That is true. No ordinary mount could run tirelessly for days on end. Yet in all the many occasions I have spent astride him, Penn has never said a word about it.
Is it possible he himself does not know Onyx’s lineage?
“How did a half-Paexyri colt end up in Caeldera?” I ask.
“I gave him to Pendefyre about a century ago. A gift to celebrate the new alliance we’d struck between our two kingdoms.” Soren says this in a casual way, as though it is nothing of importance.
“Penn…” I shake my head. “He never told me.”
His hands still on the birch. There is a brief moment of stilted silence. “Why would he? Stories that paint me in a more generous light rarely seem to be circulated within the volcanic walls of the Fire Court.”
“That’s unfair.”
The twig snaps cleanly in two. “Is it?”
“Many still speak of how you aided the city during the Battle of Fyremas. I saw myself how valiantly you fought, defending people who were not even your own.”
He looks at me then—a look so intent, it makes my mouth parch and my stomach flutter with nerves. “Tell me, skylark. Why is it you are able to recognize the valor in my actions whiledefending Caeldera, but you can see only horror when it comes to your own?”
“That’s not the same,” I say immediately.
“No?” He tosses the snapped stick aside. “Your defense of Hylios protected my people from harm. How is that any different from what I did on Fyremas? Or, for that matter, what you yourself did?” His eyes narrow in frustration. “Why can you defend Pendefyre’s court without thought, but view yourself as a monster for protecting mine?”
“It was not without thought.” I swallow thickly. “Trust me, I do not ever take lives without thought. Each death weighs heavily on me. Or…they did.”
He waits for me to go on, not interrupting. Merely listening.
“What scares me most is that it is becoming easier. The taking of lives. The weighing of morals.” My voice shakes, though I take pains to steady it. “I look at my hands—the same hands I once used to heal—and see only the blood that stains them. I look in the mirror and do not recognize the woman I am becoming.”
“Rhya—”
I cannot bear the softness of his tone. “Must we talk about this?”
“We can either talk about this or we can talk about what happened last night at the Kettle.”
My teeth click shut so harshly, I nearly bite off the tip of my tongue. I would sooner carve it from my mouth voluntarily than discuss last night with him.
“Well?” he prompts.
Infernal hells.
I suck in a steadying breath. “I am not like Arwen or Yara or any of the other daring Paexyrian. I am not a warrior by nature. I do not want to be. I don’t believe in killing recklessly, orcrowing when the enemy is felled. And yet…I cannot help but worry, the longer I am immersed in this world of yours, the more I will lose my grip on the virtues that once guided my life.”
Soren contemplates this for a long time, thoughts simmering in his eyes. “Morality is well and good, as lodestars go,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “Shame, on the other hand, is not.”
Shame?
My spine goes stiff. “I am not ashamed.”
“You live like you are. And I would wager it dictates your choices just as much as your sense of right and wrong. Maybe more.”
I shake my head. “No. No, that’s…”
Not true,I want to say.
But the lie will not come out.
“Who was it?” Soren asks darkly. “Who was it who taught you to hide the best parts of yourself away in fear that they might be judged?”