Page 53 of A Legacy of Poison and Lies

The Fae took the ash root that Rava had dropped, picking at a leaf. “I couldn’t be angry with him. I was relieved. So relieved it was like a weight had been lifted from my chest.”

Zylah willed her expression to remain neutral, to not let sympathy shine through her features. Something told her it would not sit well with Cirelle.

But the Fae didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy handing the remainder of the ash root to Rava.

“Nevan was there, for all of that,” Cirelle said softly. “He made sure I was never alone, even when I understood that my father still loved my mother, even when he was with Namira.”

Zylah knew all too intimately the desire to talk about the people she’d lost, to share their stories with others. Sasha had been kind enough to listen to her speak about her father on several afternoons back in Varda, and it had offered Zylah some small moments of peace to know that now someone else might remember him, too. That if the vanquicite took her life, there was someone else who could recall stories of him long after she was gone.

Cirelle took Zylah’s hand in her own, holding her gaze. “I think we all like to think we can fix ourselves. That our pain and loneliness won’t swallow us whole.” Her eyes searched Zylah’s, and there was kindness there, as if she were speaking to one of her children. “The truth is there’s nothing to fix. We’re just lost in our despair, just like my father was. And I am forever grateful to Namira for pulling him out of it. Even if she had no idea what she was doing. What her loving him meant.”

Despite Cirelle’s kindness, a wall of vanquicite soared in Zylah’s thoughts, for fear that the High Lady was like Thallan.

But the Fae smiled gently. “Love and death are the only two things that truly change us, Zylah.”

Zylah’s thoughts scattered, and she willed her breathing to remain steady. A seer, perhaps, like Rose.

“I can sense emotions, can help ease them, too. And you.” She searched Zylah’s face as if she could see every feeling written across it. “You wear your guilt like a shroud. But in my experience, the actions rarely justify the guilt.” Cirelle angled her head, gave Zylah’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “The burden is often… misplaced.”

Malok. Cirelle’s father. Everything they felt, she could feel, too.

How could she bear it? The otherworldly stillness made sense now. As if she used it to anchor her, to take control of the maelstrom of emotions that must pass through her every day. Zylah willed herself to feel nothing. To dive into the empty hollow within herself and let it surround her, so the Fae could feel nothing, too. “We are responsible for our own actions,” Zylah said, her voice sounding weaker than she’d have liked.

Cirelle gave a knowing look, as if she knew what Zylah had tried to attempt. “We are. But often things happen that are outside our control.”

If you fought for yourself the way you fight for others, Holt had said to her back in the forest. She wasn’t worth fighting for, she’d wanted to tell him. Wasn’t worth the trouble she had caused him again and again. Wasn’t worth saving when so many had died instead of her. Because of her.

Kopi found himself a small alcove to settle into just as another burst of pain pulsed through Zylah. She pushed a baylock leaf into her mouth out of habit, her attention fixed on Kopi.

“Why do you eat that?” Cirelle asked, pulling Zylah from her thoughts.

Shit.“Pain relief.” Not a lie. Not entirely.

The Fae tilted her head to one side, and for a moment Zylah could imagine Cirelle giving that same silent treatment to her children to get whatever answer she wanted from them. “Your injuries from last night? We could use someone with your knowledge here.”

Zylah didn’t correct her. The trouble was, the truth was complicated. But she didn’t give herself time to dwell on that. “Until Holt is ready to move on, I’ll be here. If there’s any poultices I can make, small remedies, just let me know.”

Cirelle bowed her head in thanks, and Zylah turned to leave.Tell her.It was Holt’s voice she imagined in her thoughts.

No more lies.

Zylah bit her lip. Sucked in a breath. “I have a piece of vanquicite in my back. Since I learnt I could evanesce it started to hurt, but it was dislodged when…” Zylah cleared her throat.

“One of Arnir’s men whipped me. The pain has been…” Like a fire inside her. “Much worse since then, and I’ve yet to find a healer that can remove it.” She didn’t add that she hadn’t tried. Or that she wouldn’t have had the coin to pay for one, anyway.

“Holt’s been trying to heal it for you,” Cirelle said, no trace of emotion on her face.

It’s my tithe, Zylah wanted to say, but she snuffed out any feelings Cirelle might latch onto. “Using my magic makes the pain worse.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Your body is fighting the very thing the vanquicite does. That’s precisely why Marcus is having it mined. I can send word across the water to Bhuja. There’s an excellent healer there who I trust with my life, and they can be here within a few weeks.”

Zylah swallowed. Forced herself to smile politely. To stamp out any feeling Cirelle could pick up on. She wouldn’t give the Fae any more cause for sadness today, only offered her thanks and a quiet goodbye, leaving Cirelle alone in privacy with her friend.

She didn’t let herself think about Cirelle’s offer until she was clear of the cave; didn’t allow herself to dwell on the fact that she might not live to see the healer.

Because Zylah knew, deep in her bones, that the vanquicite was slowly killing her.

Chapter Eighteen

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