you feel better, I could give you a gift for—”
Just as the words left her mouth, everything crystallized. Different thoughts all ran together, weaving into one beautiful tapestry of light and color, snow and cinnamon, silver and gold, laughter and joy.
“Why are you grinning at me like that?” Ariadne demanded.
Cistine leaped to her feet, too giddy to sit still any longer. “No reason!”
“Wait a moment, Cistine,” Mira laughed. “I have an assignment for you: practice describing Darlaska to yourself whenever your mind needs to retreat. And don’t stay at the surface…go deep. Tell yourself the way the ghostpoles glint on the snow. Describe the gifts on the carts, the taste of the tea you buy. Paint it broadly, then add detail. Can you do that?”
Cistine cocked her head. “Do you really think it will help?”
“Yes. There are other things that may help, too—an anchor, something you can touch or hold to remind yourself where you are, and that you’re safe. Think on what that could be.”
“I will,” she smiled. “Thank you again for listening.”
“It’s what I do best.” Mira winked. “Goodnight, both of you.”
Ariadne dipped her head and slipped from the room; Cistine was close on her heels, but another thought tugged her to a halt on the threshold, looking back. “Mira?”
“Hmmm?” She’d turned her gaze to the fire, but swiveled now on the sofa, paying Cistine her full attention.
“What do you think I could do about…bad feelings? Not about anything specific, just a sense I can’t shake.”
Mira rolled her lips inward, a thoughtful frown sketching her brow. “I always try to find the root of a feeling before I start to solve it. After all, pain from a broken bone and a broken heart come from different places, though they often hurt the same. You need to know what feeling you’re facing before you know how to address it properly. You can’t put a bandage on a broken heart or talk away a broken bone.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Cistine tapped her fingers on the silky wooden doorframe.
Mira was silent for a moment, then added gently, “If you’d like, we can discuss this at your next visit. In the meanwhile, I’d seek the source of whatever you’re feeling. We can begin there.”
Relief peeled her shoulders back slightly. “I think I can manage that on my own. Thank you, Mira.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
Cistine ducked from the room, tugging the door shut, and turned to face Ariadne who waited in the hall, watching with solemn, narrowed eyes. “Are you all right?”
“For now, at least, and that’s better than anything since Kalt Hasa.” Cistine blew out a long breath. “I should go back to my room.”
“Wait, Logandir.” Ariadne’s sober tone halted her halfway down the corridor. “I want you to know my heart hurts with yours for everything Salvotor made you endure—and for how you stood fast, not only for your kingdom, but for ours. Chancellors and Tribunes might debate what Talheim would suffer for Valgard, but that is no longer a question in my mind. Its princess laid down her life for us. I will never forget that and I will never stop being grateful for it.”
Tears stroked Cistine’s lashes. “Well, I had a good example to follow.”
They embraced in the quiet, legs licked by shadows, the moon’s thin beams tumbling from windows high above; and in that dim pocket where no other eyes saw, the bond between them, always tenuous, grew another cord of understanding.
“So,” Cistine sniffled when they pulled apart. “Ice skating?”
Ariadne laughed. “Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She ducked from Ariadne’s grip and made her way back to the bedchamber corridor alone; but for once, she didn’t mind the long, lonely quiet. Her heart was lighter than it had been in some time, and the thought of sleep didn’t make her so uneasy.
It wasn’t until her hand touched her door that she heard the weeping.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ROSEBUSHES SLIT OPEN Thorne’s bare arms as he plunged through the undergrowth, bleeding and gasping, every inch of him throbbing; but he didn’t care about any of it. Nothing mattered except reaching her.
He burst into the open, skidding to a halt on Spruce Harbor’s shore where Stornhaz’s craggy skyline met the cavern walls of Kalt Hasa. Waves licked his legs, the salt burning like fire as he watched the small skiff sail away from him, carrying Cistine to her death. His father’s cruel laughter rent the air.
“No!” Thorne’s voice shattered around the shout. “Let her go, let her—Cistine!”
It was already too late. Blood pumped from her stomach around the handle of Grimmaul’s knife, tears of agony streaming down her face. She screamed for him, the cracked sob breaking his heart with it; he waded in despite the hopelessness, the current towing against him, whispering cruel truths with every ebb and flow.
You’ll never reach her. You’ll never fix this. You will never be enough.
“Thorne.”
Disbelief jerked him to a halt, treading water as he swirled around to face the woman on the shore. She gazed at him with soft, sorrowful eyes beneath a heavy-lined brow, the wind in the cavern-harbor barely stirring her silver hair. Desperate, he held her stricken stare, torn between his two greatest loves—one moving away from him, the other already gone. “Baba, help me! Help me save her!”
“There’s nothing I can do.” Baba Kallah’s eyes held the familiar sadness of their last farewell. “This only ends one way. Either you stand alone, Starchaser—”
Cursing, Thorne plunged forward into the waves, kicking out for the skiff. Fear bore him forward on its own current until his fingers caught the splintered wooden edge. He hauled himself aboard, pulling Cistine into his arms, hands plunging uselessly into the tide of blood. This time it was only him, and the current spoke true.
He was not enough. He couldn’t save her.
“Or you fall together.” Salvotor’s gleeful voice spoke above them as he stepped around the skiff’s mast, dagger in hand—and brought the blade down through the top of Thorne’s skull.
Agony shot from his head down through his shoulders. The breath rushed from his chest all at once. He felt his own heart stop beating.
“Thorne!”
He thrashed awake to hands on his shoulders, pinning him down. His father’s hands. His father’s blade—
In one deft movement he was up, slinging the dagger from under his pillow and flipping himself and his attacker, bringing his weapon sailing for their unguarded neck.
A scream broke around his Name—just like in his dream.
The knife halted mid-arc. Thorne blinked wildly, bringing to clarity the face beneath his: hickory hair spread out on his pillow, mouth agape, green eyes wide.
Horror unlocked his fingers from around the knife’s grip. He hurled it into the corner of the room and shoved himself away from her, shakes plunging from his stiff shoulders all the way through his knees. “Cistine? Stars—stars, I thought you were…”
It didn’t matter what he thought. He’d attacked her.
She propped herself up shakily among his pillows. “You were having a nightmare.”
“That’s no excuse, I could have killed you.”
Bile climbed his throat. He rolled from the bed and ducked into the bathing chamber, kicking the door shut, plunging to his knees and vomiting into the chamberpot. With every heave, he saw her lying terror-struck beneath him, his knife cleaving toward her neck; and he felt his father’s dagger cleaving into his head, bone giving way beneath it, the sudden silence in his chest when his heart stuttered to a stop.
This only ends one way.
He curled his arm across the bucket, shuddering and spitting, resting his forehead against his wrist.
Either you stand alone…or you fall together.
The door squeaked open. Featherlight footfalls padded on the stone. Then Cistine’s hand slid down his back and her forehead touched his spine. “It’s not your fault. I have them, too.”
Her brow bumped his back five times. You are not alone here.
The spike of a different heat through his muscles made it difficult not to turn and ask for permission to taste those words on her lips. Instead they knelt together in the dark, neither one moving or speaking, until the last dregs of nausea faded and Thorne shifted to sit cross-legged. Cistine moved with him, hand falling from his back. “Do you want to tell me about it, or do you want a distraction?”
“I’d like to go for a walk.” The one escape he never had, trapped in the apartment with his father.
“I’ll go with you.”
He could scarcely believe she wanted to. But she accepted the armored jacket he offered her from his closet, and they left the courthouse together.
The night was molten dark, crusted with stars and cold enough to sting despite the day’s earlier warmth. They wandered aimlessly for a time, basking in the freedom forgotten in Kalt Hasa. Fresh air had never tasted sweeter, but memories still stabbed Thorne’s calves, twinging in the muscles even when he stuffed his hands in his pockets and elongated his stride to escape them.
Cistine matched his pace effortlessly. “Do you want to hear about my meeting with Mira today?”
He nearly choked on relief. “Please.”
She told him about her recounting of Kalt Hasa and the coping methods Mira counseled her to try. Her tone was steady, peaking only twice with nervous energy; then she slid effortlessly into explaining the festival of Darlaska—something that made her shine the way only books usually did.
“And I was thinking,” she added, almost shyly, “maybe the cabal could celebrate Darlaska together. We could decorate Kanslar’s wing and the garden, and exchange gifts. If that wouldn’t be strange.”
“Not at all,” Thorne said. “It might even help prove to the Courts our kingdoms are more alike than they seem.”
She grinned up at him, the easiest smile he’d seen in weeks. “Thank you.”
“You don’t owe me any thanks.” His hand twitched, yearning to touch her, but he restrained himself. “I’m proud of you. You’ve taken these steps into those dark places, confronting the shadow my father casts. It’s not an easy feat.”
“How did you do it, after you came to Hellidom?”
Thorne towed a hand through his hair. “Baba Kallah and I spent hours, whole days, even, discussing what happened. What was done to us. There was a place we would go, a small cabin south of Hellidom. We would spend days talking…or not talking. I’d hit things. Break the walls. She would cry and scream. Then we would go back to the Den and be calmer for a few months until it boiled up again. So we would go back.”
Cistine gaped at him. “Baba Kallah screamed?”
“The worst Old Valgardan obscenities.” He smirked. “She taught me words I wouldn’t repeat in Tatiana’s presence, even.”
“Teach me.” Cistine’s eyes sparkled. “I want a repertoire of things to call Talheimic Lords under my breath when they undermine me.”
He arched a brow. “Don’t you think your kingdom will have a low enough opinion of my influence over you before I teach you to curse like a Valgardan warrior?”
“It can be our secret.”
Chuckles plumed from him, easing the tight knot in his chest. “Someday. I’ll make you Baba Kallah’s successor, the most prolific foul-mouth in the Three Kingdoms.”
Cistine giggled, too, but sadness stamped her eyes. “How long did you and Baba Kallah keep going back to that cabin?”
Thorne squinted up at the stars. “Five years. When Aden left, I couldn’t disappear anymore.”
She looked down at his knuckles, still bruised after their meeting with the Chancellors. “Maybe you need to hit things again. Maybe it will help with…everything.”
“I’ve tried. I’ve trained with Aden. I’ve trained alone. I’ve pummeled the walls in my room until my knuckles bled. It doesn’t help. I think because it was never about the blows, it was Baba Kallah.”
“Because she knew. She walked in that darkness with you so you could find the light together.”
And now he felt alone, adrift like a skiff in bitter water, even with his cabal around him.
Not enough. You’ll never fix this.
They traveled another block in silence before the way became familiar, a recognition that jolted Thorne from ten years of memories and misery. He hadn’t come this way in so long, but if hazy recollection served…
