Blood for Honor
Chapter 8

The current of the icy river gently glides around my bare feet as I walk back to the bank. I almost feel like a new woman, free of the dirt and grime caked up in all the wrong places. It took longer than I would have liked to scrub and untangle my hair in the swirling river current, but I could not bring myself to chop it all off.

I flex my toes, squishing sand between them while watching the pine trees lining the opposite riverbank sway in the gentle evening breeze. The trees block out the harshest mid-afternoon sunlight, but the abundance of goldenrod lining the bank brightens the shade-dappled river.

Shivering in the cool breeze, I slip my coat over my damp shoulders and crawl onto a large stone jutting out of the sandbank. Turning my eyes to the swathes of goldenrod, I watch it sway hypnotically while running my fingers through my hair, not nearly as absentmindedly as I would like.

If I cannot keep my mind from replaying my newfound memories, I will surely lose my mind, but if it goes silent, another voice will be there to fill the void. I am not sure what I would prefer: Bloody images of my brother and the sensation of ice water flooding my lungs or his killer’s voice in my head.

You are stronger than you think you are. Carnegie’s voice is soft, something I do not associate with the vile man.

I scoff but do not reply. That is a lie. I am more fragile than I have ever been. I do not miss the compliment, but I cannot bear to agree with Carnegie, of all people, on anything.

He does not let my silence deter him. You think I am lying. You have already bought the lie that you cannot continue. It will destroy you if you let it.

I bang my forehead against my knee with a groan.

Just shut up, I plead.

My fingers find my hair and roughly pull it into a braid over my shoulder.

If you could remember everything you have forgotten, you wouldn’t push me away like this.

My fingers freeze in their braiding, and my eyes widen as fear courses through my body like electricity. I look up from my hair, staring blankly out over the water. “What else have I forgotten?” My voice is faint, and my heart starts racing. There is an instinctual knowing deep inside of me that I cannot explain. All my anger toward Carnegie twists into an ugly knot of terror, constricting my throat.

My father said I was gone for three weeks. Weeks! Carnegie is not lying. I have lost time and forgotten who knows what, but to be told it is real? That is something else entirely.

Everything he doesn’t want you to remember—not yet.

His words sink into my being as though he has screamed them, silencing the chorus of thoughts in my mind. “Who’s he?” I sit upright, ignoring how crazy I must appear talking to myself—not that anyone is around to see me.

There is no answer.

“Why even bring it up if you aren’t going to say anything?” I ask, my anger returning to uncoil the knot that constricts my voice.

You will understand soon enough, he says after a moment.

I growl out in frustration, abandoning my hair. I stand up hurriedly on the stone like it will prove my point to someone who cannot see me. “I am done with cryptic answers!” My distraught voice echoes across the water, but Carnegie does not answer, leaving me with a silence that only makes me angrier. “So much for being helpful,” I spit out, staring at the sky with narrowed eyes.

It is almost too easy to forget who I am talking to when it is only a voice in my head. It should affect me more than it does, but some part of me has already accepted that this is how it will be—for a little while at least.

I hope.

I have completely lost my mind.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I hop off of the rock, landing with a grunt as my feet sink into the sand. My body is sore, but I cannot recall why—one of the many mysteries ruling over my now complicated life.

I shove my soiled clothes into my bag before slinging it over my shoulder. I do not even bother putting my boots on before heading home. I opt to swing them childishly at my side if only to distract myself with the rhythmic beat they pound out against my leg with each footstep. When that does not work, I try to revel in the softness of the pine needles covering the worn path under my bare feet, desperately trying to ignore the words repeatedly playing in my head.

If you could remember everything you have forgotten...

But what have I forgotten?

“This running off thing is becoming a habit I do not like, Iylara,” my father says as soon as I step through his cabin door. I feel like a teenager being chastised for staying out past curfew again.

I bow my head, knowing I was gone longer than I should have been. “I was bathing in the river. I’m sorry. I should have told someone where I was going—” My eyes fall on the half-empty whiskey bottle sitting on my father’s chair-side table. “When did you start drinking?” I ask, trying to change the subject as I grab a glass from the cupboard.

“Not too long ago,” he says, pouring me a glass as I hold the cup out to him.

I sink into the soft leather couch cushions with a sigh and tuck my feet under me, warming my chilled toes under my bottom. I cradle the glass of whiskey like a steaming mug of tea. The amber liquid glows in the light of the roaring fireplace that warms the room a little more than necessary.

My father sits quietly in his recliner, staring at his glass. “How did the meeting go?” I ask, taking a sip of my whiskey.

He clears his throat, looking up at me. “We got word that Chief Lysander has agreed to meet with Vesper and ourselves before Luther and his advisers left.

“We leave for the Market in three days. Luther is supplying food and music. A way to show the people he means well. We have a supply wagon with some things we can trade to make a good impression with him. I suggest you take notes,” my father says. He takes a long drink of whiskey, downing the rest of the glass. “I’m not arguing about it either.”

I clench my teeth, biting back a futile argument. “What has you drinking?” I ask.

Most would miss the slight slur in my father’s words or how his eyes droop, but I can see it. He has been hitting the bottle hard. The last time he drank this heavily was when my mother and sister died. Otherwise, he usually stays away from the stuff.

My father looks at me with sorrowful eyes but doesn’t say anything.

Damian.

That is why, of course. I still feel as though I am dreaming, and none of this is real. To honestly acknowledge that my brother is dead will surely break me past the point of ever being mended again. Not just because it is my brother, but because of the repercussions it brings. My mind will not process it all, and my nightmares become my reality when I think about them too long. It is all I can do to not buckle under their weight.

I slipped out to the river while my father relayed the news of Damian’s death to Keena. She was hysterical, of course. I could hear her wailing as I escaped out of the North Gate. Even though my father would not let me go with him and hear it for myself, I know she blames me. She practically shrieked that very thing at the top of her lungs for the entire village to hear.

I take another sip of whiskey, bracing myself to ask the one question rattling around in my head that stands out amidst the chaos. “Are you so gung-ho about Vesper’s promise of peace for the sake of peace or because you don’t trust me to lead our people when you are gone?”

My father looks up at me too fast for comfort, and my stomach drops. Sure, Luther showed up while I was gone, but my father only agreed once I was back and clearly in line for the throne after him.

My father doesn’t trust me, but if I am honest, I don’t trust myself either. “I might not have raised you to lead, but you are smart. I know you picked up a thing or two over the years.” He tries to deny what I already know, but I shake my head.

My father’s gaze falters, and he turns away. Something has him seriously unsettled, and it is more than his son’s death. The man before me never falters and averts his eyes from those he speaks to. Yet that is all he can do when talking to me now.

“Don’t lie to me,” I say quietly, tears filling my eyes.

My father gnaws on the inside of his cheek, his eyes darkening as he looks up at me. “There are things you do not understand—things I cannot tell you, Iylara. Please trust me when I say that I am doing what I am doing for the good of our people.” His voice is unsteady, and he appears decades older than sixty. “And for God’s sake, don’t make me answer that question.”

A tear rolls down my cheek as I stand. I swallow the rest of the whiskey in one gulp and nod. “Yes, sir.”

I set the empty glass down on the counter and flee the cabin. I don’t know where I am going, but I refuse to sob like a child in front of my father. He already doesn’t believe I can lead Blackthorn, regardless of what he does or does not say. I will not give him any more reason to think I am weak.

The only thing worse than my father’s unbelief is my knowing that anyone else would be better suited to the job than I am—even an eleven-year-old girl.

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