Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(63)
My fingers rub my sternum where an acute spot of grief grows.
I never questioned why I could discern the truth in others, because Papa explained it as gut instinct. I even figured my knack for knowing when an animal is close to death was hunter’s intuition. But I cannot explain away how I healed the dog without considering the possibility that magic was involved.
“When I stopped at the Elementiary in town,” I find myself saying, “that woman, Astoria, thought I was a Channeler. Me, a Channeler.” I chuckle. Wait for the scoff. Any response to confirm the shopkeeper was out of her mind. Nothing comes. Just as I feared . . . and anticipated.
When Enat doesn’t say anything, I push myself to continue. “I think I might be a Channeler, even if I can’t explain how it’s possible.”
I never intended on trusting this woman who was a stranger days ago, and now here I am, fully waiting on her answers. Even if I cannot feel the warmth or chill from her words, my instincts tell me she’s someone I can believe. She’s someone who will tell me the truth.
Trust is a delicate thing, so easily broken and not so effortlessly repaired. I spent years alone, guarding myself until my ability to trust others was reduced to a pile of splintered pieces. It’s as though I’m sweeping all those shards together to ask one question: “Do—?do you think I’m a Channeler?”
She stops just ahead of me and turns around, a faint smile curving the wrinkles around her mouth. “I’m certain you are. Can you guess which type?”
“A—?a Spiriter?”
“Correct.”
Chapter
28
WHEN I WAS NINE, I FOLLOWED PAPA INTO a store where beautiful glass orbs were on display. Somehow, I bumped a delicate ball off the table. I remember it was as if it were happening in slow motion; and yet, to my horror, I couldn’t stop the orb from hitting the ground, where, on impact, cracks spread across the glass, breaking it into countless pieces.
I’m the glass ball now, falling slowly and shattering into conflicting emotions.
Shock. Anger. Hurt. Confusion. Relief.
Seeds and stars, not just any Channeler, but a Spiriter? I rub my hands over my face and shove my fingers into my hair until my scalp twinges.
“Have you nothing to say?” Enat watches me with a touch of guarded curiosity.
“I feel like I should’ve known. I should’ve figured it out before now.” My arms drop to my sides.
Her expression softens. “Oh, Britta, this knowledge is passed down from mother to daughter. And even then, you should know, it’s rare. And not often spoken about because many fear what Spiriters are capable of. The gift only runs through a few bloodlines in Shaerdan. A handful of women in each generation possess this power, though not all have the full gift of being able to sense energy in all things and to manipulate and restore that energy.
“Your mother passed on when you were a wee baby, and your country has shunned magic. It’s understandable that you didn’t know.”
Hearing her explanation of what a Spiriter is only makes me wish I’d learned this information years earlier. If it’s passed from mother to daughter, then my mother kept it a secret. She must not have told Papa. When I think of all I never learned because my mother chose to return to Shaerdan instead of raise me, anger ignites inside me.
“I hate her,” I think aloud, my voice full of sharp edges. “My mother left me alone in Malam. And because of her and my father’s lies, I knew nothing.” Part of me wants to say I hate him as well, but those words could never pass my lips. It’s easier to blame the parent I’ve never met.
Enat’s hand strays from her side and rests on my clenched arm. “Hate’s a strong word, girl. It is one thing not to fathom the reason for her choices. You can be upset with her and your father for not telling you the truth. But don’t hate her.”
I glare at the dirt. “I should’ve known something was different about me. What a fool I am.” This conversation started as an exploration and has now turned to bitterness.
“Don’t say that. Girls your age have had training. They’ve been told about their abilities since they could crawl. You didn’t have anyone to tell you.”
“I had my father. He could’ve told me, though I suppose he didn’t . . . he must not have known.” I peer up at her as hope rises inside me, easing my anger toward Papa.
Enat links her arm through mine. “I cannot answer for him. Though I’m sure if he withheld anything, it was to keep you safe. If people knew what you are, you would’ve been in danger. Fear is bred of that which we don’t understand. You would’ve been executed.”
I remember the many times others ignored me at the market. Or when they didn’t overlook me, instead throwing hateful comments in my direction. “Still, I was an outcast,” I say, though it’s leagues better than death.
“Our lives are, like these woods, ever changing. Nothing is static. And so you cannot count on an easy, carefree life to always remain that way. Or a harsh existence to stay the same. Life can get better. Or life can always become worse. And then you die.” Enat smiles ruefully. “Don’t reflect on the negative. Think about all the positives in your life.”
She’s right. And I’m a brat for having pitched a fit at all.
“I wish . . .” I’m not sure how to finish. I want so many things my situation cannot yield. I wish to be more than what I’ve been. To be free of the past. To understand and embrace who I truly am. But mostly, “I wish I could have one more chance to talk to my father.” My whisper is lost in the wind that kicks through the trees, their shuffling leaves the only answer back.