“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I think, whether or not you want to admit it, you’re playing a dangerous game. Pushing yourself so close to the edge, it’s only a matter of time before you slip. You’re driving yourself to your own death. Just like King Vorath did.”
“As I said already,” he grits out, “I had it under control. I would have reined it in before things went too far.”
“Excuse me if I find that hard to believe when you’re sitting here covered in your own blood.”
I push against his hold again, and this time he lets me go. I scoot backward, craving a bit of distance. I haven’t the strength to get far. I only make it a handful of paces before I stop to catch my breath, planting my palms on the warm stone to keep from toppling over. It will take a bit more time before I’m ready to find my feet, but already I can feel my body beginning to heal, the blisters and welts that bloom across my skin smoothing over into supple, unscarred flesh.
My eyes lift back to Penn. He is watching me, a grim set to his jaw as he examines my rapidly healing injuries. Through our bond, I feel a series of strong emotions. Guilt, pain, gratitude, rage, longing, self-loathing. And, beneath it all, a burning need for retribution that no amount of time will ease. The only thing that might do that is wrapping his hands around Efnysien’s neck and squeezing until his life force flickers out.
“I’m worried about you,” I whisper eventually.
He flinches and looks away, teeth clenching together. “You don’t need to be.”
“You’re overly fixated on the wards, Penn. Obsessed, even.It’s not healthy, coming here every day. Draining your powers like this.”
“I’m merely ensuring the city is safe. I would think after everything that happened on Fyremas, my efforts in that regard would be understandable.”
“No one questions your intentions. And no one blames you for what happened that night.”
He scoffs, a bitter sound. “No?”
“No,” I echo softly. “No one. Except, perhaps, yourself.”
His head whips back to me. “Who else should I blame if not myself? It was my wards that fell. It was my power that was extinguished. It was me who was left almost entirely useless in defending my people, my city, from slaughter.”
“Even without your powers, you defended the city. You are the best warrior in Dyved. Perhaps in all the Northlands.”
“Yet I could not keep them safe. I could not protect them.”
“You did everything you could—”
“And it was not enough!” he roars, the sound reverberating against the walls. “They needed more, and I let them down. I will not allow it to happen a second time. Not while I still breathe. Not while there are still souls in this city who need my protection.” He pauses, panting hard. “Not until Efnysien is dead and gone, his bones scattered to the most distant corners of earth and sea.”
“Your people need you for more than just protection, Pendefyre. They look to you for strength, yes, but also for guidance. For leadership. To them, you are their hero and savior. You are their king.”
“It is not my name the minstrels sing in the streets, but yours. Rhya the mighty, Rhya the brave.”
My cheeks heat. I cannot contradict him. Since the battle,there is an intractable sense of fascination where I am concerned. The story of how I thwarted the ice giants who otherwise would have happily butchered us all has been told and retold so frequently—each telling, it seems, with additional embellishments—that by the time it reaches the farthest corners of Dyved, I fear they’ll say I felled thirty foes with a single breath. That I can shoot electric bolts from my eyes and kill an entire army in a blink.
Wind weaver,they whisper when I pass by on the street.Light bringer.
Remnant of Air.
Champion of Caeldera.
I might laugh, if it were not so preposterous. I am no all-powerful deity, worthy of anyone’s worship. I clear my throat hard to dislodge the lump of embarrassment. “The minstrels have a flair for the dramatic. Their accounts of the battle have exaggerated my role to mythic proportions.”
Penn’s expression darkens. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t diminish what you have done for this city. Don’t make yourself smaller to shore up my failings. It is unfair to you, and condescending to me.”
My eyes narrow. “Perhaps the minstrels would not sing songs of my glory if you would show your face among them. Perhaps if their new king were not running himself ragged each day securing the borders, or locked away all night in war councils with his advisers, or sequestered in this chamber pouring power into the wards in his every spare moment, they would see for themselves what you have done for them. How hard you are working to make them safe again. Perhaps then they would sing of you instead of me.”
There is a heavy beat of silence. The very air seems to holdits breath as he gets to his feet. He does not move, does not pace. Just stands there, his hands clenched, his bare chest covered in blood, his face fixed in an expression of such ire, it makes me shiver.