Rise of the Seven (The Frey Saga, #3)(3)

“Only Rowan, but he has a knack for such.”

I nodded. Knowing Rowan, he might not resurface for a century. “And the show?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered grimly. “We made quite a spectacle of it.”

“News has not traveled back to us. Have you received any word of reaction?”

I could tell he really didn’t want to answer.

I waited.

“Not all were convinced. I would suggest a gathering.”

Damn.

He saw my hesitation. I’d developed some bad habits during the time I’d spent bound. I’d been working to regain the control I’d spent my childhood forming, the ability to mask emotion that seemed to come so easily to the others. I nearly had it mastered, but Chevelle knew me well.

“This isn’t simply your distaste for exhibition.”

“No,” I answered.

His patience astounded me. I glanced down at my hands, and then faced him, chin up. “I am having some trouble controlling the magic.”

He stood and crossed to me. I saw the slightest hint of worry in his gaze. “The bindings?”

“No, no.” I assured him. “Not my magic. His.”

“Should we try to undo the casting?”

“No.” It might have been overemphatic, but I hated spells. There was no way to be sure of Asher’s methods and so much could go wrong.

“Then there is nothing left but to practise.”

I bit my cheek to keep from commenting.

Silence hung between us for a moment and then in a soft voice, he asked, “Are you well, Freya?”

My heart clenched. I could only nod.

“I know this is far from over,” he said, “but I feel you are safer now than in the village.”

I knew it wasn’t his fault, knew what had happened was beyond all of our control. And I could see his guilt, just as I felt my own, but none of us were entirely blameless either.

It must have been hard for everyone, but I had been bound, unaware during so much of it. I shook off a chill. I’d been imprisoned in the village by an unwilling council.

“It was a long time.” I let it sit there, not exactly an accusation, but close enough.

“Yes, it was,” Chevelle answered, and it tasted of regret.

But there was nothing to do now but move on.

“A banquet, then,” I supplied.

He nodded. “I will arrange it.”

“And practice.” I grimaced, for old times’ sake.

He smiled genuinely then, and I ached at the contrast with the pain he’d worn only moments ago. He started to reach for me and then caught himself, and the gesture made me want his touch so badly that I wondered if I had been truly bound to him.

That was the only thing that kept me from closing the distance between us.

“You should rest,” he said. “I will meet you for practice in the morning. Our usual time?”

I laughed. It hadn’t been usual for a long time. And there hadn’t been much practice involved.

He moved a breath closer and whispered, “Sleep well, Freya,” before walking past me out the door.

I had to pinch myself to keep from following him.

I loosed the straps on my armor and shrugged it off, tossing it on the table by the door. That was when I saw the box.

It sat centered on the table, alone. I wasn’t sure how long I watched it before I moved, but when I finally reached for it, my hands shook. I had to sit down. I laid the box on the bed and curled my legs up in front of it, afraid to open it.

Asher had taken everything from me. My mother, my freedom, my safety. But, given the enormity of those things, it was often the small treasures that I thought of most. They were naught but tiny remembrances that had given me comfort. In his attempt to control me, he had taken even those.

Those last bloody days were the tipping point for my mother, I was certain. Had I known the outcome, I might have let the tokens go, might have yielded to Asher. They meant little compared to her life. But I had fought him harder then, as if that infraction was the worst of it, when he had done so much more. I had not the temperament of the others. The elves were stoic, but when pushed too far chanced being overcome, grief-stricken or crazed and unable to return to themselves. I had to fight to hide my emotion, but it could come and go as the winds, leaving me no worse for the storm.

There was no wind now as I opened the carved stone lid. On top was a letter, a small note folded in half. I laid it aside and pulled a strip of silk from the box. My fingers ran across the soft fabric, a piece of my mother’s favorite dress. When Asher had confined her, these scraps had accompanied her messages, so I would know them truly hers. I held it to my nose, breathed in the scent of her. She was rain and honeysuckle, a cool winter night. Her scent was a contradiction, as was she. She was of light and dark. And I of both and my father. I had often wondered what that made me. When we were young, I had asked Chevelle what I smelled like. Without hesitation, he’d answered, “Wet elk.”

With a smile, I returned the scrap to the box and touched the smooth stones, gold ring, and leather strap that lay inside. The amulet was there. I wondered if Chevelle had known its origin. The inky blue had reminded me so much of its owner, Sapphire.

We both blamed Asher for her death. Though I shared that blame with myself. I had been a fool to think we could escape him. After all he had done, I had known there was no true escape. Somewhere, deep down, I had to have understood what I was risking, there was no doubt that such blatant defiance would have to be answered. And I had not cared about the cost. Until we found her.