In any case, Arick was here. His family estate was ready for him in Floriane—to the knowledge of everyone in court, he’d never left, and he would be taking over the small country’s rule sooner rather than later—but he seemed to want to stay near Raffe, in Valleyda.
Raffe still wasn’t sure what the best course of action was, as far as telling Arick about his old life. So far, he’d given it to him in snatches—he was the betrothed of the queen who’d just died, and been in an accident that caused his memory loss. He didn’t tell him that Neve was the queen in question, didn’t mention Red other than as the former queen’s sister. He’d tell Arick eventually. Somehow.
There were worse things than a blank slate.
For now, he poured his old friend a glass of wine.
Red
She’d never thought it would be Eammon who’d initiate another trip to the sea.
The small house, in a strange turn of events, belonged to Kayu. It was a tiny, one-room structure built on stilts right at the waterline, the only thing for miles in either direction, with a large deck that set out over the water and a giant bed taking up most of the space inside. After a thorough use of said bed, Red was standing on the porch, leaning against the railing and letting the sea breeze dry the sweat into her hair.
“What’s on your mind?” Eammon, still shirtless, came through the door with a bottle of wine—Meducian, provided by Raffe—and two chipped mugs. He poured healthy servings into both, handed one to Red.
She took it without looking away from the tide. “Same thing as always.”
He didn’t pry further. Eammon nodded, tousled her hair, and took a drink.
Red closed her eyes. Over the month since she and Neve destroyed the Wilderwood and the Shadowlands, she’d grown mostly used to the empty feeling in her chest, so much so that now she didn’t notice it unless she went looking. But other than that hollowness, being soulless didn’t seem much different.
It had taken her a week to fully explain to Eammon what she and Neve had done, what it had cost. She hadn’t realized how afraid she was to tell him until she was in the thick of it, vainly attempting to keep her tears from halting the truth, terrified he might not love her anymore once he knew she no longer had a soul. That was what people fell in love with, right? Souls?
But he’d gathered her in his arms and pressed his forehead against hers. “I love you,” he said simply, with the vehemence of a prayer. “I don’t care about anything else.”
And then he’d proven it, which she didn’t mind at all. Red hoped Neve had someone who could reassure her in the same way, if she needed it.
But she thought the one person who could was long gone by now.
“Do you think I should’ve made her stay?” she murmured against the lip of her cup.
Beside her, Eammon sighed, though it wasn’t in frustration so much as sympathy. She’d asked this question over and over again, never satisfied with any answer.
“I think,” Eammon said carefully, “that you have to let Neve do what she feels is right.” He took another long sip of wine, the wind teasing his tangled black hair around his scarred shoulders. “And if that’s wandering all over the continent for reasons unknown, you have to let that be fine with you.”
The reasons weren’t really unknown, though. Maybe Neve thought she was just going traveling to soothe the itch in her center, but Red knew her sister, and Red knew that deep down in her soulless depths, Neve wanted to find Solmir.
What Red still didn’t know was how she felt about that.
She turned, picked up Eammon’s arm to drop it over her shoulders and burrow into his side. He made a surprised, pleased noise, dropping a kiss into her hair before drinking more wine.
The air around them shimmered, a quick effervescence that could’ve been a trick of the light were it not for the slight tingle in Red’s fingertips. “Did you feel it that time?”
“Not in the slightest,” Eammon answered, and didn’t seem upset about it at all.
The way he moved was so different now. Before, Eammon had walked heavily, every motion seeming burdened even after he and Red split the Wilderwood between them. Now, though he still bore the scars he’d made for the forest through all those centuries, Eammon had left the weight of magic behind. All of it, seemingly. Red could sense the tiny frissons of it in the atmosphere, wild power waiting to be harnessed. Eammon sensed none of it, and he seemed perfectly fine. Unencumbered humanity.
She didn’t begrudge him that. He’d been so tired for so long, and their lives were still an uncertainty—she didn’t doubt they’d live an unnaturally long time, after being so suffused with magic, but immortality was no longer a foregone conclusion.