Page 17 of Of Sword & Silver

Will wonders ever cease?

The woman—Kyrie, I mentally correct myself—is unpredictable. I would do well to keep that at the forefront of my mind, despite whatever tricks she has up her sleeve. Despite how different from Sola’s followers she pretends to be, the only reason Kyrie broke me out of Cottleside was to save her own hide.

That is the only truth that matters, and no matter what happens, that’s the fact I must cling to. I blink, swallowing heavily as I stare into the flames.

Kyrie’s securing the mule to a nearby tree, throwing a blanket over the beast and tending to it, cooing over its feet as she checks it for injuries and even sneaking the mule a long orange carrot.

Another memory assaults me, and my knuckles whiten as my hands clench into tight fists. A memory that hasn’t faded, not across dozens of human lifetimes, not across decades of service to Hrakan. Cruel, high-pitched laughter, dissonant against the sound of screams, the cracking of timbers and the scent of charred flesh and greasy smoke. My throat tightens, my pulse pounding, and I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the fire in front of me.

It does nothing to dull the memory of fire in my mind.

“We need to get you clothes,” Kyrie’s voice cuts through the noise of the past, clear as a bell. “A weapon, and some boots for sure. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” she muses. “I guess I was in too much of a hurry.”

I open my eyes, annoyed at the gratitude I feel towards her for interrupting my thoughts, her inanity cutting through the memories of that night, the night that changed everything.

“Your kind aren’t known for thinking of more than their own skin,” I finally say.

“Don’t hold back,” she says brightly, crouching before the flames, fanning her fingers out. “Wouldn’t want to be confused about how you really feel about me. That would be a tragedy.”

My irritation transforms into something violent and poisonous, rooting deep in me, finding all too willing anchors in my very bones.

“The tragedy is what your goddess has done to Heska. What she did to you and all the foundlings whose families were murdered, and what she did to—” I make myself close my mouth, staunching the flow of words.

It doesn’t staunch the wound, though.

Nothing ever will.

“On that delightful note,” Kyrie says, her green eyes flashing, her lush lips a thin pink slash across her face. “The food is ready. That is, if you’re done with your rant?” The question is sweet and light, but I hear the censure in it, the hard edge.

She sets the steaming pot on the snowy ground, producing a set of spoons. I raise an eyebrow, then decide merely asking her where she got them isn’t worth the effort of conversation. No doubt they’re from one of the satchels she pulled from her stash in the rocks.

No doubt all of it is stolen from some poor family who could hardly afford it.

I make myself eat anyway.

The first spoonful is scalding hot, searing the top of my tongue, but I don’t care. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in years. The food at Cottleside was… enough to keep me alive.

I’m nearly through the thick rabbit stew before I realize she’s barely eating, letting me take most of the food.

Shame fills me, and I drop the spoon in the pot.

I ate nearly all her food.

A glance over at her reminds me of who she is, though. Of who she will be to me, as well, and the shame’s incinerated, fury replacing it easily.

“You should eat,” I say gruffly.

“You need it more than I do,” Kyrie says simply, lacing her hands over her knees. “Besides, I lost my appetite in the sewer.”

I grunt, then shake my head. It doesn’t matter if I need it more. I’m not eating it. I’m not going to fall for her manipulations. All her kindness is feigned.

A lie, just as the disciples of her goddess taught her to do.

I stand quickly.

“Soap?” The thought of being clean and being able to sleep lying down, with a full stomach, is nearly more than I can bare.

She rummages through a leather pack, snow landing in her long, light brown lashes and hair. The flakes stand out like diamonds on the blood-red of her braid.

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