Page 23 of Of Sword & Silver

Alarm colors the thought.

Banishing it, I turn towards the snow-covered utensils from our meal last night, packing everything up neatly. Humming to myself as I work, I try to remember what little I learned about the Fae war. My mother used to hold me close on her lap, smelling of baked bread and lavender, whispering tales about long-dead Fae warriors as the fire crackled in the hearth in front of us. If I close my eyes, I can hear her voice, feel her fingers as she combed and braided my hair.

All I can remember, though, is what she told me every night before I closed my eyes.

“I want you to fly, little bird. I want you to soar.”

I wish I could remember her face.

I wish I could see her again.

A lump forms in my throat, and I hold on to the feel of her warm fingers in my hair for a moment longer before it vanishes as quickly as it came.

Heaving a sigh, I continue working. She would want me to fight this curse. She would want me to live.

Determination stiffens my shoulders.

The Sword makes quick work of the tent, and between the two of us, the camp empties, Mushroom whickering as I load him down with packs full of my ill-gotten goods.

The Sword might look down on my particular skillset, but he certainly isn’t averse to making use of everything I’ve stolen.

I file that fact away for later, ready to shove it under his nose at just the right moment.

A gleeful grin spreads across my face at the heartening thought, and I even manage to sing a little under my breath as I finish strapping everything onto my trusty mule.

“The sparrow flits from tree to tree,

sorrow in her song.

For her babes were taken cruelly,

winter’s latest wrong.”

I stop singing, leaning my forehead against Mushroom’s warm neck. Poor bird.

Snow covers my fur-lined boots as I pivot, my heart oddly heavy. Snow—fresh and white and pure, sparkling in the weak winter sunlight—blankets everything, drifts of it weighing down every branch.

Was I ever like that? Fresh? Pure?

Maybe it’s not worth it—this quest to find a cure, the time I’ll spend with another who so clearly despises me. Maybe I deserve it—the curse and his hatred both. Maybe I should give up, take up drinking in earnest, and wallow until the curse is well and truly set.

“I want you to fly, little bird.”

My mother wouldn’t want me to give up. My family would have wanted me to live.

“Second thoughts?”

I startle as I realize the Sword’s watching me carefully, his muscled arms bulging as he crosses them over his chest.

Strange how the question knocks me right out of my dismal reverie.

“If I don’t take care of myself, no one else will.” It’s not a real answer, and it makes me feel indescribably small to say it out loud. No one else will.

I might be sworn to the goddess of chaos and lies, but it’s the largest truth of my existence.

For a long time, I’ve been the only one who’s really cared about me. I’m too stubborn to give up now.

I suck in a breath of freezing air, so cold it bites at my lungs, my shoulders heaving.

---