Between Tides Thunder(108)
I mull over her words. “What do you think, Zev?” I ask softly. “You don’t want to rule.” I don’t mention the nonexistent state of our marriage. My intuition tells me that Zev doesn’t want his mother to know of our … marital troubles.
“Zev…” Tairna repeats, a wistful smile on her lips. “No one’s called you that since—”
“Lev.” The name tears from my husband’s throat like a curse.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “I was very sorry to hear of his death.”
“Were you?” Zev snaps, leaning forward. “Did you also hear of my father’s reaction?”
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. The air thickens—like it’s waiting for lightning. The blood drains from Tairna’s stricken face. She shakes her head.
“He said Lev must’ve been a worthless wielder if he managed to get himself frozen.” His voice cracks. “Wouldn’t let me attend his funeral. Couldn’t risk the kingdom seeing their commander weep like a pathetic girl.” His fists clench around the armrests until the wood groans, and I know, if not for his iron cuffs, there would be a storm gathering in this very room. “He mocked Lev in every council meeting for two months, calling him frozen fucking dirt, until I could get through without showing any emotion.”
Twin tears slide down Tairna’s cheeks. Too slow. Too late.
“I’m so sor—”
“Spare me your useless apologies.” His voice is cold. Empty. “You’ve done a great job with the Rebellion. Well fucking done, Tairna.” She flinches. He leans farther across the table, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Tell me, how did I fit into your grand plan if I hadn’t married Mayah and fallen into your lap along with her? Were you planning to kill me, too?”
“Vayru, please, of course not! I-I am truly sorry for what you’ve endured. Without me there to support you. But Varad’s cruelty is exactly why we need to—”
Zev slams both his fists against the worn surface of the table, his iron cuffs clacking against the wood. Tairna and I both jump at the sudden sound. His chair nearly topples backward as he shoots up, thundering toward the door.
Torn, I glance back at Tairna—still seated, still crying. My questions about Mama will have to wait. I rise and follow the man who might never let me in again.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
THE NARROW CORRIDORS SEEM even more cramped beneath the weight of Zev’s rage as we return to our room. We’re nearly there, when a door in the hallway flings open. Sura leans out, wearing a deep, burgundy dress and her lopsided smile.
“I thought I heard someone stamping through here.” Pushing off the doorframe, she links her arm through mine, ignoring Zev completely. “There’s a dance tonight. We have one every other week or so. You must come. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
I cut my eyes toward Zev—I don't want to leave him, not after the explosive conversation with his mother. But he won't meet my gaze. He probably doesn't even want any comfort I might offer. When Sura tugs me toward her room, I let her. I turn back to find Zev staring at our linked arms, eyes shadowed.
“I’ll—I’ll see you later?” My voice rises at the end. I still don’t know where we stand. He gives a barely perceptible nod and stalks into our room.
The door slams shut.
Sura’s room is small but tidy—her side at least. There’s a clear demarcation where Tumaas’s chaos begins.
For a moment, my best friend just looks at me. “Oh, Mayah,” she murmurs, and then I’m wrapped in her embrace. I’m not sure who starts crying first, but within minutes, we’re a sobbing heap of shaking limbs on the floor.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she cries into my shoulder.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” My voice is hoarse. “I am sorry. I didn’t do enough for nonwielders. You couldn’t come home. He-he never let it be your home. I’m happy you found your place. Truly.”
We draw back, wiping away each other’s tears. “You did what you could,” she whispers, her lopsided smile wavering. “And we’re together now.”
With a loud sniffle, she rises, bringing me along with her. I settle onto her neatly made bed—Tumaas’s thin mattress is covered with wrinkled clothing and a stained leather apron. She rummages through her closet, selecting a few dresses and handing them to me.
I try the dresses on, waiting for her to ask me about Zev, but she never does. Truthfully, I’m relieved. What would I even say? I’m married to the man who tried to kill you? I’m torn about my feelings for him? He hates me most of the time?
The words knot in my throat. So I say nothing at all.
The makeshift dance hall is one of the smaller structures in the Rebellion camp. The walls are uneven, clearly thrown together in haste—I suspect the earthwielder responsible might have been tipsy. Flickering lanterns cast a warm glow across the space. The floor is scuffed and stained, but it’s been cleared to make room for dancing—just enough space for a dozen people to move freely without bumping elbows.
Sura links her arm through mine, smoothing the blue fabric of my borrowed dress, and tugs me through the crowd. The room hums with life—men and women spinning, swaying, laughing. Boots thump against the wooden floor, arms thrown around waists and shoulders as they twirl.