Page 25 of Between Fear and Favor

Shivers rolled up my spine when he spoke, as if he gave commandments from the gods.

“Mother, I am hurt. You introduced my new bride to the court before I had an audience with her?”

Chapter 14

HONOR

“With Rhia’smercy and Hanwen’s justice, may Aonara lead you into Ciarden’s eternal night. May your divine slumber be peaceful, and your heart be full,” I recited, gently squeezing the hand of the woman who laid prone before me, her breaths growing more shallow by the minute. I hated that the words felt like falsehoods, the final blessing which would supposedly grant her safe passage into the gods’ arms echoing hollow in my mind. I didn’t believe in the gods’ abilities to provide a peaceful resting place for the soldiers who died defending Astana’s walls. Not anymore. If it weren’t for the queen’s divinity and her word, I would have doubted even the existence of the gods after recent events.

But they were real, and they were not merciful or just; they were only cruel. What kind of god would let soldiers barely into adulthood die at the whims of a brutal and devastating man who only sought more power? What kind of god would bless the cretin to start with? Though more could have blessed him, the only one I knew for sure was Rhia. And it felt like a betrayal. Though my meager gifts came from Ciarden, I’d always preferred Rhia. And she saw fit to bless the man who, together with the Nythyrian queen, stole the breath from innocents these past weeks? Who would kill countless more when our stores ran out? I had known the Supreme for most of my life, and I never would have thought he could be capable of such atrocities. And sanctioned by the gods, no less?

They were not gods I wanted to pray to, not anymore.

But how could I refuse to provide comfort to those who begged the gods to save them, even in death? Who was I to deny their peace? I wondered, not for the first time, if my mother had been granted a final blessing. Odds were, the queen didn’t think to give her one, and I hoped my mother still found the peace she sought.

Once the wounded woman’s breath slowed and her chest ceased to rise, I hung my head. It had been the same routine for weeks. Those whose fate rested in the gods’ hands were sent to this tent. Though resilient enough to make it away from the battle, many had major wounds. The healers had only attended to the worst of them before having to move onto other soldiers. Many suffered from a divine blight only curable by the queen. But she couldn’t be everywhere at once, so we did our best.

One healer, a young woman named Kimya, waved me over to a corner of the tent, and my stomach plummeted. While everyone else here tended to the physical comfort of the injured, I sought to give spiritual ease. Wounded soldiers with idle minds tended to need soothing in that manner. But who was I to do that when my own spirit felt beyond repair? I was a great deceiver. But I persisted, knowing that even if the words rang false in my own ears, I could provide succor. It was the only thing I’d ever been good at.

“The very tall, very handsome captain asked about you last night,” Kimya whispered, her Skos accent thick as she led me toward the wounded soldier.

Blinking through my surprise, I ignored her as I approached the man on the pallet before me. He had long, auburn hair—sides shaved with a braid long enough to skim the floor. Close to death, his gasps had grown ragged. Kimya patted my arm, a show of pity for what she knew I had to do. But that wasn’t what brought me unease. I swallowed as I was brought back to the moments after my faith had finally met its end.

Don’t fucking touch me.

My eyes watered when I thought of Dewalt’s harsh voice, the tumble of crashing rocks in his throat as he sat up, wrenching away from me with a sneer. I reminded myself once more that he’d been in anguish, both mental and physical. I couldn’t blame him for his reaction. Still though, the sting of his words hadn’t healed, and his silence since that day had only made the wound fester. Though I’d seen him checking in on his soldiers, and he’d apparently asked after me, he’d never spared me a word.

I didn’t know why I cared. Dewalt’s suspicion had been a source of great irritation, even if he had treated me with reluctant kindness. And yet I’d been drawn to him, anyway. His smirks and snarky comments were only weapons used to mask his grief. And when I saw through his walls, I wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed or intrigued.

That intrigue led to my mistake. I was still paying for the curiosity weeks later. During my weaker moments, I’d imagine the look on his face when the shifter stabbed him. When she approached him with my face, my voice, had he hesitated? I didn’t know which outcome was worse. Hesitation meant he didn’t want to hurt me, that he might have felt something for me. And if he didn’t hesitate, it meant he didn’t care for me at all. It meant he hated me. Both possibilities haunted me. It didn’t matter though, because he certainly wanted nothing to do with me now.

Straightening my spine, I approached the man who reminded me far too much of the captain who despised me. His brow was wrinkled, screwed up in pain. I didn’t know any prayers for the old gods, and considering the shaved sides of his head, I knew I wouldn’t be able to offer what he desired. I’d need to find Thyra and ask what to say for the next time. He was a soldier, criss-crossed with the red slices of so many wounds I couldn’t know which one cut him down.

He would want his hair to be cut, and I didn’t think I could do it. Kneeling beside him, I placed my hand on his arm, and I gave him the final blessing. And like a coward, when his chest rattled and he drew his last breath, I sighed in relief.

“You’ll need to cut his hair,” I murmured to one of Kimya’s healers, shoving past him to exit the tent. The moment I was free from the press of death, I inhaled—deep gulps of cool air burned my lungs as I pressed my hand to my chest.

“Good morning, miss,” said a deep voice, and though I knew the owner, I couldn’t help it when I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Good morning, sir,” I replied, recovering the best I could to smile politely. I’d come to depend on the novices’ veil hiding my expressions, and I was still prone to wearing my feelings far too obviously. Though I wasn’t aggrieved to see him—especially after his failure to check in the day before—I wished my moment alone was longer, and I worried my disappointment showed on my face.

“How many this morning?” In a dark tone to match his dark hair, he asked the same question he did every time he visited me. Though I didn’t know his name, the older man came by nearly daily to count how many lives had been lost overnight.

“Less than a dozen,” I answered. “How’s your ankle?” I asked, curious how it had healed since he’d denied treatment a few weeks prior. Insisting his wounds were minimal compared to anyone else, the man before me had declined anything more than a bandage. When he’d at last let me clean and wrap the wound, he’d confided that he was a lowly smuggler, not fit for divine touch. Though I’d asserted that his current role was just as important—keeping our stores from running out—he’d still refused.

“Fine enough, young lady,” he replied. I wasn’t sure I believed him.

“How much longer?”

“A few weeks. A month or so, perhaps,” he answered. “I’ve heard rumors about the Aesiron, but I’m not sure I believe them.” Dark blue eyes met mine, and his crow’s feet deepened as he frowned. With winter ending, Astana needed access to the surrounding farmlands to restock. I worried how much time there was left before we all starved. “The fire last night? It was one of my wagons.”

“Skies,” I muttered. The fire at the southern gate had been extinguished quickly, but the Nythyrians must have overwhelmed our soldiers. Opening the gates strategically and unpredictably had been working well enough, but apparently our luck had run out.

“Take this,” the man said, limping over to me. I frowned but said nothing, uncertain how he’d react if I pushed him about his injury. He seemed kind enough, but men often made me feel skittish. He handed me a piece of parchment—dirty and worn—which when unfolded, bore a symbol I didn’t recognize. Like a circle with a V-shape overlapping it.

“What’s this?”

“In case you need to get out of here and I’m not around. My men will know it. My man at the northern gate is named Wendyll.”

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