Page 132 of The Stolen Throne
Fair point. I grit my teeth. “We need to stop reacting and guessing or we’ll never get ahead of this. We need to know everything.”
Cain’s face is a storm cloud. “No. We stick to the plan and get the other amulets.”
I throw my hands in the air. “We don’t even know where they are! What happens if we manage to get to the remaining sovereigns and they have no idea what we’re talking about? Or if Eidolon already got to them and they’re possessed, too?”
Reven says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. Whether he believes I’m right or not, his stark rejection of this idea beats through my scar.
“That doesn’t mean we risk you going there,” Cain argues.
“We don’t have time to debate this,” I say. “He’s escalating. He’s never tried to marry an Arydian queen. Reven took his immortality. We took Tabra and the last chance he has to do whatever it is he’s trying to do with the goddesses. He’s putting ghosts into people, for goddesses’ sake. And he’s desperate. He also keeps finding us. We need to get ahead of him.”
Cain snaps his mouth shut.
“Meren is right.”
I startle at the words because they come from Pella. By the set of her lips, she’s not thrilled to be speaking up for me. “We need more answers than we’ve got, and faster. We might be able to find them there.”
“I agree,” Omma chimes in.
Well…hells. If she and Pella are the only ones taking my side, maybe I need to reconsider this plan. Even as I think that, though, I reject it. Omma and Pella agreeing with me just tells me how horribly right I am.
56
The Sleeper
Among Us
I’m still with the zariphate three days later.
We’ve moved every single day, trying to stay out of Eidolon’s net. And Tabra isn’t getting visibly better.
Three days and nights of quietly worrying over my sister. She’s still herself, but I would have expected more progress. Any progress, really. Part of me—a part I haven’t shared with anyone else yet—worries that Reven didn’t get it all out. Is it possible to leave part of a ghost behind?
This is why, even after a long, face-meltingly hot ride under the brutal sun, instead of dragging, I’m practically bouncing in my saddle. Pent-up frustration and impatience will do that.
I’ve been avoiding my friends since we stopped for the night because I knew if I didn’t, I’d start arguing with them again. We’ve spent three days in a standoff. Half of us agree, and half are trying to come up with a different plan. Tonight, we need to make a decision. Do something, damn it.
Needing to bleed off some of my irritation as I go over and over my arguments in my head, I grab a satchel and head out to one of the wells Cain made earlier when we stopped. It’s the first thing he does at each new camp. The horses are always watered first. Always. Without them, a zariphate faces almost certain death. I went out after him and built up sand walls around the holes to make it easier to draw the water out.
I don’t actually need more water, but sitting in my room stewing is only making me crankier. The fading heat of the day rises from the sand even as the cool of the night air caresses my sweat-caked skin. The ground gives way with a soft hiss as I plod along. But tonight, not even the familiar scents of sand and the zariphate are all that comforting.
I reach the well out in the dunes designated for the Vanished when I hear Vida’s voice. “Meren?”
I glance over my shoulder as she tops the rise nearest me, a sealable leather satchel in her hands. I’m not exactly in a mood to deal with anyone, so I turn my back on her. “I’m not the best company right now, Vida.”
“You shouldn’t be alone out here.”
I sigh. I guess coming up with an idea that could get me killed makes everyone else believe that I’ve also lost every instinct for self-preservation. Besides, Bene is circling overhead. As if the Devourer would let his goddess wander off while she’s around my neck. After that encounter with Eidolon, he’s gotten as bad as Reven and Horus about keeping tabs on me. “I’m fine.”
Vida leans a hip against my wall around the well anyway and watches, satchel clutched to her stomach, as I lower mine on the rope someone provided.
The silence drags on, scraping along my nerves like brushing against a mammillaria cactus. I hate being at odds with friends. To break the awkwardness, I ask, “With all this moving around, have you been able to be in contact with your family?”
She doesn’t answer. I glance at her. “I’m sorry. Is it hard to be so far from them?”
Her answering smile looks like her usual brand of cheerful, but something feels off about it. I can’t pin down what.
“I’m used to it now,” she says slowly. Almost carefully. “I don’t mind not seeing my mother so much. I’m one of ten, so she was always busy. As the oldest, I was mostly seen as an extra pair of hands more than a child. My father, though…” Her lips tilt as her gaze drifts, clearly visiting memories. “I was his little girl. His angel.”
