CHAPTER X

The Uncharted Sea was far from uncharted.

In Canthian, it was known as the Wide Waters, and had been crossed by pirates and traders alike for centuries. It was only within the last forty years that the Felheimish had made an earnest effort to do more than chase pirates away, and though trade routes had been establish in order to better pay off Canth's debt, a new name had yet to stick.

Still, the Uncharted Sea and the Wide Waters both spoke volumes. Eight weeks stood between us and Felheim. From the deck, all I saw around us was sea and sky, and we only ever seemed to chase the latter away. The captain, a good natured man in his sixties, assured us that he'd followed the stars across the Wide Waters enough times to be able to reach Asar once they burnt out.

For all but a few scattered days of the journey, we were made to stay beneath deck. The fewer questions asked about us the better. To the crew, we were cargo. Our help wasn't needed because there ought to have been none to give; we were something to be stowed away and forgotten.

Our cabin was cramped, comprised of nothing but hard, narrow bunks. Kouris was relegated to the floor, and our time was passed staring up at the slither of light that made its way in through the hatch, days slowly but surely cooling off. During storms, the hatch would be sealed shut, turning the air thick and stale, and the bitterwillow hung around the ship to keep sickness at bay did little to console anyone.

The journey was spent sleeping for the sake of something to do, practising Svargan with Kouris though I had nothing worth saying, and poring over The Sky Beneath The Sun, committing every image to memory, pretending that I could read the words to myself. There was one advantage to the endless journey: I learnt to keep my light within myself.

I drew it in and let it glow, exhaling as though breathing life into a fire, and could make my fingertips burn without setting my eyes ablaze.

On the rare occasion we'd be let out – twice a week, at the very most, and always at night – I'd stare at the sky and into the sea, certain that it was all going to slip from our grasp at any moment. Either the Felheimish would find some reason not to let us make port and turn us around, or a storm the ship couldn't survive would head straight for us.

I almost began to believe that I didn't want to get back to Asar.

The journey to Canth had caused my stomach to turn, and I'd believed I'd never grow accustomed to the rocking of the waves. There was a different sort of discomfort present, this time. Katja had been given more space and less freedom than us; the brig was hers, and I could feel her through the walls.

Some days, she'd whine and shriek, demanding to be let go, but for weeks at a time she remained silent. That was the worst of it. I knew when she was awake, when she was sleeping. I knew when she thought of me, for my stomach twisted and clenched.

It was too late to leave her behind, and I hated myself for not having condemned her to a jail cell for all time, letting the Wide Waters keep us apart.

The day we reached Asar was like the dozens that had come before it. We were given a breakfast of the same sort of bland, dull food that the sailors themselves were subjected to, forever grumbling about the fresh fruit they were transporting, and I stared up at the ceiling, mulling over all the things I'd yet to say about Felheim and Kastelir. When we first boarded the ship, I'd expected to spend weeks fine-tuning plans, but the moment we'd been shown to the cabin, all desire to talk had drained from everyone.

I didn't realise we were close to Asar. From what I could tell, we'd either been on the sea for a week or a year, and the only hope I had was of getting to go out on deck soon. But when every sailor on the ship suddenly had work to attend to, boots thudding on the deck, voices raised, we sat up and took notice.

We glanced between each other as though one of us knew more than the rest, and slowly, the sound of something other than sailors and the sea reached us. I rushed towards the hatch, moving with enough force to make up for the eight weeks I'd spent idle, and stared up at the sky to see birds gliding overhead. They squawked as they circled the port that had to be Ironash, it had to, and I strained to pick out words over the buzz of the town. It wasn't until we were there, inches from the land, that I finally realised I couldn't go back.

We had to get into Felheim. Even if it meant pushing our way past the sailors, swimming to the shore and outrunning all those that gave chase.

“Ah, Northwood,” Akela said, clicking her tongue. “It seems that you are getting excited enough for all of us, yes?”

I followed her gaze and found my fingers sparking with light. Hands balled into fists, I took deep breaths, telling myself that it was going to be alright, it was going to be alright: and it was.

The captain knelt over the hatch, beckoning us up with a tilt of his head. My feet almost slipped off the rungs, body trembling, and Kouris caught me with a laugh, easing me up into the cool coastal air. It was mid-spring, but after Canth, I found myself shivering in lieu of trembling.

Kouris stretched out, finally able to return to her full height, and Atthis shook the captain's hand, thanking him for all that he'd done.

“Just doing as the Queen asks of me,” he said, “You'd best be making your way out of here in a hurry, though. We'll be bringing the, ah. Our other passenger up, just as soon as we're unloaded.”

I rushed off the boat as though a stray breeze might send us back to Canth, feeling the flagstones under my bare feet. I was home, but that wouldn't sink in until I stumbled across something I recognised. I'd never been to Ironash. It was just another port to me, albeit a port full of so much Mesomium being thrown around that it made my head pound. The air was choked with the sounds I wasn't used to, as though the language was no longer my own.

“Here we are,” Atthis said, trying not to flinch when Akela slapped his back. “One step closer to Kastelir.”

The four of us stood by the dock, biting back grins, acting as though we hadn't seen each other in months. The strain of the journey caught up with me all at once, and the thought of setting foot on a ship again made me ache to the marrow. I couldn't stop staring up at the sky, taking in how green Felheim was, even within a town. The wind rushed through me and Kouris wrapped a cloak around my shoulders, letting me lean against her.

All of us had so much we suddenly wanted to say, but we all knew that the moment the words left our mouths, we'd realise what it meant to be four people out of a town of thousands; four people in a kingdom of millions, somehow expected to fix all of this.

I kept my eyes on the ship, unblinking. I wouldn't let Katja out of my sight for a second. If I could endure the feel of her through the walls for months then I could certainly set eyes on her, and as we waited, I saw what they were unloading.

Crates of spices and Canthian fruits, kept ripe with strips of bitterwillow. That's what had brought us all the way back. The sort of thing that sold for coppers at market, always flooding our kitchen table.

“Rowan, if you'd like to go on ahead...” Atthis said, but my eyes were already fixed on Katja.

I didn't know where we were headed, and I certainly wasn't going to let her see me flee at the sight of her.

I couldn't comment on Katja's appearance. Being at sea for so long hadn't done any of us any favours, but I knew that warm water wasn't going to wash the look off her face and a change of clothes weren't going to rid her of the tension rippling through her.

“Uncle,” Katja said, “Kouris, Akela.”

Everyone stared at her, barely nodding their heads in acknowledgement, and I saw how little there was to her. How she was only one person, barely bigger than I was, and how there was so much more anger within me than there was worth within her.

“We'll get cleaned up and have something to eat, shall we?” Atthis asked when Katja continued to stare down at the ground. “Reis gave me plenty of gold for the journey.”

Food was the last thing on my mind with so much to take in around me. It wasn't until I was back in Felheim, in the customs of my old life, that I appreciated how different Canth had been. Felheimish soldiers strolled through the town and no one gave them a second look. I couldn't tell if ships had always scattered the horizon, but all those who made port had their credentials checked by soldiers stationed there.

Beyond that, there were no signs of the unrest in Kastelir. I could almost convince myself that it hadn't happened; we'd seen the worst of it and ran before the ground could cool off.

“Food of actual colours! Now, that is sounding amazing,” Akela said, leading the way.

I spared one last glance towards the ship that had brought us there, frowning at the sailor with his eyes fixed on us.

We took rooms at the first inn we came across. The lack of pirates lingering in corridors confused me, and I glanced around for a danger that wasn't present, convinced that no one in the town could intimidate me. Dropping my things on my bed and resisting the temptation to do the same with my body, I headed straight for the basin, cleaned myself off, and changed into fresh clothes. The moment I started scrubbing at my face, some of my old self came filtering back, as though I was finally possessing my own bones again.

We were back in Felheim. I'd got us there, and I wasn't going to wake at any moment and find myself pressed against a hard bunk, corners splintering. I allowed myself to smile, and headed down to dinner with no fear of the company.

Atthis hadn't been exaggerating when he said Reis had left him with plenty of gold. He'd taken a private room at a restaurant beneath the inn and had ordered what looked to be everything on the menu, plus whatever the cooks could come up with on their feet. I didn't know where to start, where to let my gaze linger. Everything was so colourful, the greens of lettuce clashing with the reds of tomatoes, dark brown meat swimming in darker gravy, all the things we'd forced ourselves to forget on the journey over.

“This, everything you are seeing on the table, yes, it is making it all worth it,” Akela said, scooping a mountain of potatoes onto her plate before she'd taken a seat, “If I am rewarded with a feast like this, I am happily sailing beyond Canth. Ah! I am thinking I am never seeing another stew in my life, but look. It is the most beautiful thing you're ever seeing, yes?”

“You were never this excited when I made stew,” Atthis said, cutting the meat and placing slabs the size of roof tiles on my plate.

“You cannot be blaming me,” Akela said gracefully through a mouthful of food, “You are a much better King than a cook, surely you are realising this.”

I smiled, took my place next to Kouris, and didn't watch the way Katja leant over her plate, cutting her meat into tiny, even squares.

“I supposed we'd best be coming up with some sort of plan,” Kouris said, helping herself to the raw meat, “At the rate Akela here is going we're gonna be done with dinner in half an hour.”

Akela grinned, asparagus hanging from the corner of her mouth, and I grabbed the glass of wine that'd been poured for me so enthusiastically that it almost sloshed into my lap.

“There's much we have to find out,” Atthis agreed, “The situation in Kastelir, for a start. Where the rebellion is based. How we might cross into the country.”

Knocking a fist against her chest to force down the chunk of meat she'd torn off with her teeth, Akela demanded everyone's attention and said, “What, you are saying that we are not simply walking into Kastelir and saying, hm, we are not liking what you are doing with the place, and we are taking it back now?”

“... might actually work if you do it,” Kouris said.

The room set aside for us wasn't large and we kept our voices down, when speaking of Kastelir. It would've come across as nonsense to anyone eavesdropping, but we were unduly cautious. No one would've recognised us, and in the grand scheme of things, we meant nothing; but we had to find a way to use that to our advantage.

It wasn't difficult to convince myself that Katja wasn't there, or that she didn't matter. What I felt for Kouris, Akela and Atthis negated any fear or anger I might've lost myself to, and she sat with her shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the food she wasn't eating. I doubted she heard anything any of us were saying.

“You know,” I began, and they did know. Our first stop on our journey was obvious, but I hadn't allowed myself to say it out loud until we were back on solid ground. “I was thinking that we could—”

“What were you thinking?” Katja asked, gaze shooting up. She tilted her head to the side, fingers wrapped around her cutlery. “That we might march into Kastelir and you would find Claire there, waiting for y—”

Every dish on the table rattled as I brought my fist down against it.

Even Katja started in her seat. The others had been on the verge of silencing her, but the words rushed back inside them at the sight of me meeting her gaze, teeth grit.

I wasn't going to listen to her. Wasn't going to let her words twist inside of me, forcing their way into my thoughts, pushing out what little comfort remained to me.

“I'll kill you,” I said slowly, not understanding how much I meant it until the words crept out of me. “If you say another word to me, or about me – if you ever say her name again – I'll kill you again. And again. And I won't even use my powers to do it.”

Katja recoiled, awed that I'd had the audacity to say such a thing to her, but it worked. She didn't say anything more to me, couldn't set her eyes on me.

“Uncle!” she whispered, certain he would do something for her.

“Quiet, Kouris,” he hissed back, helping himself to another glass of wine.

I'd scared her. I'd forced her to go back to staring at her plate, lest I catch her eye, but I didn't feel good about it. I hadn't won anything. All I'd done was put myself on her level, spouting threats that terrified me because they hadn't felt empty. Everything I'd eaten stuck to the bottom of my stomach, caught in my throat, and I wished, more than anything, that she'd never twisted the faith I'd once had in myself.

“What were you going to say?” Kouris asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I glanced away from the knife trembling in my grasp, saw that her eyes were on me, as well as Atthis and Akela's, and took another mouthful of the wine.

“My father. I want to go see him, and... and I know he'd be happy to have you all stay with us,” I said, drowning out the voice in the back of my head that said I'd been gone for too long, that he'd be angry at me for running away. “It'll be a good place to stop, for a while. To make plans. Our gold isn't going to last forever.”

“Excellent,” Atthis said, moving to squeeze my hand and then thinking better of it. “You said your village isn't far from here; twenty or so miles from the coast? We could leave here in the morning and be at your house in time for dinner.”

I smiled, mood shifting into something brighter, doing all I could to claw at the guilt that said I shouldn't have calmed myself so quickly.

“When I left my village, it was because they'd done all they could to chase me out, without actually chasing me out. Because they were scared. And now, now I'm going back with a pane, a King and Akela,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek. “I don't know what they'll think, but I hope they think Kouris is going to eat them.”

Laughing, Kouris shredded a steak between her fangs, and said, “I'll give 'em my best grin. Maybe lick my lips a bit.”

We ate until our stomachs ached, and Akela kept on eating. Katja seemed to wilt in her seat, drawing away from us bit-by-bit, until she was but a ghost, long-since faded from the conversation, from our thoughts. I folded my hands across my stomach, leant back and closed my eyes, and allowed myself to soak in how wonderful having a mattress beneath me would be.

Full stomachs paved the way to pleasant exhaustion, and stretching out at the table, we all decided it was time to turn in within seconds of each other. I didn't know where Katja was staying, whether she had her own room she was being locked into, or whether Akela or Atthis were standing watch over her, and didn't care to find out.

“It's been a long time since you've seen your father, Rowan. I doubt you'll want us crowding around you,” Atthis said. “Head out with Kouris in the morning. She'll get you there hours ahead of us."

I squeezed his hand, bidding him goodnight, and let my covers swarm me. Blankets. It was actually cool enough to need blankets. I pulled them tight around me, comforted by the weight and warmth, and drifted off to the sound of the sea lapping against Asar, wind carried across the waves all the way from Canth.

The next morning, it all became real. The journey over wasn't a dream I thought I'd never escape and I didn't awaken in Canth, in Reis' hut. Almost two years ago, the opposite had happened; I'd expect to open my eyes, to find that the dragons had all been a dream, and wander back through Isin's castle.

Knowing how distracting such thoughts could be, I didn't waste any time. I double-checked everything was still in my bag, felt for the chain around my neck, and met Kouris down in the lobby.

Travelling with a pane was the best way to go unnoticed. Had someone actually been tracking me down, they would've looked straight over me, attention fixed firmly on Kouris. Other patrons were side-eyeing her warily, whispering things she could clearly hear with ears like those, and the innkeeper was working on building up the courage necessary to ask her to hurry on.

There were a lot of things I was going to have to get used to again about Asar, but this frustrated me the most.

“Good morning,” I said, making a point of pushing myself up on tip-toes and kissing her cheek, when she bowed towards me. “Are you ready?”

“Are you?” she asked, holding the door open for me.

“No. Really, really not,” I said, shakily laughing it away. “It's been so long since I've seen my dad – more than two years! – so of course it's going to be hard. But I've got to go. Because I just feel like... like I can't leave it a second longer than I have to. As if a few minutes are going to make a difference. That sounds weird, doesn't it?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I think I understand how you feel.”

Breakfast came in the form of the baker's first batch of bread that morning, and at the edge of Ironash, Kouris knelt down. I climbed on her back, not ready for the miles to fade away in minutes, but unwilling to let myself linger for more than a moment. I couldn't stop now. I'd come back for a reason; to be useful.

With my arms around her neck, cheek pressed against hers, I said, “I feel like I've never been away. But I feel like I was never really here, either. Like it was all a dream. I don't think I'm going to believe it until I'm there, back at the farmhouse. And even then...”

Closing my eyes, I felt the wind rush across my face, felt Kouris chuckle. I'd fallen asleep dull and woken up much the same, and as long as I kept my mind clear and my thoughts focused forward, I'd be able to keep control over it all.

“Can't wait to see the look on your dad's face when you drag a pane home with you.”

“And not just any pane,” I said, leaning back and holding onto her horns.

I'd never been south of my village, had never gone anywhere near Ironash, but it didn't take long for my surroundings to become startlingly familiar. Every tree we passed jogged a memory, too many of them coming to me at once to be made sense of. I'd forgotten how rich the landscape was, couldn't appreciate the wealth of life therein until we were rushing through the long grass.

A rabbit cut across us as I found myself grinning. I hadn't seen one of those in months.

“What's he going to think?” I murmured a few hours into the journey, knowing we couldn't be far off. “I sent him letters, I let him know I was okay, but that was so long ago, Kouris. It was spring when I left, spring two years ago. He'll know what happened to Kastelir, everyone will, and if Michael wrote to him...”

“He'll be thinking that he's so happy to see you that anything he's thought before suddenly won't matter, yrval,” Kouris said firmly. “No point in worrying yourself now; that's all gonna turn to relief quickly enough, trust me.”

I occupied my thoughts with things that didn't matter to me. I wondered how the village would react once they knew I was back, wondered if Thane or any of the other elders would march up to the farmhouse and knock on the door, demanding to know what I thought I was doing. Blaming me for all that had happened in Kastelir, no doubt.

I saw the forest surrounding the valley before the village itself, and planted my hands against Kouris' shoulders, pushing myself up for a better view. There it was, same as it'd ever been: the buildings hadn't rearranged themselves, nor had the streets taken on any new twists and turns. I wasn't close enough to be able to spot anyone on the streets yet, and I gripped Kouris' horns tighter, thumbs pressing into the grooves Reis had carved.

I would've steered her away from the village, into the fields and up to our farmhouse, but something was wrong. We drew closer and closer and still I didn't see anyone; Kouris skidded to a halt outside the first building on the outskirts of the village, and I jumped off her back, running ahead.

I was met with emptiness, with silence. None of the fear or repulsion I'd expected was to be found within the village, and none of the resentment they'd once felt for me lingered in the air.

“Hello?” I called out against my better judgement, spinning on the spot, desperate to find a sign of life.

I reached out with my powers, grasping at nothing.

The windows of the building in front of me were boarded up, and all around, planks of wood had been nailed across doors.

The plague. The plague had been creeping along the coast, before I left.

It would've been easy for Kouris to catch up with me, but she let me run on alone, up the dirt path leading to the farmhouse. I could've stopped this. Had I still been here, I could've cleansed the plague in a matter of moments. But would the villagers have let me? The farmhouse – my farmhouse – was right in front of me, washed-out red paint peeling off the front door, and I couldn't have ever gone to Canth.

I barely knew my way out of the valley.

I pounded my fists against the front door, light slipping from my grasp, not knowing what I expected to find within. A note on the table to say where he'd gone, at the very most. I gripped the handle and shouldered the door open. I used more force than I needed to and ended up flinging myself against the opposing wall, knocking over an empty bucket and a shovel in the process.

Momentum finally lost to me, I crouched down to pick the things back up and fell to my knees, breathless. Coming back hadn't been a waste, I told myself. My father had simply... headed to Kyrindval, where Michael was, or taken refuge a few villages over. Hands twisting in my hair, I did what I could to draw in my light, when a voice from behind me cautiously asked, “Rowan... ?”

My father stood in the kitchen doorway, gripping a hatchet in one hand. All of the crashing about I'd done had put him on edge, but the second he set eyes on me, he lowered the weapon, placing it on the ground. He moved to put his hands on my shoulders, but I rushed to my feet, launching myself at his chest.

“Dad!” I said, feeling his arms wrap around me in spite of the glow he didn't understand emanating from me. “Dad, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.”

“Shh, shh,” he said, hand on the back of my head. I clung to him tighter, doing all I could not to shake, and he swayed me on the spot, saying, “There, there, Rowan. I'll get us some tea, shall I?”

I found my way to the kitchen table, and nothing in there had changed but me. I sat with my hands clasped together beneath the tabletop, trembling in what my body had yet to register as relief, and my father stood by the counter, boiling water. He kept glancing over his shoulder, ensuring that I was really there, and my teeth chattered together every time I tried to smile.

“I didn't mean to be gone for so long,” I blurted out. “Really, I didn't. Everything just...”

He placed a cup of tea in front of me, and I stared down at it, biting my lower lip.

“You had to leave home eventually,” he said gently, sitting down opposite me. For as quiet as he'd always been, I could tell he was straining to hold all his questions back. His eyes flickered across me for the hundredth time, and he took in the sight of my darkened skin and said, “Where have you been? Last I heard from you, you were at Isin and, ah. And I know how that turned out.”

“Canth,” I said, and it sounded ridiculous, even to me. “We were in Canth. After the dragons came, we couldn't get past the soldiers and back into Felheim. We ended up along the coast, and it was the only place we could go. Honestly. I didn't think we'd be gone for so long...”

I wrapped my fingers around the cup, taking in the heat as though cold air was causing me to shiver.

“What happened here?”

“Nothing so exciting as Canth,” he said, smiling quizzically at the thought. “The plague reached us a few months after you'd left. It was contained, for the first few weeks, and then we had three deaths in a day. Houses were boarded up, businesses left behind. People took what they could and spread out through the country. I chose to stay here because... well, you and Michael needed somewhere to come back to.”

I stared down at the surface of the tea, at my blurred, bright reflection, guilt sinking into my marrow. My father had been alone for more than a year, waiting and waiting.

“Michael? Is he... ?”

“The last I heard, he was in Kyrindval. This was before the business with the dragons, of course,” my father said, sipping thoughtfully on his tea. “Word rarely crosses the border, these days, unless in an official capacity.”

I nodded, though I'd been told nothing new. Michael's fate was uncertain as it had ever been, but I had to believe the pane had been spared.

“I'm sorry for running away,” I said, pressing my hands to my face. My father had stayed here for me, and yet I hadn't even been able to bring myself to say goodbye. “I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know why I just left, I—”

“I do,” he said. He'd never cut me off before, and I took notice of what he was saying. “It was clear enough how they were treating you. I ought to have said something; ought to have done something years ago, when they thought you were a healer, but you seemed so happy to be helping people.

“I only wish I'd acted sooner. Moved away when the village turned against you. I should be the one apologising.”

I scrunched up my face, eyes dry, temples throbbing, and shook my head. Of course we couldn't have left. This was our home, our life; we had the farm, dozens of animals to look after. We couldn't have left that all behind because of me.

“It's fine. It's fine, I don't... don't think anyone should know how to deal with this,” I said. “It's just bad luck, having a necromancer for a daughter, I guess.”

“It's bad luck having a daughter born into a Kingdom that discriminates against necromancers,” he hurried to correct me.

I looked away, desperate to scrape together the right words to reply to that, but could only get to my feet, and move over to wrap my arms around his shoulders.

“I wasn't surprised when you left. I was glad to get your letters,” he said, patting me against the back. “Sir Ightham's abrupt departure had the village in a state for days. No one thought to suggest that you'd somehow been involved for the better part of a week. I'm glad you had good company on your journey. This we you mentioned...”

My arms went slack around him and I stood back up straight, mumbling, “No, Claire, she...”

“Ah,” he said, brushing his fingers against his mouth. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

I fell back into my seat, determined not to let myself sink further.

“My friends are with me, though!” I said, “It's alright for them to stay here, isn't it? Just for a while?”

“Of course,” he said, answer matched by a knock at the door.

My father rose to answer the door and I shuffled over on my seat so that I could peer out into the corridor. The front door hadn't swung shut all the way behind me, and I saw my father pull the door to, saying, “Hello,” before he set his eyes on Kouris. If he'd ever seen a pane in his life, I would've known about it. Kouris bowed forward, ears folded back as she gave him her best smile. After a moment of staring, my father said, “Ah. Mind your head.”

Kouris ducked through the doorway, remaining hunched over once she was inside.

“Cosy!” she said, clapping her hands together, and met my gaze with a grin. My chest tightened at the sight of how pleased she was for me, and I silently thanked her for giving me and my father time alone. “Look at that! It's just like you said it was.”

“Dad, this is Kouris. Kouris, this is my dad,” I said, chin propped on the back of the chair.

“It's good to meet you. Now, let's see...” my father said, shaking Kouris' hand and rushing off to find a chair sturdy enough for her. He dragged it over to the table, patted the seat and said, “Tea?”

The three of us crowded around the table, mugs in hand. I never expected Kouris to meet my father, or indeed for any pane to be in our house, but he was as welcoming of her as he would've been to anyone. Kouris busied herself with looking around the room and out of the window, where the farm's remaining animals had been brought closer to the house. With only my father in the village, there was no need for fields of sheep and herds of cattle; no doubt the villagers had taken plenty of them when they left, needing something to pay their way with.

“Kouris...” my father mused, tapping his spoon against the side of his mug once he'd mixed more sugar in. “Like the stories Michael used to tell?”

Kouris ducked her head sheepishly and said, “There are plenty of mistakes in those, Dad.”

I almost snorted my tea through my nose upon hearing her call him that, but my father only lifted his brow, amused, and said, “You're certainly more alive than those stories led me to believe.”

Holding the seemingly tiny mug delicately between her claws, Kouris tilted it back, tipped the whole lot in her mouth and said, “Might be an idea for me to head back and meet up with the others. Sort out living arrangements. Reckon we can use one of those abandoned houses for anyone we don't want hanging around here.”

My father's gaze narrowed at the suggestion of unwelcome guests, but he said nothing. I nodded to Kouris, hoping she might shut Katja up within one of those plague-ridden houses, and leave her to rot. I stood in the doorway, and watched her sprint off down the dirt path, up the sides of the valley and into the trees beyond.

Lifting his brow, impressed with how swiftly she moved, my father said, “Well. I go all this time without company, and in one day I'm graced by my daughter and a pane. Shall we prepare dinner? How many more are coming?”

“Two,” I said, wincing. “Three. But one of them... she's not allowed up here, near you. No matter what.”

My father's face fell as he look at me, and he placed a hand on my cheek, holding his silence as though too many questions might cause me to disappear again. Trusting my decision, he managed a smile, and said, “I hope you haven't forgotten how to make stew.”

We passed the hours in amiable silence, peeling potatoes and washing vegetables, preparing the meat and laying the table as we went. My father always said he found it best to keep busy when something weighed upon his mind, and he didn't stop moving for half a second. After months of cooking for himself, he finally had a chance to prepare something for others, and used the best of what he had.

I chopped carrots, light from my fingertips making the knife gleam, still having trouble drawing it back in.

“You haven't asked why I'm glowing,” I mumbled, “It's kind of noticeable, but...”

“Do you want to tell me why you're glowing?” he asked, tapping the chopping board on the side of the pan, meat sliding into it.

“No. Not really.”

“Then I won't ask you. I'll wait until you want to tell me.”

Assuming it was just a necromancer thing would have to do, for the time being.

It was early afternoon by the time Akela and Atthis arrived. The stew simmered over a low flame, and I'd been knelt on an armchair, looking out of the window for them. Kouris and Katja were nowhere to be seen, and I wondered which dinner guest would be of more of a shock to my father: a pane or a King.

“Northwood! Or perhaps I am saying Northwoods! It is us, we are here,” Akela called as she approached our house. “I am hoping your father is having all sorts of embarrassing tales to tell about you, Northwood!”

I rushed to the front door, held it wide open for her, and saw how shamelessly happy Akela was for me. She gripped my shoulders, knocked her forehead against mine with no small amount of force, and refused to jinx our luck by saying anything out loud. Atthis was trailing behind, still at the foot of the hill, and I waited by the door as Akela barrelled my father into a hug.

“Excellent! I am smelling stew, yes? Northwoods, both of you, you are being far too kind,” Akela said, towering over my father once she finally released him. “Yes, yes, and of course, it is good to meet you. My name is Akela Ayad, and we are checking on this stew.”

My father shook her hand, and with a breathy laugh said, “I can't help but feel as though something's missing. Perhaps you'll be able to help.”

They disappeared into the kitchen, and the lively discourse that rushed out into the hallway made it sound as though this was a regular event; as though Akela came over for dinner once a week, and my father already knew to trust her opinion, when it came to food. A cool breeze drifted in as Atthis approached, not wont to rush ahead as Akela was, and he stopped in the doorway, dropping his bags to his feet.

“Kouris told me the good news,” he said, beaming. “A day into our travels and things are already going our way.”

“And we don't even have to deal with my village,” I said, jerking my thumb towards the valley.

Good riddance to them, I'd decided. I hoped they'd moved on and found themselves a home free of the stigma a necromancer brought with it.

Atthis laughed and shook his head at the same time, and leaving the stew in Akela's hands, my father poked his head into the hallway to greet the last of our guests. Atthis and my father nodded their heads politely towards one another, and both paused in the same moment, staring at each other, curious, searching.

“... Atlas?” Atthis tried, a little hesitant, but my father's eyes lit up, and he rushed forward, clasping his hand.

“Atthis!” he said. “This really has been a most remarkable day.”

“I had assumed Northwood to be a common Felheimish name, so I'd never thought... gods, man. How have you been?”

“Well,” my father said, and Akela stepped out of the kitchen at the good-natured commotion. “I hardly have the makings of a King, but home is home.”

They were still shaking one another's hands, caught up in something I didn't understand, and when Akela caught my eye, I could only shrug.

“Um,” she said loudly. “What is happening here?”

“Atthis here, he's an... not exactly an old friend, but certainly an acquaintance,” my father said, and Atthis nodded his head in enthusiastic agreement. “What has it been—thirty-five years? Back when I was a soldier, I was stationed along the wall, close to what was the southernmost territory. We were keeping watch, more than anything else. Sometimes we shared supplies with the southern soldiers.”

“I wasn't always a leader,” Atthis clarified. “My mother made sure I served as the other soldiers did.”

And there I was, thinking the fact that I'd travelled halfway across the world with a King was remarkable, when my father had met him decades before. Deciding it was delightfully absurd, Akela slapped a hand against the door frame and chuckled to herself.

“Northwoods, if this continues, then tomorrow we are finding out that you are cousins with the King of Felheim, yes, and we are sorting this all out over tea,” she said, and headed back into the kitchen.

Atthis and my father belatedly remembered to stop shaking hands, and I tugged on my father's sleeve, saying, “How come you never told me that you knew a King before he was a King?”

“Do you think Michael would have ever shut up about it?” he asked. “By the time he was thirteen he would've been telling the tale as though it was something that happened to him.”

I bit back a smile, nudging him with my shoulder.

The four of us sat down to dinner, joined by Kouris before Akela was finished boasting about the stew she felt solely responsible for. With Katja out of sight and mostly out of mind, I sat amongst the people I cared about most, and knew that even if we couldn't save Kastelir, our journey hadn't been wasted.