King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three by Jenna Rhodes Page A

finger.
    Nutmeg added, “I know I would see his blood in a girl, too. But a boy. This time I wanted a boy.”
    “The ring isn’t always right.”
    “It has been every time I’ve seen it swung,” Nutmeg said confidently. She rubbed one eye vigorously.
    “You’re lonely. I know you miss him . . . but are you empty?”
    Nutmeg looked up. Her face wrinkled a bit in thought. The two of them had never discussed all that her love for Jeredon had portended. Her parents had never questioned her, just as Rivergrace hadn’t till a day or so ago. She tilted her head slightly. “I never expected,” she began, “that I would have a long future with him. I never thought that far ahead. It was like a call to me, Mother, that I couldn’t ignore. I wanted to answer it. I gave him all that I could in hopes he would heal. And he did. Then the war took him, war and treachery.” Nutmeg inhaled sharply. “It hurt when he left me behind for Tressandre, but I knew what he was doing. I just wanted him for whatever moments we could have. I never thought it would be so short. Or that I would have this memory of him.”
    Nutmeg inhaled again, this time deeper and slower. “This babe will need grounding and roots, as deep and solid as anything before the machinations of a Vaelinar can be grafted on it.”
    Lily slipped her arm about Nutmeg’s shoulders. “Who would have thought orchard growers could have such wisdom, eh?”
    Nutmeg rubbed her cheek on her mother’s arm, getting flour, no doubt, on her face. “I miss our orchards. I never thought there wouldn’t be a tall enough tree that I could climb so that I could see for leagues around, to get a clear view on things. But this.” She shook her head lightly. “There are no trees that reach to the heavens to give me a view now, are there?”
    Lily kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “Not yet, dear. Not yet.”
    They stayed like that for a very long time until Grace found them, and they told her of the ring’s findings, and they talked of many things, but avoided saying good-bye.

    As Sevryn brought her horse out of the stables, Rivergrace turned the collar of her cloak against the brisk morning. The corner of it seemed damp. Tears, she thought. Hers or Nutmeg’s. Spring had failed that day, it seemed, and winter whispered down at them again. Her breath sent white gusts against the chilled air. Uneasiness tugged against her, far sharper than that of winter’s touch. She turned on one heel, scouting the landscape about her, trying to understand the strangeness that tugged at her. Threads seemed to fall through the air, multicolored, writhing aimlessly before fading abruptly away as if to tell her that somewhere, a weaving had gone awry. It left a foreboding coiled just under the edge of her rib cage. She couldn’t see anything amiss, but the sense of wrongness pricked and jabbed at her. She threw a hand up in warding.
    He pressed her reins into the palm of her free hand before turning to go get his own mount and their pack animal. She caught his arm.
    “What is it?”
    She looked over her shoulder. “Can’t you feel it?”
    “The cold? Do you want a coat under your cloak?”
    “It’s not that.” She searched the courtyard and street beyond it, looking for threads among the threads again, meaning to catch them if she could. “There’s a gap, Sevryn. Something is wrong.” Her hands winged through the air. “A river of darkness moving against the natural rivers of shadows. Like I felt before.”
    “Afraid?”
    Her nose wrinkled a little as she frowned up at him. “No. I sense it. Can’t you? There is a tangle among the threads.”
    Sevryn stood still for a moment, opening his mind. She could see his eyes harden and knew that it wasn’t as easy for him as others, his half-bloodedness blocking him sometimes, but Gilgarran had drilled him relentlessly when he was young, and he could use his Voice at will. Other perceptions were harder. He lifted a hand, as she