by Jamie Foley
Brooke cleared her throat in an attempt to regain her composure. She forced a smile for a concerned Iraleth. “Shall we?”
Iraleth led them in the opposite direction down a thickly wooded trail. The sticks of a tall tipi stuck up through the underbrush, shrouding the stretched leather and furs with natural camouflage. A wooden platform elevated the tipi from the ground. Brooke examined the smoke flaps at the top and made a mental note to gather firewood before nightfall.
“Here we are. It’s not fit for a chief, but I’m afraid it’s the best we have to offer at the moment.” Iraleth rested a hand on her pregnant belly with an apologetic smile. “Dinner will be served in about an hour. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can fetch for you.”
Brooke thanked her as she left. Modest accommodations would be a welcome change, and definitely safer than sleeping alongside the road.
Nariellyn crooned at how “cute” the tipi was as Brooke ducked through the tent flap and ensured her pack wouldn’t catch on the folded entrance. Wooden supports extended upward to hang five empty hammocks. Beside each hammock sat a small table with shelves, topped with animal figurines a child might have made and painted with berry juices and charcoal. Ashes sat in a stone fire pit in the center.
She wondered how long Coriander’s men had lived here. When she’d seen tipis on diplomatic missions, they normally didn’t have permanent fixtures like platforms to hold them aloft from insects that skittered along the ground at night. Especially the guest accommodations.
“. . . listening?” Nariellyn pouted as Brooke tuned back in. Her friend swung herself in a hammock, pushing against the supports with her toes as she stretched.
“Sorry.” Brooke chose a hammock across the wide space and set her pack down. She tested the woven hammock before lying down. It felt . . . lovely. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scents of tropical flowers and leather tanning oil. The air was thicker this deep in the jungle. Packed full of moisture and life. Even the crude animal miniatures were a lively and amusing change from the ornate works of art in the chief’s quarters.
Nariellyn was quiet for a long moment. “You seem . . . conflicted.”
Brooke released a long breath and refused to open her eyes. “Just enjoying the moment.”
“So we’re going to pretend that didn’t just happen, huh?”
Brooke’s brow furrowed. She pulled an arm up to rest it over her eyes. “We’re in a beautiful place. A safe place. Coriander has basically already agreed to everything I’d hoped. And there’s nothing I can do about anything else right now, so I’m going to take a moment of rest.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
Brooke smirked and peeked an eye out. “Shut up. I rest sometimes.”
“Yeah, like every other equinox.” Nariellyn pulled a deerskin over herself and snuggled in. “Can you at least acknowledge how awful Heron is?”
Brooke dropped her arm back down over her eyes. “Darkwood culture is different than ours. He’s honoring me by respecting our customs.”
Nariellyn chuffed. “It’s not just that. Lysander—”
“Emberhawk don’t require marriage or engagement at all,” Brooke interrupted.
“But Lysander wouldn’t—”
“Enough, Nari! For the love of the stars.” Brooke struggled to temper her frustration. “I refuse to have this conversation again. What’s done is done, no matter what you think about it.”
A long moment of silence followed. Then, “I just don’t want my best friend to be miserable for the rest of her life.”
“I understand that. And I appreciate it. But it’s not your choice or your place. And you constantly complaining about it is driving me mad.”
Though Brooke saw only darkness, she could feel her friend’s hurt from across the space. Still, her words had been true. And if Nariellyn pestered her one more time, she might explode without as much control.
“Yes, Chieftess,” Nariellyn muttered. Brooke heard her roll out of her hammock, stride to the entrance, and open the flap.
“Wait,” Brooke called as she lifted her arm. “Do one thing for me, please.”
Nariellyn glared back at her with thinly veiled anger.
“Go speak with Soaring Heron.”
Disgust slid into Nariellyn’s expression, followed by disbelief. “Is that an order?”
“It’s a request.” Brooke stared up at the trees through the tipi’s smoke opening. “I need to talk to Lysander, and I don’t want Heron to catch us together.”
Nariellyn’s eyes lit in surprise. “I thought . . . Okay.” She glanced outside, then back to Brooke. “How much time do you need?”
“Maybe ten minutes. Please.”
Nariellyn left without another word.
Brooke took a deep breath, savoring the clean jungle air as she recalled the elder’s words: “ . . . tell Lysander goodbye. Acknowledge whatever he is to you, or whatever he was. Then you must let him go. Clear your mind. For the sake of our people.”
Well, she’d botched every part of that order. She’d tried to tell him goodbye in the prison and then promptly been poisoned.
She had no idea what love truly was, so acknowledging it seemed impossible. Surely she hadn’t actually loved Lysander as a teenager. She didn’t have the balembas in her stomach as most girls did, which was an entirely stupid and unhelpful description. She’d never swooned over anything in her life except for a well-made spear or blade. And just because she could appreciate a handsome man didn’t mean her brain would fly out her ears at the sight of one.
But she could acknowledge that she felt some sort of bond with Lysander. It was probably nothing more than the aether bond that she’d so foolishly forged years ago. When the Sacrificial War broke out and their marriage alliance was severed, she hadn’t been able to break off whatever feelings had started for Lysander. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, even though he’d suddenly become the son of her father’s enemy. And a detestable spoiled prince at that.
So she’d decided to hate him instead.
It had seemed to work at first. She’d smothered any feelings of affection at the thought of him with loathing instead. Crushed any positive thoughts with the reality of the situation: the brutality of the Emberhawk monarchy and their evil goddess. They sacrificed anyone they deemed dangerous or worthless on their golden altar, draining their blood and siphoning the Phoera syn within to empower themselves. It was so vile that Brooke’s father had gone to war to stop it after a band of Katrosi merchants had been accused of trespassing and sacrificed. Thus, the Sacrificial War.
But Lysander didn’t represent that any more. He’d done what he could to stop Zamara and subvert her attack on Jadenvive. No one hated the former elemental queen more than he did. She’d wrecked the Emberhawk royal family and taken Lysander’s hearing years before she’d set her sights on Jadenvive. Brooke couldn’t fault him for any of that.
Now that Lysander had suddenly reappeared in Brooke’s life, all of her former feelings tumbled back in a confusing mess. Her default reaction of hatred had won without her realizing it, and she’d treated him with more vitriol than he deserved.
She owed him an apology for that. Especially after he’d saved her life. And how he’d agreed to help her cause, even after her people had sentenced him to death.
The slate should be swept clean. Lysander deserved that much, and Brooke couldn’t make sense of her situation without a return to neutral ground. If she could let go of whatever old feelings she had for him—positive, negative, or ambiguous—then she could finally clear her mind as the elder had instructed.
Brooke forced herself from the hammock, assuring her tired bones that its comfort would be hers tonight. Then she could take her boots off, too.
She peeked out of the tent flap. Only the thin trail, nearby spike wall, and distant tipis could be seen among the trees. She slipped out. Snuck to the foliage. Wished Ryon were here to share his expert invisibility.
Hadn’t Coriander poin
ted out the healer’s hut to Lysander when they’d arrived? Perhaps Lysander wanted to restock on his supply of herbs. Maybe he was there now.
“Where are you going?”
Brooke nearly jumped out of her leather armor. She whirled toward the sound of Dimbae’s voice.
He stood among the trees, not ten feet from her, waiting for her response.
Brooke straightened. “You’re a little closer than usual.”
His dark face remained flat. “I have reason to believe you require a tighter guard as of late.”
“You don’t trust Coriander’s band?” she whispered.
“I don’t trust anyone,” Dimbae said. “But they are not to whom I was referring.”
A sick feeling flopped like a dying fish in Brooke’s stomach. He could only mean Heron.
“Thank you, but I will not require . . . overnight protection. I want you to get plenty of sleep.”
Dimbae remained as still as the trunk he stood beside. “Then I will take shifts with Lysander, if you truly mean to make him one of your guard.”
Brooke bit the inside of her cheek. She certainly didn’t intend to offer Lysander such a position long-term, and she doubted he’d want to become an azure mask even if she offered. But she didn’t want to tell Dimbae that right now and have him guard her alone night and day.
“That’s not necessary,” Brooke said. “I’m going to speak with Lysander now.” She patted the dagger sheath on her belt. “I’ll be fine, really. Please go and relax. We all need some rest, and yours is well-deserved.”
He just stared at her for a long minute. Finally, he bowed. “As you wish.”
“Hey,” she called as he turned away. “Thank you. For everything. I’ll get you back to your family soon.”
Dimbae’s rigid stance eased. “Thank you, but they are safe. I am here to serve as long as you need me.” He vanished into the greenery.
Brooke removed her gloves and flexed her fingers, trying to shake her tension out with them. She stuffed her gloves in a pocket and moved in the direction she guessed the healer’s hut might be. Nariellyn would hopefully be distracting Heron by now. She had ten minutes.
The encampment was so heavily wooded that sneaking between buildings didn’t seem too difficult, even without the Phoera element. The land seemed waterlogged, but there were still leaves to crackle or soggy spots to squish, so she moved with caution. Soon she found a sort of wigwam surrounded by herb plots, raised garden beds, and hanging baskets with vines trailing down their edges. An herbalist, to be sure—most of these plants were more medicinal than they were edible.
Lysander was nowhere in sight.
Now what?
She felt like a child. What was she doing, sneaking around as if she were up to no good? Was she going to act like this every time Heron didn’t approve of something?
Brooke mentally kicked herself. She would talk to Lysander because it was the right thing to do, and she wouldn’t apologize for it. She had an aether bond with Lysander—whether she liked it or not—and she could use it to her advantage now.
Aether surged at her command, swirling through her like a mist. Gentle but eager to be used.
Lysander?
Hey.
Brooke turned in the direction she sensed his thought-voice originating from. Can I speak with you for a moment?
Do you have permission from your Darkwood?
Brooke gritted her teeth. No, and I do not require it.
Her mind fell quiet for a moment. Then she heard, All right.
Where are you? she asked.
I found a spring by the herbalist.
Brooke noticed the downward slope of the earth to her right. She ensured no one watched as she stepped onto the path and followed Lysander’s aether signature. It felt faint and dark, somehow, yet with a warm hue, if aether could have color. Deep red, perhaps. Calm and steady. It had to be him.
Ferns sprang up to ankle-height as she walked, tickling her pants and split riding skirt with delicate fronds. She heard the spring before she saw it, trickling with a soft melody. Lysander sat at the edge of a small pond, surrounded by pouches and bowls with organized reagents. He worked with a mortar and pestle and acknowledged Brooke’s arrival with a nod.
She focused on her balance as she approached over slick moss-covered stones. Your thought-speak is much improved.
“I have Nariellyn to thank for that,” Lysander said aloud.
Brooke nodded, but he wasn’t looking at her. What are you doing?
“Making a modified version of my antidote,” Lysander said. “I ran out of a few herbs recently.”
Brooke winced and hoped he didn’t see it. He was probably referring to the dreamthistle remedy he’d been supplying her. The one she’d scorned back at the Great Hall.
I can pay you, Brooke offered.
“No need.”
Brooke chewed on the inside of her cheek. Thank you again for saving my life. I probably haven’t seemed very appreciative.
“It’s fine.”
Silence.
Brooke swallowed hard, but her trepidation remained. Listen, I . . . I owe you an apology.
Lysander glanced up at her with curious maroon eyes. His pestle didn’t stop its rhythmic grinding.
Brooke looked away. She stepped closer and sat on a rock nearby, letting her boots dip into the pure water.
She took a deep breath. Told herself to just force it out and be done with it. She was used to stamping down on her pride while dealing with foreign dignitaries. So why was it so difficult now?
When we were younger, I didn’t know how to break my bond with you when the war broke out. So I started . . . hating you instead. It felt idiotic to admit, especially considering her thoughts might be accompanied by a rising mess of emotions. She felt her cheeks heating. I’ve been awful to you without really realizing that. An old bad habit. And I’m sorry.
“You’ve been under a lot of stress,” Lysander said as he added more leaves to his mortar. “Too much for one person.”
No, that’s not an excuse, Brooke insisted. Leaders shouldn’t take their stress out on anyone. Especially someone who’s gone so far out of their way to help.
Lysander paused his work for a moment. “I think we both know our history is too complicated to expect a normal relationship.” He set to grinding once again. “It’s all right. I’ve grown accustomed to much worse.”
Brooke grimaced. I won’t treat you that way any more. I’m sorry. I really appreciate everything you’ve done. She watched the water coax mud from her boots and carry it away in the lazy current. I want a blank slate between us.
Lysander tilted his head, the splotchy sunlight accentuating his short black beard as he examined her. “Okay, then. I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.”
Brooke almost asked what to forgive him for, since nothing recent sprang to mind. He must mean his past. All of it.
That shouldn’t be too hard to release him from at this point. He’d been a teenager, after all. If she’d had the same pampering as a youth, she’d probably have acted the same.
I forgive you, Brooke thought, and as soon as the words left her, she sensed a new awkward peace between them. Fragile and hesitant.
Lysander’s slow grin lit his features in a way she’d never seen before. “All right, then.” He poured the crushed herbs from his pestle into a cup, then reached out to the pure spring water. The water tossed inside the vessel as it filled, then suddenly steamed in his grip.
He handed her the cup. “Your last dose. Then you should be fully recovered from the dreamthistle.” His gaze flicked from her forehead to beneath her eyes to her fingernails like a wise matron checking her feverish granddaughter for symptoms.
Brooke took the tea and savored the warmth between her hands. The steam smelled of honey and mint as she breathed it in. I thought I’d recovered days ago.
“That’s because you have an expert herbalist.” Lysander winked as he rubbed his tools clean in the pond. “It normall
y isn’t so pleasant.”
Remembering how she’d felt upon being poisoned, Brooke imagined that was true. She took a drink and was taken aback by the delightful mix of sweet citrus and berries. It tasted more like a cup from the kitchen of the Great Hall than medicine.
“It’s delicious,” Brooke said, taking another sip before she remembered he couldn’t hear her.
But he was watching her reaction with a slight grin. “Good.” He lifted a small branch from his collection of dried herbs and began stripping it of leaves.
It’s different than before, Brooke thought to him. Did the herbalist have what you needed?
“Not everything.” Lysander carefully dropped the leaves into the mortar, then repeated the process with another twig. “What you’re drinking is missing the most powerful reagent—I ran out. It’s rare, but I’ve got more growing at my grandmother’s pyramid.”
Brooke wondered if he meant the grandmother on his royal side or his Valinorian side, then recalled that Valinorians lived in castles, not pyramids. So he must mean the former Queen Lyzelle, if Brooke remembered the Emberhawk monarchy family tree correctly.
Lysander continued. “So I added ginger rhizome for your stress and joyberries for taste instead.”
Brooke nearly protested that she didn’t need anything for stress, but stopped and scolded herself for nearly denying it. Why fight a fact that was apparently plain for all to see? She hadn’t realized how tight the muscles in her back and neck were until she’d relaxed on that hammock. The thought of a quiet moment with this tea and that hammock was worth fantasizing over. Her burdens were being relieved one by one, from arriving safely at Coriander’s camp and his favor toward the Alliance to a fresh beginning with Lysander—something she never thought she’d have. Surely that deserved a celebratory respite until tonight’s dinner. Maybe she could even take a nap.
She took and released a deep breath, relishing the warmth of the tea in her hands and the steam on her chin. Thank you. The spring bubbled quietly as she paused. I need to apologize for one more thing.
“Hmm.” Lysander raised an eyebrow. “Unfortunately you’ve already met your quota for that today. Apologies don’t suit you.”