Page 70 of Echoes of the Raven
“Well, now you have.” Rífíor’s tone is final, indicating he’s done with the subject.
“What is wrong with you?” Gaspar sounds truly puzzled.
“Nothing is wrong with me.” Rífíor’s glare makes the Romani whither visibly.
It’s clear this is an extremely touchy subject for Rífíor. Curiosity sinks its claws into me, and I want to know the reason for his inability to conjure a glamour.
My mother didn’t have much espiritu. She could communicate with plants, knew what they were feeling, what they needed. It wasn’t a strong sort of skill, and yet she was always able to conjure a glamour. In fact, she was able to keep her glamour on all day long without effort.
So why is Rífíor unable to change his semblance? Does he really possess no espiritu at all? If it’s true, it might explain why he stole The Eldrystone from the Fae King. The lack of a skill common to all fae would certainly become a sore spot for anyone, perhaps even a source of shame.
We sit in silence for a long time, the rocking motion of the wagon luring me into uneasy drowsiness. I feel bone tired. The last few days have been full of stress and sleepless nights as I fought with the decision to betray my sister. And now, it’s done, and I know I’ve broken her heart into a million pieces. I heard the pain in her voice as she asked Renata why I took the amulet.
“By the saints! I never thought she would betray me like this.”Her words echo in my lethargic mind.
I’m exhausted now, and sleep will be possible because my body demands it. In nights to come, however, I’m not so sure my festering guilt will allow me such luxury. It doesn’t matter how logical and worthy my intentions are, reason can’t override the deep shame I feel in the center of my soul.
A ringing in my ears yanks me away from the edge of sleep, and I snap my eyes open. My heart is beating fast for no apparent reason. Rífíor is tense and listening intently, his head cocked to one side.
“What is it? Jago asks.
“Horses,” Rífíor replies. “At least seven of them.”
“I hear them too,” Gaspar says. “It’s time for you three to disappear.” He stands and starts gesticulating toward the hiding place he created for us.
Rífíor lifts a thick black eyebrow, looking as though he has no intention of squeezing into the confined space.
“If you don’t,” I threaten, “you’ll find yourself back in a dank cell for the rest of your miserable life, so get your haughty ass in there.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I can tell he wants to give me a piece of his mind, but maybe our earlier conversation had the desired effect. He restrains himself and rises slowly to his towering height. Hunching to avoid banging his head on the low ceiling, he scrutinizes the compartment with a critical eye. The space is approximately four feet tall, with a depth of no more than three feet.
Irritation etching his face, he climbs inside the space, setting his back against one side of the wagon and gathering his legs to his torso.
Gaspar closes the sliding panel to hide Rífíor, then opens a second one on the other side and points at Jago. “You’re next.”
He gets in the same way Rífíor did, and the tips of their boots end up only a few inches apart. There’s no way I will fit in there.
“Curl up tighter,” Gaspar says. “Make room for the princess.”
“This is it for me,” Jago says.
“How about you, Rífíor?”
His only answer is a grunt that makes it clear he can’t make himself any smaller.
“Shit,Ican hear the horses now,” Jago says. “We need to hurry!”
“Saints and feathers!” Gaspar exclaims. “Um… um… Jago, get out.”
My cousin scrambles out. “Now what?”
Gaspar says, “Rífíor, stretch your legs.”
He does, his boots appearing and reaching all the way to the wall.
“All right, now Jago, sit on top of his feet.”
Jago makes a face. “That won’t be comfortable for either one of us.”
