Page 11 of Between Despair and Hope

He sighed, tilting his head up while his fingers were still in his hair. “Another touchy subject,viltasma.”

“Well, what can we talk about then? How about that? Viltasma—what does it mean?”

He put his hands down in his lap and lifted his eyes to meet my gaze.

“Yes, that’s fine. We can talk about that.” He gave me a soft smile, just enough to see the hint of a dimple. “My mother died when I was nine years old. She was very sick—the wasting sickness. After my father, she swore off conduits. She refused to see a healer to help her. But before all of that, when I was little, she’d always called me ‘vilta.’ It means ‘wild thing.’”

I tilted my head to the side as I said, “You do not strike me as wild, Cy.” I stiffened, realizing a second too late I called him by my nickname for him. He noticed too, and his eyes met mine, unreadable.

“I used to be when I was little, but when she got sick, I had to be calm for her. And then after she died, I couldn’t be wild, not anymore. I had to be the perfect, little prince.”

“But you call meviltasma. That’s not the same word.”

“No, it’s not.” There was that smile again. “The ‘sma’ changes the meaning. It means beautiful.”

“Beautiful, wild thing? That’s what you call me?” He nodded, eyes glinting almost amber in this light, full of caution. “Why?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I rolled my eyes, but felt my face flush. He continued. “You’re beautiful. I don’t need to explain that, do I? I know you grew up poor, but surely you had a mirror?” He waited for me to answer. He was serious.

“Of course I had a mirror! Gods, Cyran, why are you such a pain?”

He grinned, a full one this time, and he looked more like himself. “Well, I wasn’t sure! I don’t know how much mirrors cost!”

“We had a mirror, you imbecile.” My smile had a mind of its own. I was still mad at him, but I couldn’t quite remember it now. “I don’t think I’m wild, though. And what does ‘min’ mean? You say that with it sometimes.”

He flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It means ‘my.’ When I call you that, it means ‘my beautiful, wild thing.’” He blew out a breath before giving me a sheepish smile, and I felt lightheaded. “And you bit someone’s ear off, Elora. How are you not wild?”

“Are you never going to let that go? Your thugs grabbed me in the woods and slapped those chains on me. What was I supposed to do?” My mood soured in an instant. “You have the marks on your wrists. Why have you been in chains, Cy?”

“I told you that was a touchy subject, darling.”

“I don’t care. Are you alright? Where are we?”

“Elora—”

“No! Does Declan have you? Does he have both of us?”

He sighed. “We are both in Astana.”

“Then who put you in chains? You helped us. You helped! Why would Mama or…” I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to talk about him. “The Crown Prince wouldn’t put you in chains if you helped us. What happened Cy? Why—why am I asleep?”

“If you come sit with me, I’ll explain.” He looked at me, pleading, before pulling out the chair next to him. Crossing the room, I looked down and noticed I wasn’t wearing shoes. I wore a nightgown, one I had never seen before, but it was fine—soft, white silk embroidered with tiny peonies grazed the floor as I walked. When I sat down, he held out his hand, wanting me to take it. Looking up at him, I let him see my fear, let him know this was a sacrifice for me to trust him, as I slid my hand into his.

“Elora, we’ve had this conversation a few times, and you never remember it. Every time, you get extremely upset. Rightfully so, but still. I want to tell you, but you have to promise to keep calm. Do you think you can stay calm?”

My stomach plummeted. What would make me that upset? Why had he been in chains? Why was I sleeping? I tasted copper, and breathing became difficult.

Then it came to me.

“Did you—Cyran, did you—?” I felt like I was choking, and I reached up to grab my neck before whispering the accusation. “You killed me?”

“Yes, and I’m so sorry, Elora. But you’re not dead. Your mother brought you back.”

“But I was dead? Before Mama…brought me back?” I struggled to understand. If I wasn’t dead, then Cyran couldn’t have done what he said—what I remembered.

“Yes, you were dead, but now you’re not. You won’t wake, and I’m trying to fix it.”

“But you were the one who killed me?”

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