But he could strive to do better going forward. Make better choices. Actually stop andthinkbefore he acted, as his dacha—and Merrik—had been telling him for years.
“Will Merrik forgive me, do you think?” Fieran traced his finger over the rim of his plate.
“I’m afraid that’s up to him.” Mama’s tone somehow softened even more as she leaned her elbows on the table. “You can and should apologize for the things that are truly your fault, and youcan let him know you’re there for him. But you can’t make him forgive you, nor should you push. It’s his decision when he’s ready to forgive you and restore your friendship. If he’s ever ready.”
If. The bleakness of that word stabbed into his chest. He couldn’t imagine a world where he wasn’t friends—no, brothers—with Merrik.
“Mama, I—” Fieran swallowed, not sure what to say. “Thanks.”
As they lapsed into silence, he glanced around the familiar kitchen, taking in the large white stove with its ceramic polished to a shine. The pots and pans hanging from a rack nearby. The wooden cupboard and countertop for prepping meals and baked goods.
Except…he took in the door to the outside. He pointed. “There’s a gun hanging over the door.”
That hadn’t been there when he’d been growing up. Mama and Dacha never would have kept a weapon so within reach.
Mama’s mouth pressed into a tight line, and she didn’t answer for a long moment, as if she didn’t want to tell him. Finally, she sighed, her gaze still on the rifle over the door rather than on him. “The Mongavarians have been dropping agents into Escarland. They’ve realized the best way to eliminate warriors of the ancient kings is to get to thembeforethey come into their magic. Either kill them or kidnap them to raise. They aren’t picky.”
Ellie. Tryndar. Fieran’s chest squeezed. The Mongavarians wanted to either kill or kidnap his youngest siblings. He swallowed. “Have they…have they gotten close?”
“No. Your dacha’s barrier around Treehaven has kept them out, and we capture them before they can do much more than prod at the defenses.” His mama gave him a grin that somehow was mischievous as well as grim. “One would think wielding themagic of the ancient kings would be enough, but the intruders always take me more seriously when I’m pointing a gun at them as well.”
Fieran tried to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t seem to find the words. He somehow hadn’t pictured his mama going to confront these Mongavarian agents in person.
Instead, he finally asked, “Does Dacha know?”
He couldn’t imagine his dacha would blithely remain at Fort Defense if Mama, Ellie, and Tryndar were being put in danger like this.
“Yes.” Mama’s jaw worked, her eyes flashing. “But he knows I have ithandled.”
She said it with an extra, growled emphasis, as if she wasn’t just talking to Fieran. Perhaps she was conveying the sentiment to Dacha through the heart bond.
The Mongavarians really should take the hint. Don’t mess with Fieran and his siblings. His parents were downright terrifying when they were defending their children.
Chapter
Seven
Fieran woke to bright sunlight and a loud chorus of birds. Pushing to his elbows, then upright, he leaned a shoulder against the wall next to his window and simply took in the cheeriness of the morning.
Normally, he would have been up long before now. Here at Treehaven before the war, he would have already been in the back clearing, practicing his magic with Dacha and itching for more adventure. At Fort Defense, he would have been up and going about his duties. Perhaps also training with Dacha, just with more focus than he’d ever had here at home.
He swept a glance around his room, taking in the blankets he hadn’t bothered to fold before he’d left for the army piled on a couch. Some random paperwork lay strewn over the desk in a haphazard fashion. The small collection of books with folded pages and bookmarks at various spots because he never could seem to finish them scattered on several of the surfaces.
This room was a huge part of his childhood, the fingerprints of his innocence all over the items on display.
It didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore. He wasn’t that boy who had dreamed of war and adventure any longer.
Now he’d watched squadron mates die. He’d taken too many lives to count. He’d cost his best friend his leg. Possibly both of them, if the elves couldn’t save his other one enough for him to walk on it.
He couldn’t go back to the person he used to be. And as much as he missed the innocence when it came to death and destruction, he didn’t want to go back to being so obliviously selfish either.
With a sigh and a groan, Fieran rolled out of bed and to his feet. He’d pushed it too hard last night. Now his muscles and bones ached, every step shaky with weakness.
Still, he forced himself to gather clean clothes and shuffled to the attached water closet. There, he managed to prop himself up long enough to take his first shower since his crash, the hot water washing away the feel of mud and blood from his skin much better than the washcloths and bowls of water with which he’d been making do.
As much as he wanted to linger, taking a shower in less than three minutes was so ingrained in him that he found himself toweling off and tugging on his clothes almost before he’d realized it.
Before reaching for his shirt, he paused, taking in the sight of the new scars dotting his chest. He cataloged each of them, ending with the largest on his abdomen, where that piece of shrapnel had speared him. When he twisted, he could just make out the pink, still healing splotch where it had come out his back.
