Page 67 of Bloodguard

He’s curled into himself, the blanket Neela knitted covering his skeletal frame as he stares blankly at my face. His hazed eyes widen with recognition, and he reaches out for my hand.

Vitor, who has decided to follow me after all, places his hand on my shoulder. “Be careful. He might hurt you.”

I shake my head. Failing state or not, my papa couldn’t hurt a stinkfly. And he definitely wouldn’t hurt me.“Hi, Papa,” I say in an uncertain voice. I smile, cupping his hand gently.“Hi, Papa,” I say again.

I turn my hands so he can hold them in both of his.

His long gray beard tapers around his face in smooth strands, brushed to a shine—no doubt by Father, who Giselle says visits daily. Besides feeding him, it’s the only way Father has left to express his love. It doesn’t sound like much, but it is everything to Father, and maybe to Papa, too.

Right on time, a kitchen servant bustles down the steps and offers me a wooden bowl filled with stew. Steam from the soup rises in a cloud in the frigid air. I reach into the pocket deep in my skirt and remove a potion embedded with herbs that should help his appetite.

“Thank you,” I tell the kindly troll, whom I recognize from our days in the castle.

My smile dwindles when I look up at Vitor standing beside me.

His features are hard like the stones lining this dungeon. He doesn’t seem to want to speak. No, that’s not it. He doesn’t want me here at all.

I’ve stayed away because I was told Papa had asked for me not to visit, but after my conversation with Soro earlier, I decided to come anyway. Maybe he doesn’t want me to see him like this, but if he changed his mind and decided he wants me here after all, he’s too weak to even speak the words now. Tears blur my vision as I dip the spoon in the bowl.

Vitor’s attention sways between Papa and me as I feed my father. I talk to him about what I’ve done since the last time I saw him. I tell him of Giselle and the estrellas and how Father and Neela have taken up chess again. I don’t talk about Leith, not with Vitor standing over my shoulder. When I wipe Papa’s lips with the hem of my robe, a rat scurries up his shoulder, and two more on the opposite side.

“Did you make friends, Papa?” I ask.

My father has always had a special connection with small animals. All of our estrellas followed him home. My grandmother had a similar one with birds. He must have bonded with these little creatures. Good. I don’t want him to be alone.

Evidently convinced I’m in no danger, or maybe just bored by our one-sided conversation, Vitor leaves us and climbs the stairs, his footsteps growing fainter as he nears the top.

I don’t realize I’m crying until Papa pats my tears with a section of his beard. But then he releases his beard to trace my scars as if he’s never seen them before. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “They don’t hurt.”

I hold Papa’s hand and stare into his glazed eyes. “I swear I’ll get you out,” I promise.

There’s no response from him as I say my farewell and kiss his cheek, and my heart feels as empty as the rows of cells lining the corridor.

I rise to leave, but Papa’s voice, gravelly from years of disuse, holds me in place. “Bye, Maeve. Love, Maeve.”

I freeze, tears dripping over each syllable I manage. “I love you, too, Papa.”

chapter 25

Leith

I shadow Maeve for several hours through Arrow’s main market in Ellehna Square. Caelen or Giselle must have reported back to her about our barracks visit yesterday, because we’ve been winding through the crowded market for hours now, in search of herbs and plants. What seems like every variety of them.

I’m alert to anyone who might harm her. It feels unnecessary—the people of Arrow are far less a threat to their princess than her own noble class—but old habits die hard.

Maeve seems distracted, her eyebrows drawn together and her lips pressed thin. She’s different today. Sad or frustrated, maybe.

I’m not sure what changed her mood, and though I’m of a mind to ask, sometimes we need to hold fast to our grief and anger. It gives us the strength to do the things we need to do.

And Maeve does alotof things, I’m learning.

She gathers whole handfuls of dried herbs from a market stall and shoves them into the basket she carries before handing over several coins from her belt pouch without haggling. We move to the next stall, where an elderly ogre greets her in his native tongue, a series of clicks and words that feature chuffing and whistling sounds.

I glance at Maeve again. I think she intends to heal every fighter in the barracks. Maybe she’ll be able to return things to the way they used to be in the arena.

What stands out most about her is that she doesn’t do anything by half measures, and, well, I like this trait of hers a whole lot.

Her hair is loose around her shoulders today, two thin braids on the sides keeping the rest of those smooth strands off her face. A faint breeze blesses us, and the smell of her homemade mint-and-rosemary shampoo distracts me momentarily.

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