Page 186 of Vasmora

“The princess will be staying with us for a bit, seeing as the castle apparently looks like Branimir’s sleeping quarters.”

I chuckled at Rykaia’s comment. “How is Branimir?”

“Same as usual. Avoidant. Cantankerous.”

“I look forward to seeing him.”

“You certainly favor a particular type, don’t you? If they’re not driving swords through skulls and summoning giant scorpions, they’re brooding in dungeons, surrounded by webs and flesh-eating spiders.” Her comment made me smile. “Come, come. Zevander’s bathing room awaits.” She led me up the staircase and down the corridor, where she swung the door open to Zevander’s bedroom.

The faint draft embraced me as I stepped inside, trailing my gaze over the slumbering space. Evening light poured through the lancet windows in dull beams that illuminated the floating specks of dust. The dark furniture filled stretches of shadows casted by the long, velvet drapes that remained only partially cracked. Books lay in toppled piles about the room, undisturbed.

Everything was exactly as I remembered it.

Rykaia bustled about, gathering towels and clean clothing.

I slowly made my way toward the bed, where I knelt low, gathering the scent of the linens to my nose, inhaling the delicious smell I’d craved.

“You’re sniffing the bed. That’s good,” Rykaia said behind me, and I smiled, pushing to my feet.

“I can’t remember the last time I slept in a proper bed. It’s been so long.”

“Well, I suspect you and Zevander will be sharing his bed.” A smile pulled at her lips. “Mates?”

I lowered my face to hide a smile. “He told you.”

“Not exactly. Sort of blurted it in anger.” When I frowned back at her, she shook her head. “Not angry about being mates. Just very insistent on retrieving his mate from the clutches of that dirty, rotted sack of fish lips.” Her face pulled to a scowl. “Please tell me she’s dead. That she suffered terribly.”

“I suspect she’s still suffering.” I stifled a shiver at the thought of what grew inside her belly, tearing through her body. Consuming her in that cold, dark hell.

“He didn’t kill her?”

“He let her pet charnelyths do the honor.”

“Charnelyths!” Her eyes seemed to sparkle with intrigue. “Oh, that is far more creative than anything I would’ve come up with. Brilliant.” She pulled me into a hug and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You get cleaned up. I’ll bring some food. And wine! Cannot forget the wine.”

“Thank you, Rykaia.”

“It’s Sister. And you’re welcome.” She released me and fluttered across the room on tiptoes, shooting me one more smile before she slipped through the door.

Alone, I glanced around the space through a shield of tears I’d fought to hide. The disbelief that I was here, truly here, failed to sink in. I fell to my knees, the boundless gratitude spilling out of me in a clipped sob that I smothered with the back of my hand.

I turned toward the window, where the expanse of Eidolon’s vast sloping hills stretched on.

No violent mutations. No bloodshed or destruction.

Just home.

A peace I longed to protect, but in the quiet of my thoughts, my mind spiraled back to the conversation at the healer’s cottage. The thousands who would be infected by the plague. The hundreds that would spawn from every mutation we killed. Even if we raised an army, we’d still be outnumbered, and the more powers they gained from mancers, the less effective our defenses would become.

Morsana.

I darted out of Zevander’s room and a short stretch down the corridor, to the room where I had stayed just before I’d returned to Mortasia. Hinges creaked as I pushed the door open to the familiar chamber that’d once belonged to Zevander’s mother. The black dress I’d worn lay discarded on the bed. The empty vial of the potion Rykaia had used to change my identity that night lay on the table across the room. Beside it, lay the black choker I had worn most of my life.

I crossed the room to the table, from where I lifted the cross, recalling the words Grandfather Bronwick had said to me the first night I had been forced to wear it.

“Don’t let this be a mark of rejection, but a symbol of defiance.”

How trivial it seemed now that Sacton Crain was dead.