Page 33 of The Stolen Throne
Okay, so a lifetime of being the expendable one might still be a hang-up of my own. Every person is worthy of consideration and dignity. Reven taught me that with what he accomplished in the Shadowood.
Horus sighs. “I wish that were true.”
What this man has been through to put that kind of stark disbelief in his eyes makes me heartsore.
He clears his throat. “Reven isn’t like before.”
Given the way Cain has been acting and his own warning to me, I’d gathered that. “How bad?”
He shrugs. “He was also healing, but I’ve never seen him so—”
“Who picked that dress for you?” A familiar female voice sounds from behind me.
I spin around to find a girl standing just inside the tent flaps. She’s around my age, except her hair is silvery gray and her eyes the same, like pools of mercury. Vida.
The thrum of emotions that I don’t have time to untangle is almost as palpable as seeing my sister. Technically, I hardly know this woman—know any of them, really—and yet…they’re mine, and I’m theirs.
I glance down, smoothing a hand over what I’m wearing. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It’s lovely. Immaculate stitchwork. Love the sparkle, too.”
I shrug. “Royalty has its perks.”
Vida’s smile is wide as she gently pushes Horus out of her way and throws her arms around my neck. Despite Horus’s harrumph at her audacity to touch me, especially without permission, I hug her back. She was an instant friend from the moment we met, told me so herself.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I say into her hair.
“I’m fine. We’re fine.” She pulls back and picks up a swath of my long sleeve, inspecting it with a covetous look in her eyes. “I mean, I don’t get to sew anything fun like this. These days it’s all about blending in with the sand.”
I laugh at that. “I know.”
“As if we could haul all those materials and fancy gewgaws all around the deserts,” Horus grumbles, and Vida wrinkles her nose at him. Clearly a bone of contention between these two.
With a rustle of tent flaps, Vos and Tziah walk in next.
“Well, well, well,” Vos drawls. His rich sable skin is broken by the stark lavender of his eyes and then a flash of white teeth as he grins at me.
“Voserian.” I use the Tyndran’s full name. “I didn’t see you when I arrived. Where were you?”
“A child was bitten by a widow’s assassin.”
I wince. That desert bug’s bite isn’t deadly, but after a pain like a red-hot poker being jammed under your skin, it makes the spot go completely numb for at least a day. Depending on where you get bit, that can be awkward.
Based on Vos’s grimace, he’s familiar with the insect. “Tziah was taking care of her.” And he was taking care of Tziah. As he always is. “I should have known you’d handle the zariph in your own imitable way,” he continues, then cocks his head. “Must be a ruby of a plan you’ve got in your head.”
I wouldn’t exactly say I’m working off a plan. No need to share that, yet.
Instead, I study him closer. The ashiness that seemed to be a permanent part of him in the Shadowood has lifted, and he’s not coughing as much as he used to. Either he finally got over whatever bug he was fighting or our dry desert air has been good for him.
“The last time I saw you, your limp body was being dragged to safety through a portal I made.” I lean in, dropping the teasing. “I’m glad to see you suffered no permanent damage.”
Hard to tell in the dim light in here, but I think maybe surprise, or possibly appreciation, flickers over his features before his expression darkens. “He was a useless wreck without you.”
He’s talking about Reven, and those words catch at something inside me that needed to hear them. Without the warning this time. “I was the same.”
I’m pretty sure he could already see that. In my limited experience with Vos, I’ve figured out that he sees more than most.
“He’s not like before.”
