“You say strange things.” Zander leans in to press a close-mouthed kiss against my lips. His dark mood hasn’t lifted, and I know he’s still dwelling on the horrors of Kamstead and the doom it may foreshadow for Islor.
While I can’t fix that dilemma, I can offer him a temporary distraction. “I can do strange things too”—I nip his bottom lip—“if you’re nice to me later.”
The corner of his mouth curves. “That is intriguing.”
I feel the tiniest tug on my affinity.
All four pits ignite.
Darkness has arrived as Gesine and I walk back from Ianca’s grave toward the raging firepits, no doubt visible from any point in this basin. Gesine is still solemn, but her aura is lighter—more settled—than earlier in the day.
“Zander told me about Stonekeep.”
“He did?” She hums softly. “And what did he tell you? Allow me to guess. He said it was complete folly and we will find nothing there but disappointment?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“An Islorian king who has no use for prophecy. I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me.” A tiny, knowing smile touches her lips. “He is rather stubborn in that regard, but that will soon change.”
“You really believe there’s something there that will help Islor?”
Her green eyes flash. “Help? No. I believe there is something there that will save Islor.”
“Ybarisan!” Abarrane hollers, marching across the camp, a lengthy wooden stick in each hand.
I curse under my breath. The last thing I’m in the mood for is her saltiness. “What do you need?” I ask with forced patience.
She tosses one stick at me without warning.
I fumble but manage to catch it.
“The king wants me to train you.”
“Okay …” I search for Zander and find him talking to Fearghal. “Right now?”
“Yes.” Without warning, Abarrane launches herself at me, slamming the wooden sword out of my hand with hers before her foot lands square against my chest. I tumble backward and land flat on my back, struggling to inhale, my chest feeling like it’s caved in.
“Are you done already?” she taunts.
I focus on the smattering of stars as I wait for my breath to return and the pain to subside. Finally, I’m left with only a dull ache and my staggering rage.
“That’s not training, Abarrane!” I pull myself up to a sitting position with a curse. The well of power inside gurgles with anticipation, as if begging to be unleashed on her.
“But it is. Training is teaching.” She crouches beside me, the perpetual hostility in her eyes missing. “I am teaching you that you are still weak and vulnerable, and I am teaching my warriors that whatever else you may be, you are flesh and blood and can be killed.” Her gaze flickers to Zander, paused in his conversation and watching this unfold, before shifting back to me. “But that you can be one of us.”
Several of the legionaries loiter, Jarek among them. Is that what they want to do? Kill me?
Or is Abarrane saying this is part of the process to win them over?
“Fine, but can we do without the roundhouse kicks?”
Abarrane’s lips twist as she considers this. “I will handle you like one of the weak, little elven children from Cirilea.”
“It’s all I ask.” I heave myself to my feet with a wince.
Gesine lingers nearby. “If you are going to do this, I suggest you wear your ring.” Her voice carries that edge of warning.
I fish the gold band from my pocket and slip it on. It severs my link to my affinities instantly, leaving me feeling empty and exposed.
Abarrane twirls her wooden sword stick with ease. “You think a piece of jewelry will protect her, witch?”
Gesine stares coolly at her. “No, I am trying to protect all of you.”