While still trying to make sense of his trip through the Garden, Mawyndulë was working his way along the river, approaching the infamous bridge, which was now covered in snow. That’s when he saw her. At first, the prince was certain he was wrong. What he was seeing had to be an illusion, a trick of light, maybe a vision, some sort of manifested memory, even a ghost. But no, it was Makareta. She was there, not under the bridge but at the end of the walkway between two leafless birch trees. She wore black and white in the fashion of an Umalyn. Even with the dark hood pulled up, he recognized her. In the shadow of that cowl, a pair of frightened eyes looked out at him.
Lost in shock and disbelief, he stared.
“I’ve been afraid to show myself to you—afraid you’d—but now . . .” Her eyes fluttered with concern.
Same voice. All the muscles in Mawyndulë’s stomach were squeezing. The cold of his feet was forgotten. “How—how are you alive?”
“I got away. Stayed hidden.”
“Where?”
“Here.” She made a vague motion at everything and nothing.
“You stayed hidden here in Estramnadon for seven years?”
The dark hood barely moved as her head nodded.
Is Vasek that terrible at his job? How has no one seen her? How did she get any food? How did she survive?
Makareta didn’t look any different.
Well, maybe a little, he conceded.
That happy smile she used to wear was gone, and her eyes seemed older—worn out—exhausted. She was still pretty. The pout and the sad, frightened eyes she now wore suited her, made her more vulnerable, more appealing. He thought this even as he remembered that she had betrayed him, that she was a murderer. But that second thought was only an idea, like plans for tomorrow, and she was right there in front of him.
“I had to see you,” she said.
“Why?”
“To say I was sorry. To make sure you knew that I never meant—” She took a deep breath. “You see, I planned to explain things later on, but that time never came. And I thought that if I . . .” Her hands came up toward her face, only going half the distance. The sleeves of the robe were so long that all he saw were the tips of her fingers. Makareta nervously looked around at the empty landscape and adjusted her hood, pulling it forward to cover more of her face. “Can we go somewhere and sit? Will you give me a chance to explain?”
“You used me to try to kill my father. What explanation could you possibly give?”
“That if we had succeeded, you’d be fane. And if that had happened, the Miralyith wouldn’t be exiled on the banks of the Nidwalden, and we wouldn’t be in a pointless war with the Rhunes.”
Mawyndulë glanced over his shoulder toward the palace. He wasn’t sure what to do. He’d told himself that if he ever saw her again, he’d kill her. He could. When she murdered other Fhrey, her own action ejected her from their society. By Ferrol’s Law, Makareta was no longer Fhrey and no longer under his protection.
He had played out the scenario thousands of times. He’d make a flippant remark and casually set her on fire, or do what Gryndal had done to those Rhunes in the burned-out village. He would snap his fingers and she would blow apart. He’d pictured those scenes many times, but in none of them had she looked so sad, so vulnerable, so enticing. In his daydreams, she always presented him with a vicious, maniacal grin.
He’d always thought that seeing her would be frightening. Just as he could kill her, she could do the same to him. Having murdered once, any added body count wouldn’t make the state of her soul any worse off. He ought to be tense, terrified, but he didn’t feel any of those things. She wasn’t threatening in any way. He stared at her, and she looked back. It felt as if he were peering into her soul through a door she’d purposely left open.
“Yes, we can sit,” he said.
She nodded, pivoting on her left heel, and led him to a flat rock near the bridge, close to the scene of the crime. She dusted it off with the too-long sleeves that flopped about in a ridiculous manner. She cleared a patch big enough for both of them. Then she sat down.
Her disguise was a good one. Umalyn priests dressed just that way and were often seen near the Garden. No one but he would have recognized her, and he did only because she wanted him to.
Mawyndulë took a step and sat beside her.
“You can kill me,” she said, shocking him with the invitation. “I won’t even put up a shield, but I hope you’ll let me speak before you do. I know you must hate me. Probably see no reason to listen, but . . . well . . .” She shook her head. “I know you won’t believe this, but my feelings toward you were always sincere, and, yes, I really believe you’ll make a better fane than your father.”
She bowed her head, slapped her lap with her sleeves, and emitted a frustrated huff. “All of this sounds so contrived! Anything I say now will come off like begging, and I suppose I am, but you should be able to accept this much.” She looked up at him. “By coming to you now, I’m literally putting my life in your hands. You don’t even have to kill me yourself. All you have to do is tell your father that I’m still alive. If you do that, I’m dead. It’s that easy for you to kill me.”
“Maybe not. If you’ve evaded the search for this long—”
“No one has been looking. Not for a long time, at least. Everyone thinks I’m dead or gone to some faraway place.”
“And so you risked your life just to apologize to me?”
“No—that’s part of it—a big part, but there’s something else.”
Mawyndulë waited, but Makareta didn’t say anything for a long while. She sat with her head bowed, her knees clamped together, shivering slightly. He could see the fine material of the robes quiver.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
She sucked in a breath, and he thought she might be crying, but her face was lost in the hood. “This is hard for me. I’m—I’m really scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of you.”
“Really?”
“I’m afraid you won’t believe, and that you’ll hate me.”
“What you really fear is that I’ll kill you—or have someone else do it.”
She shook her head. “I did—I was—not now. I think if you were going to do that, you already would have. No, I’m scared because—Mawyn, I’ve killed Fhrey.” She drew back the hood, and he could see tears in her eyes. “When I die, I don’t know what will happen. Maybe I’ll just disappear or dissolve, but one thing I know for certain is I’ll be unable to enter Phyre. No one will mourn me. No one cares—no one at all.” The tears slipped down her cheeks. “You have no idea what it feels like. I’m facing oblivion, and I’m all alone. I just want to know someone somewhere cares. And right now, you’re the only one who I think might. But if what I have to tell you doesn’t change your mind, then I’m truly lost. So please, try to listen with an open mind and heart, and if when I’m finished you want to hand me over to your father, so be it.”
He reached out and touched her trembling hands. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t thought about it, but he was glad he had. They still felt the same—better, even. In the past, Makareta had been a wild thing he was trying to impress; now she came to him in defeat, in surrender. He realized that no matter what she said, he could never hand her over to his father. He was stunned to discover the truth, but not surprised. He wouldn’t give even his goldfish to Lothian.