I pull my arm away from him. “I’d rather you use your gifts to heal the people who need it more,” I say. “It’s irritating, but it won’t kill me.”
Heron nods, looking a touch relieved. I’m sure with all of the healing he’s been doing, he’s feeling drained. “Put some salve on it and keep it clean and covered, and it should heal on its own in time,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say.
He lingers for another second. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he tells me. “About your dreams. I should have.”
I shake my head. “It sounded insane—even to me. I almost didn’t believe it myself.”
“I’m going to make the dreamless-sleep potion,” he tells me. “You don’t have to drink it, but you might want the option one of these days. And if she does begin to realize…well, it’ll be good to have some on hand.”
I can’t disagree with that. “Thank you,” I tell him.
He nods, smiling tiredly before ducking out of the tent.
THE PEREA FOREST IS A dense expanse of olive trees and cypresses and a few other types of trees that I can’t put a name to. I remember my mother telling me about it, how when the gods made Astrea, Glaidi made the trees from her own fingers, pushing them up through the earth and leaving a bit of herself behind in the roots so that the forest would always grow strong and thrive.
As a child, I was perplexed by the idea that Glaidi could have so many fingers, but now that part of the story doesn’t bother me. It was only a story, and the truth of it wasn’t in the details—it was in the heart. Maybe the trees aren’t really Glaidi’s fingers, but there is a part of her in them, somehow. I feel it now as we pass through the forest. I feel her presence all around me like the comfort of a heavy blanket over my shoulders. I feel her watching over me—watching over all of us—and I feel safe.
The forest is also bursting with birds the deeper in we go, birds with wings in a jewel-box array of shades—from ruby to citrine, pearl to obsidian. When a group of them flies overhead, they are a watercolored blur.
“I used to hear them,” Artemisia says to me after an hour passes in silence. The ride is slower than I’m used to, but I’m grateful for it. The last thing I want to do is go galloping through a forest with no inkling of what awaits ahead. Artemisia clears her throat before continuing. “Across the lake, in the camp. I could hear their songs sometimes, early in the morning or late at night. I never really imagined what they looked like, or how many there were. I just thought their songs sounded sad. Like they were crying.”
“They don’t sound that way anymore,” I tell her.
And it’s true. The birds that fly overhead let out caws so loud that they hurt my ears, but they sound like shouts of joy. They sound like laughter.
“No,” Art says. “Don’t mention that to Erik, though. The last thing we need is some clever rhyme about how even the birds are celebrating our victory.”
Though I can practically hear her rolling her eyes, there’s a touch of affection in her voice as well, and I know that she’s glad to have him back. My arms are wrapped around her waist to help me stay upright, but the horse’s gait is slow and gentle, unlike the rides we took together in Sta’Crivero.
Behind us, Søren urges his pitch-dark horse into a canter coming up beside our horse. He looks better than he did even this morning, though his arms and chest are still covered in bandages. His skin isn’t as sallow; the shadows beneath his eyes are less pronounced. It’s a wonder what food and sleep will do. When his eyes meet mine, he smiles, and I smile back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Our horse—a mild-mannered dappled mare—gives a jump when his approaches, kicking her front legs in warning. I tighten my grip on Art’s waist.
“Did you want something?” she asks him. “Or are you trying to spook my horse?”
Chastened, Søren steers his horse to the right, giving ours a bit of a wider berth.
“We’ll be at the estate by sundown, which means the Ovelgans will likely invite you and me to eat supper with them,” he says.
“Why would they want to eat with you?” Artemisia asks. “You’re their enemy, aren’t you?”
“Because diplomacy demands it, and the Ovelgans are more diplomatic than the Kalovaxian courtiers. They can afford to be, this far from court politics and schemes. They’ll take the chance to hear us out.”
I nod. “Good. How much do you know about them?”
He exhales, considering the question for a moment. “Lord Ovelgan was a commander in the war, but he hasn’t fought since the siege of Goraki. He was injured in combat and retired to the country with his young wife. They have four children. Their eldest will be fifteen now, but I don’t think he lives with them. He’s off training to follow in his father’s footsteps.”
“What about Lady Ovelgan?” I ask. “What about her family?”
That takes him a moment more to consider. “The Stratlans,” he says finally. “Do you remember them at court?”
“Vaguely,” I say, frowning. The courtiers seemed to exist on a wheel to me, always turning. One family never stayed on top for long, and it was often difficult to keep them all straight. But I remember Rigga Stratlan, a girl a little older than me who Cress was friends with but who never said more than a couple of terse words to me. She was pretty in the conventional Kalovaxian way, with pale blond ringlets and a round face with a nose that turned up sharply at the tip.
When I mention her to Søren, he nods. “A cousin, I believe,” he says, though I think we’re pressing his area of expertise. Battle strategies and diplomacy he might know, but the tangled web of the Kalovaxian court is beyond him. “Lady Ovelgan was considered a great beauty—there was actually a rumor about her being one of my father’s consorts for a time. Hard to believe there wasn’t some credibility to it, knowing him.”
He says the words casually enough, but they sour my stomach. “It’s no wonder Lord Ovelgan was hasty to get her away from court when an opportunity arrived.”
“If we’re lucky, they’ll still hold animosity toward the royal family for that,” Artemisia says.
I shake my head. “Or they’ll be far more likely to be sympathetic toward the Kaiserin,” I point out.
Søren catches my eye. “Do you think Cress has already gotten to Lady Ovelgan? Offered her the Encatrio? Killed her or changed her?”
The same thought occurred to me, but I shake my head. “Cress has grown up in the court; she’s never left it for more than a few days. I doubt she’s thinking about anyone outside. It’s practically another world to her.”