Page 24 of Artemysia
If I say anything, Throg will pick up the tremor in my voice right away. He can treat this as any other mission, but he doesn’t think as far ahead as I do. I don’t need him to. That’smyjob, and I don’t want him to worry.
Back inside the food hall, we each fill another plate and find our seats at the table again.
Throg settles back into feasting, though he complains loudly, upset that the ham steaks were all consumed while we were in the war room.
My own thoughts turn to our assignment.
Into Artemysia, the Syf woods. Nothing good can come of this. Even if we made it to the other side, we’d have to survive the return journey. What is on the other side?
Why doesn’t anyone know?
I’m unable to stomach another bite—which for me says a lot. Briefly, I find comfort in the idea of stuffing some pastries into my bag for when I return to my quarters, so I won’t regret not eating more, but I’m trying too hard to mask the tremble in my fingers and the nausea in my gut.
It would be a shame to throw up all this good food right now.
Can I protect Throg in the unknown? Can Throg and I take on Riev and his commander-murdering comrade if there is a mutinous situation? It’s possible Riev only wants to help his friend escape prison.
He knows more than he’s let on about the other side of the forest.
There’s something he doesn’t want King Galke to know, and the king must suspect it.
I trust my instincts. After observing him in the meeting, I’m certain that Riev hides a secret. Will it get us all killed? He was so adamant about not taking us with him and wanting to select his own team. I will need to pry whatever he’s hiding out of him if we are all to work together and survive this. No other option is acceptable to me.
He glowered his way out of the war room, sweeping past me, defiant and grim. It must take some special skill to be able to scowl likethat.
I wonder what his life is like as a king’s assassin.
A job like that must wrench your soul in more ways than one.
The venom in Riev’s eyes still blazes in my mind on my way back to the Academy. I take a detour to check the clock tower to make sure he locked it after he left.
Upstairs, I’m baffled to find that the berries are gone and everything is tidier than before.
Did Riev clean before he left?
The windowsills and lower beams have been dusted, the cobwebs swept away. My books, stacked by the neatly folded blanket Riev borrowed for the night, are organized alphabetically. I’d never think to do that.
With nothing left to do, I glance out the tower window overlooking the city. Sweet wood smoke hits my nose as it purls out of the stone chimneys. I scrub the chill off my arms. It’s deep into autumn now, my favorite season. Near the king’s castle, Stargazer is densely packed with shops in low buildings and blue-and-white thatched cottages surrounded by small flower gardens. To the south of the castle, the larger estates of the wealthy are grouped along one particular avenue, but none are higher than three stories, so I still have a bird’s-eye view of their newer, tiled rooftops.
I sweep my gaze east where the Academy lies, then west where the cottages become tiny and cramped but affordable. It reminds me that I need to see my father before I leave.
With my elbows on the windowsill, I take in the city that has been my home for the last ten years, one more time.
One more time, in case it’s the last time I see Stargazer.
“It’s not poison like you…” - Riev
The day before I leave for Artemysia, I ride to the outskirts to visit my father, Jak Julian. I always see him before a mission. If I have a longer leave, I’ll treat us to a night or two in a nicer part of Stargazer to try out new pubs and restaurants.
He’s waiting by the window of his small blue cottage because I sent word that I’d visit him today. He always seems older than I remember, but his dark brown hair is still full and thick, and he keeps his mustache tidy. It’s good to see him. I’ve missed him.
His house is filled with portraits of my mother, the love of his life. This wasn’t the house I grew up in, so it feels unfamiliar. It’s not home. It smells like chamomile and strawberries, though—his favorite tea because it was my mom’s favorite.
I greet him with a hug, noting there’s less of him to embrace year by year.
I stay strong for both of us. Unemotional. Sensible.
“You need to eat more,” I tell him as I fill his plate with a lunch of cold cuts and cheeses in the tiny living room where a large oil painting of my mom stares down at us. We don’t talk about her.
