I do not know what to say to him. How to explain what I am feeling. The guilt of it. The horror. Worse, the unquenched thrill that races, even now, through my veins.
What kind of monster am I becoming, to kill with such abandon? To take lives without even a beat of hesitation? What happened to that noble healer from Seahaven? She would be horrified to see me as I am now.
An object of utter destruction.
“Rhya,” Soren says. Soft as a blade sliding between two ribs, and equally lethal to my resolve. He sounds poised on the knife’s edge of his own control. It is my fault, for I am not shielding from him at all. He can feel everything I’m feeling. The rawest self-loathing tangling with shameful chords of self-satisfaction.
“I’m fine,” I say in a hollow voice that sounds nothing like my own.
He continues to stare at me. He opens his mouth, as if to say something else, but it is Arwen’s booming voice I hear instead.
“Skies, why’s everyone so bloody quiet?”
Leaving Atyr on the rampart at the base of the steps, she strolls up to stand beside Soren on the platform. Her eyes find mine and in their depths, for the first time ever, I see the shades of something like respect there, instead of unveiled disdain. She says nothing to me, merely gives a shallow jerk of her chin, then turns to face the crowd.
“We won the battle, did we not?” Her voice carries far into the distance as she turns to look out over the sea of silent soldiers and lifts a fist in the air. “Tonight, we drink to Hylios!”
A cheer goes up from the crowd, undulating from the sea gate all around the walls, then spreading down into canals until it encompasses every stone of the city, and every soul therein.
Chapter
seventeen
Steadfastly ignoring the weight of many curious eyes aimed at me across the bar, I take a fortifying sip from my mug. The mulled wine is a fragrant and flavorful varietal made from sea grapes. It tingles a fiery path down my throat, then spreads slowly outward, warming me from the inside out.
I keep my gaze trained out over the maze of blue rooftops, but no matter where I look I see the same thing. Those floating bodies. Those splintered ships. I am alone in my horrified reflections, for no one else is the least bit upset about my wanton disregard for Frostlander lives. In fact, the massacre has earned me a certain amount of esteem among the soldiers. I was clapped on the back more times than I could count as I made my way through the crowd atop the ramparts.
It’s been several hours since the battle ended, but the celebrations show no signs of waning. The crowd at my back is boisterous, and growing more so as the night creeps on and drinks flow freely. I just hope no one falls over the rail. It is a long drop down to the canals.
Aptly named Ledge for its unique location, the open-air veranda juts out from the inner wall below the ramparts in the shadow of the Westerly Beacon. Not far from the barracks, it isfrequented mostly by Hylian Guard and Paexyrian riders. It offers a variety of unusual libations and unparalleled views of the rest of the city—which, currently, is in an equal state of frivolity.
All up and down the canals, cafés are bursting with patrons, sidewalks spilling over with revelers. The floating market is even more crowded than usual. Music thumps from somewhere below, a driving beat of drums accompanied by a lively fiddle. If there was room, I’m certain the crowd behind me would be dancing to it. But there is hardly space to stand; spinning is out of the question. Every table is jammed with men and women in the navy standard of Hylios, along with the lighter blue-gray of Daggerpoint. Their laughter and chatter spills through the twilight, the graceful extension of their vowels a fluid contrast to the more clipped Dyvedi accent.
I’d spotted Ledge several times during my nightly strolls along the walls, and wondered how one got in. My answer came in the form of a trapdoor entry embedded in the stone floor in the corner. A near constant stream of newcomers scamper through it, undaunted by the precipitous ladder climb from canal level. Those rungs are hard enough to ascend sober; I doubt the descent is easier after copious mugs of mead. But the arrivals never cease as the sky streaks with the telltale shades of sunset.
How many more can possibly squeeze up here before the whole place comes crashing down? It is not a particularly large bar. Despite the crush, the rest of my bench remains unoccupied. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I might be casting an unconscious air shield to keep everyone at arm’s length. Then again, my introspective disposition alone is likely enough to ward off approach.
The thud of a mug hitting the table makes me flinch violently. Warm wine sloshes over my fingertips and I curse.
“Jumpy one, aren’t you?”
I glance over at the chuckling woman as she drops beside me on the bench. Her frame is petite, but every inch of it is packed with corded muscle. Her flaming red hair is shorn at the sides and braided in the back in the battle-ready fashion the Paexyrian favor. I wonder if it is because their heads are so often strapped into goggles. She smiles wider when our eyes meet, seeming oblivious to my unapproachable attitude as she settles back in her seat.
“I’m Yara,” she greets. Her chin jerks to my other side, where another rider is hopping up to sit on the railing, long legs dangling in front of her. “That’s Bretiax. Don’t be offended she doesn’t speak to you. She lost the ability as a young girl.”
The second woman winks at me over the rim of her mug as she takes a long sip. She has warm tawny skin and the glossiest hair I’ve ever seen, flowing in wild waves down her back.
I give a small wave. “I’m Rhya.”
“Oh, we know who you are.” Yara leans in conspiratorially. “Everyone does. The whole city is talking about what you did with that water cannon.”
My lips press together. “I wish they wouldn’t.”
“Why’s that?” She sounds genuinely baffled. “Frostlanders have been a thorn in our backsides for ages. Do you know how many villages we’ve seen on the mainland torn to shreds by their night raids?”
Bretiax signs something in agreement.
Yara snorts and signs back at her.