Zander’s attention drifts over the horde of waiting legionaries. “My only regret is that I had to leave you last night. And now.” He meets my gaze just long enough to show me the sincerity in his words before he hoists his body onto his horse. “We need to move.” He canters away.
I grit my teeth to keep the foolish grin from emerging.
Pan is waving me over to the forest-green wagon adorned with swirls of gold detail where his scrawny frame is crammed onto one side of the driver’s bench. The emblem on his thumb sparkles every time he moves his hand. He didn’t make a sound when Gesine emblazoned it into his flesh. In the end, the rush was unnecessary. The subject of Pan’s fate never came up with Rengard, unless he and Zander spoke about it on their walk. But now he’s marked with a symbol familiar to Mordain, though its meaning remains a mystery.
“I’ve never ridden in the front of a wagon before!” He gestures to the burly mortal driver who takes up most of the seat. “This is Bregen.”
The man bows his head. “Your Highness.”
I climb into the back of the windowless wagon, packed with animal hides and spare clothing, the smell of tanned leather pungent. Ianca is curled up in soft gray furs, her head propped on Gesine’s lap as the caster strokes her forehead, much like a mother might console an ill child.
Tears roll down Gesine’s cheeks. A rare display of emotion from the otherwise emotionless caster.
What must it be like to watch someone you love fade away like this? To have this immense healing power flowing through your veins and be powerless to stop death?
“Little nymphs. So many of them running around now,” Ianca babbles, her eyes shuttering. “One spark, two sparks, a thousand sparks …” Within moments, she’s drifted off, either naturally or more than likely with Gesine’s help.
The wagon jolts forward and I half sit, half fall into my spot before shifting to get comfortable. “Why does she keep talking about nymphs?”
Gesine swipes her palm across her cheeks. “Because that is what courses through these Islorian immortals. The nymph affinity.” She slides out from beneath Ianca, tucking a pillow under the seer’s head. “The blood curse robs them of their natural elven connection to the world, but when they are conceived on Hudem—Wendeline explained how they produce offspring, did she not?”
“On the stone in the nymphaeum. With an audience.”
“That would not be my preference either.” She chuckles. “Nonetheless, these children are born with nymph power. A glimmer of it, the tiniest spark. Much weaker than the affinity their Ybarisan cousins possess.”
That’s why Ianca called Jarek weak. “Does that make them nymphs, then?”
“No. Well, not the nymphs as we believe we know them to be. Those creatures were said to be powerful and diabolical, prone to inspiring chaos. So much so that the fates confined them behind that door.”
“And now Malachi wants to let them out.”
She bites her bottom lip. “What Malachi wants is all still speculation at this point. Come now, we have a long way to go, and I believe you owe me a great tale about Romy Watts of New York City.”
“And you plucked it off her neck, just like that. In front of everyone.”
“They were too busy watching the bride and groom’s first dance.” The twelve-carat diamond collar necklace, with a Tiffany’s price tag of over $200,000, slipped off the mother-of-the-bride’s neck like a snake uncoiling from a tree branch. “I stuck it in my pocket, grabbed a slice of cake, and walked out.”
“Fascinating.” Gesine’s eyes twinkle with genuine intrigue. She’s listened for hours as I downloaded twenty-one years’ worth of tragedy and sorrow, of a girl struggling to climb out of the deep hole destiny tossed her into, only to be kicked back down. By the time Pan pops his head through the small window to announce that we’re stopping for the night, I’ve described at least a dozen jewelry heists, and Gesine hasn’t shared an ounce of judgment for my crimes.
Ianca hasn’t stirred since we left the farm this morning, but now her lips move with low, unintelligible mutters.
“Don’t worry. I’m here.” Gesine smooths hair off the seer’s forehead. “We’re stopping for the night.”
“I am growing weak,” Ianca whispers.
“Surely a stew or porridge will help.”
The seer’s wrinkled, gnarled hand fumbles to grasp Gesine’s. “So good to me. Always so good. Even with all the trouble I’ve caused.”
I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment. “I’ll go find Eden. She’ll know what there is to eat.” And hopefully, I’ll also find another exchange with Zander. I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind all day, and aside from the brief midday stop at a river, I haven’t caught so much as a glimpse.
I push on the wagon door, and it creaks open.
The hilly landscape on our journey to Bellcross has given way to flat plains, fields of golden wheat and late corn swaying in the breeze. The sun has dipped past the horizon, and the air is noticeably chillier than last night. Elisaf said that would be the case as we move farther north.
Pan, Brawley, and a handful of legionaries lead horses to a nearby stream for watering. No one has started a fire, though, and the tents remain packed.
Eden’s long, silky blond hair catches my eye. She’s over by the makeshift corral.