Page 29 of The Stolen Throne
I want to run to them. Check on them and make sure they’re well. Except they’re bowing, and I am queen. I limit myself to reaching out and squeezing Tziah’s arm as we pass.
A silent promise that we’ll talk soon.
Cainis takes me to a tent set far away from the others, well past the outskirts of the camp itself. I have to swallow down angry words of displeasure for leaving Tabra in such a vulnerable place. At least he left two guards outside her tent. They exchange an odd glance before one draws back a flap, allowing us to enter. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmer light of a single candle.
The second I see her, I gasp, the sound a painful rip in my throat.
Mother goddess.
13
Tabra
They have my precious sister chained to a stake in the ground with a pallet, water, and a pot to piss in within reaching distance. I’m not gasping about that, though.
We look like our mother, my sister and I, with our long, black hair, amber-colored eyes, and chins with a slight indent that smacks of stubbornness. Same scars, even, which is not something I’d ever brag about, given how we both came by our matching marks. But right now, we look nothing alike.
Nothing.
My sister is skin and bones. A skeleton left to bleach in the sun has more meat on it than Tabra does. Her eyes are sunken into her head, cheekbones so sharp she looks grotesque. Skin drawn and sallow. I hardly recognize the girl on the ground.
A wellspring of bile surges up my throat, sour and burning.
“Why is she chained?” I demand.
The zariph’s reply is quiet. “For her safety…and ours.”
I glare at him. “Safety?”
“You’ll see. Don’t get too close.”
If he thinks he’s keeping me from my sister, he’s got another think coming. “Why is she so…” I gesture in her direction.
“We feed her, bathe her, do everything we can for her.” He grimaces. “When she lets us. But she’s still wasting away, and we don’t know why.”
I glance over his shoulder to Cain, who nods a confirmation.
Looking her over again, I frown. She’s dressed in Wanderer clothing more appropriate for the desert, but… “Where’s her ring?”
“What?” Cain asks.
I hold up my hand, showing him the signet on my pinkie. “It matches this.”
“Vida has it,” Reven answers. “It kept falling off her finger.”
I close my eyes for a beat, then open them again. “Do we know her power yet?”
When I got her away from Eidolon, her hands glowed the purple of an Enfernae, so I know she’s come into them. Maybe that’s what’s eating away at her. I’ve heard of that before. A power being like poison or too much to control.
“We don’t know yet. She hasn’t tried to use it.” Cain grimaces. “Don’t ask her about it, though.”
“Why?”
“It makes her…angry.”
Tabra doesn’t get angry. “Can I talk to her?”
He glances from me to her. “She’s lucid enough from time to time.”
