Page 134 of The Stolen Throne
Yeah. I haven’t told Reven or the others yet, either, mostly because I haven’t had a chance. Omma decided today and talked to me about it while we rode here. She’d been hesitant because, apparently, the one and only time my grandmother tried it, it didn’t go so well. Beyond saying Grandmother got lost, she didn’t give me details. She clearly made it out, though.
“Omma will go in first, but if she doesn’t come out, I’m going in after her. We’re taking Tabra with us.”
I will Vida to agree with me. One more person on my side would be nice.
“Wow. You really are determined to do this.” An odd note rings in Vida’s voice, and I frown. “If you’re taking Tabra, why not send her in if Omma fails?”
Frustration makes me breathe through my nose. This is why I avoided everyone today. “Because Tabra is queen, while I am, and always have been, the sister to be sacrificed.”
Her chin juts forward. “Not to us you aren’t.”
Oh.
I look at my feet, my frustration bleeding away as I try to contain the sudden wellspring of burning at the back of my eyes. That’s the second time today she’s made me feel valued. Loved.
“Dearest.” Vida wraps her arms around me. She’s such a hugger.
I let my chin rest on her shoulder.
“I guess I’m not used to mattering,” I say, trying to huff out a laugh, make it a joke. It sounds more pathetic than anything, though. Poor, pitiful princess.
“You matter more than you think,” she murmurs. Then, softer yet, something that sounds like, “Goddess, forgive me for this.”
I frown. “What?”
I catch a distinctive scrape of metal on leather—the sound of a blade being unsheathed. On a gasp, I go to yank away, but her arm around me tightens like a vise.
Her face spasms. “I’m sorry.”
57
Out of My Hands
Cain and I used to wrestle when we were kids. It wasn’t just play—it was training to fight. The Wanderers are skilled at hand-to-hand combat and learn from a young age. Cain taught me some moves.
Which is why, despite the shock that this is happening, when Vida goes to plunge the weapon into my body, I block her with both my hands. Then I grab her wrist. In a twisting move that breaks her hold on my neck, I spin so my back is to her, her arm yanked above my head. Then I roll, careful to avoid the pointy end of the blade. No, not a blade, I recognize on an extra stab of shock. The sewing shears I brought her.
Only Vida is quick, too. In a flash, she’s on her feet and facing me.
As if she has also been trained. She’s a seamstress. How is this possible?
Rather than go at me with the shears again, she snatches at the amulet swinging from my neck, wrapping her fist around it and whipping me violently by the chain, which by some miracle doesn’t snap. I trip and end up on my back on the ground, the breath leaving my body in a painful oomph.
Vida straddles my chest, her knees on my wrists, pinning me to the ground. I kick and thrash and buck, but I can’t dislodge her.
“I’m sorry.” She keeps saying that. She’s sorry but she raises her weapon anyway.
“Why are you doing this?” This isn’t her. Maybe she’s possessed like Tabra was.
Her hand wobbles. So does her chin. “I have no choice. He has my family.”
Her family.
Oh goddess, her family who we were just talking about. Her father with his jiggling belly. And her sister who sings. And her bickering brothers.
My mind splinters with a thousand questions. There’s only one “he” that she could be talking about. Eidolon. When did he take them? How long has she been under his thumb? Why does he want me dead now?
“I’m so sorry.” She sobs the words. Then yanks on the amulet and, at the same time, strikes.
