Page 78 of Storm of Blood and Shadow

I can’t help but admire her for that, even though I’m still angry she didn’t do it sooner.

Loram’s loss doesn’t affect me emotionally. I suppose my sister loved him once—after all, he contributed the sperm that produced my niece and nephew—but otherwise he was a non-entity in my life, one stone among many that weighed me down, a mouth that gobbled and drank up my money, an eager echo of Bryon’s persistent mockery.

My feelings about Bryon are more complicated. He was the poison in the wine, the viper in the nest, the one who instigated and enabled Scarla and Loram, the one who kept me and Ethalie under his control, even though I never liked to admit it. The war finally did what I could never do—purged him from our lives for good.

And yet… he was my brother. There were reasons for his behavior, years of childhood agony underlying the pain he dealt to others. Maybe that’s why I could never really hate him or excise him from my life. I endured many of the same things he endured. I have similar scars. But I didn’t let those old woundsmake me cruel, or use them as excuses for being stagnant as a person.

I feel as if the universe—or the Bone-Builder, as the dragons would say—has let me off too easy. The two greatest obstacles to the children’s happiness and mine have been removed, and the way ahead feels more open and hopeful now. I shouldn’t feel that way—shouldn’t be so callous about death. But they did it to themselves, after all. Went to rob someone for his liquor and his money, and ended up dead. Risked Lark’s life along the way, too. He’s better off without those fuckers. They would have ruined him.

I refuse to feel guilty about my conflicting emotions. I refuse to give the sliver of the Mordvorren inside me another reason to hold on. The people I care about most are alive, and they’re doing better than I expected. That’s all that matters.

Maybe Scarla sees the relief on my face, despite my attempts to look stoic. She pulls out a chair and settles her large form onto it with a sigh.

“I wish they’d gotten their shit together, both of ’em, before this happened,” she says. “But I can see how we were all goin’ down together, and dragging those children into the muck with us. That won’t happen again. I ain’t sayin’ I’m going to be perfect—hell knows I did a shit job of parenting my boy—but I intend to do better by Lark and Miri. And I know Ethalie’s got the same goal. It’s a second chance we got here. A new start.”

Her fingers tap the table nervously for a few moments, and then she gets up to fill the kettle. “I’m building new habits. Making tea when I feel like gettin’ a drink.”

I don’t know why that pushes me over the edge, why it unlocks something inside me, but my relief and my grief suddenly gush out in a flood of tears. I bend over the table, my face buried in my arms, and I sob.

While I’m weeping, I feel the shadowy wisp of the Mordvorren let go of my mind and wash away with my tears. I cry harder then, for Varex, for myself, for all the pain everyone in this region has endured for so many months.

Scarla doesn’t comfort me or interfere. She lets me cry until I’ve gone from shoulder-shaking sobs of anger to tears of pure sorrow to faint hiccups of exhausted acceptance. Then she sets a mug of tea in front of me and sits down in her chair again, watching me calmly as I collect the mug with trembling fingers and take a sip.

We drink the tea together in silence for a while before she finally says, “I got to admit, I’m curious about those dragons.”

I tell Scarla the story of my time on Ouroskelle, and I tell it again to Lark, Miri, and Ethalie once we’re all together that night. Miri keeps herself glued to my side, and though Lark is too proud to do the same, he sits very close to me and glowers far less than usual.

In the course of my tale, I mention the mating season briefly, but I don’t speak any further about the sexual component of my relationship with Varex until after the children have gone to bed. At that point, Ethalie and Scarla press for additional details, and I confide in them. It’s a relief to be able to discuss those events, especially since I haven’t been around other humans much since Varex swallowed the storm.

In the quiet of the apartment, I tell my sister and Scarla what Varex did—how he saved me and everyone else on the island from impending starvation. I tell them about the hold the Mordvorren has on him, and how I’m afraid it will never let him go, how terrified I am that the sweet soul he used to be has changed forever, and things will never be the same between us.

Ethalie hugs me and Scarla offers grunts of commiseration. And then I turn the conversation back to them, back to the losses our family suffered and the aftermath of it all.

My sister has undergone changes, too. I’m glad to see that she has put on weight and looks physically stronger. Now that she isn’t submissively scurrying to fulfill every wish of her husband and her brother, she carries herself differently. Her head is higher, her eyes are brighter, and her voice isn’t quite as soft and cautious. She’s grieving both Bryon and Loram—or at least the best parts of them—but she isn’t broken. Far from it.

In my absence, she has proven herself stronger than I ever thought she could be. And I can’t help wondering if, in some ways, I was responsible for holding her back, too.

After Scarla is asleep, as I’m climbing into the bed I’ll share with Ethalie, she whispers, “You’re going back, aren’t you?”

“I am. Varex needs me.”

“The children need you too,” she says. “When we found out the dragon had taken you, it broke them. They love you, Jessiva.” She hesitates, then confesses, “Sometimes I think they love you more than they love me.”

“That’s not true. It’s just a different kind of love,” I tell her. “And I think their love for you will grow even stronger now.”

“Will you stay a while, though?” she asks. “After everything we’ve survived, it would bring us all comfort.”

I don’t answer immediately. But the next day I tear up an old red gown and fasten strips of it to the corner of the roof. When Hinarax arrives at sunset, I ask him to give Varex amessage—that I’ll be back on Ouroskelle in two weeks’ time, and that I promise to come back earlier if he needs me urgently.

Maybe I should return to Varex at once. But he’s not on East Fang anymore; he’s back on Ouroskelle, with Kyreagan and the clan there to help him. I’m sure he went immediately to Kyreagan and told him about the Mordvorren. Kyreagan can support him as needed, and escort him back to the Twin Fangs if Varex becomes volatile or dangerous.

Maybe this time apart is exactly what Varex needs. He’s clearly not ready to talk to me about his past. Maybe he needs time to come to terms with it on his own so he can dispel the Mordvorren’s influence. At least that’s what I tell myself each night, when I lie in bed, missing him.

During the day, I’m more confident that I’ve made the right decision. I’m careful not to take over the routine they’ve established or usurp the authority of Scarla or my sister. I help out where I can, I read with the children, and I take my turn cooking meals. Thanks to a reputable jeweler I know from my days in the palace troupe, I manage to get a fair price for the necklaces, enough to get Ethalie and the others out of the smelly apartment.

Two weeks stretch into three as I help my little family find a new place to live in a city that is slowly rebuilding itself. It’s comforting to see dragons coming and going, flying to and from the palace.

A couple of times I spot Kyreagan soaring overhead, with Serylla on his back. The sight reassures me. If Varex wasn’t doing well, they wouldn’t be visiting Elekstan.

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