Yethyr stared at Kettir blankly. “How are we about to lose the thralls?
“Well…um.” Kettir shifted his eyes. “I caught one trying to escape.”
Good for him! I had nothing against the thralls. They weren’t the ones who annihilated my maker’s city. I saw no reason they had to be dragged through Yethyr’s suicidal charge up a mountain.
Evidently, Yethyr thought differently. His expression darkened. “Who?”
“Setir.”
Yethyr scowled, already planning to make an example of him. An execution. Bloody. Gruesome.
Justice, he thought it was.
“Excessive,” I added in his voice. “So many have died already.”
Yethyr dismissed the false thought. He recognized it as me right away. Usually, that would be the end of it, but it occurred to me then that just because he knew the ideas were mine did not mean he would not listen.
Jaetheiri convinced him to do things all the time after all, and she didn’t even have the advantage of being in his head.
I imitated his voice like I always did, but for the first time, I openly argued with him.
“He only runs because he is afraid of what is ahead.”
“Then let the rest of them fear me more,” was his immediate thought in reply.
“But Setir’s death won’t frighten them. They fear death, and they know they will die on my hunt,” I said as Yethyr. “Perhaps a quick death from me would even be preferable.”
The Prince shook his head. “If I do nothing, they will all leave.”
“I should let them. They will die…” I abandoned that thought. Yethyr didn’t care if they died. He legitimately thought they were all going to Heaven.
“They can’t be trusted,” I said instead. “Any one of them can turn on me. They want to go home. They want the sword.” I stirred up many, many memories of people glancing at my wrapped blade with envy. “These assassination attempts won’t stop. I will die…” I abandoned that thought, too. Fear of his own death had no control over him. “I will die before Maethe’s divine hunt can be completed. I can’t let the halfheartedness of others jeopardize this hunt.”
It was the strangest conversation I had ever had, for it sounded very much like Yethyr was talking to himself. We both knew better.
My language was emotion and vivid imagery and fragmentary words in his voice, but Yethyr understood he was talking with me.
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Beneath the illusion, it was the most direct I had ever been with him, and the novelty drew his full attention. He was silent for a long while, thinking his thoughts and mine.
“What shall I do with him?” Kettir was saying. “Shall I bring him before you?”
“I tire of betrayal,” Yethyr said at last. “Kettir. Kill Setir as befits a heretic. Jaethe?”
“My prince?”
“Inform the rest of the thralls that this hunt has no place for cowards or traitors. If the glory of Maethe be too mighty for them, then I have no need for their presence. If they wish to be heretics, then I release them to be heretics.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, my prince?” Kettir asked cautiously.
“We no longer have the numbers to stop them,” Jaetheiri spoke up, blunt and dry. “Better make it an ultimatum from us. We are in the final stretches now. Only the committed will survive,”
“As you say,” Kettir saluted.
When the huntguard had left, Yethyr glanced at Jaetheiri. “So you approve?”
She shrugged. “You knew I would. That’s why you charged me with delivering the message, is it not?”
“I figured it would be better if you told them. Our thralls trust you more.”
“That’s true.” Jaetheiri stood. As always, she took up her bone circlet before leaving the tent. Looking at it nestled in her nut brown curls, I realized I had seen it among very different hair once.
Red hair.
In Vezemar’s memories, the Witch Queen Felnae had worn that same crown.
So it had been Yethyr’s mother’s then. Why did Jaetheiri have it? Did Yethyr give it to her? Was there some significance to that? Was that why she wore it only in public?
I had no idea.
Jaetheiri left, and Mandorias entered the tent to check on the Prince’s wound. When he was satisfied, he stitched it closed with a bone needle. I was fascinated. It didn’t fix the problem. The pain burned just as badly. The stitches could rip open if Yethyr moved, but it did feel more secure. I subtly suggested Yethyr ask about the process. If I understood how the body healed, perhaps I could make it go faster.
But Mandorias was not much help. He knew his tinctures and poultices worked; he had vague rambling theories as to why they worked, but he didn’t actually know what made a wound heal, except time and clean proper care, of course, which did not help my attempts to make it go faster from the inside.
Some scholar he was, I thought, but I curbed my irritation. Why would he know? He couldn’t see the inner workings of a body the way I could.
Human healers with their limited senses were fumbling in the dark and hoping they did something. When I thought of it like that, I could only admire them: fighting a war on a battlefield they could not even see.
I sharpened my resolve. I could see the battlefield. If I just watched and waited, I could find out all that Mandorias didn’t know.
I looked inward. I had done so plenty of times, but I had focused on surface thoughts then. This time, I went deeper, trying to see what the brain did unconsciously. How did it make the heart beat? How did it heal?
Yethyr was trying to read me as I was reading him. I could feel him squirming at the edge of my thoughts, seeking to dominate me as he promised he would. It was distracting and unhelpful. I was actually trying to help him right now, and he was getting in the way. If he only knew my thoughts…
And suddenly, he did. I had allowed myself to grow too distracted. My walls caved, and he was there. It was just like when I opened myself to him back on the Wily Seal.
He was in me as I was in him.
Yethyr was consuming me, binding me, and there were no Selkie seals singing to distract him from his goal now.
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Would you trust a sword manipulating your thoughts to give you advice on ethics?
