Chapter 152: I Said More Than I Meant To

I read the route packet, mostly because Elizabeth stood over me until I did. Apparently royal blood came with persistence.

The first Crown waystation sat beside the western road just before sunset: a square stone building inside a low wall, with two stables and enough guards to make the word waystation feel dishonest. It looked like a small fort pretending not to be one.

I was halfway out of the carriage when Elizabeth spoke.

"Packet."

I stopped with one foot on the ground. "What?"

"You said you’d consider reading it."

"I considered it."

"And?"

"I decided against it."

"No."

She held out the folded packet. I looked to James for help, but he was already walking away, which was cowardly of him. Sophie was helping one of the drivers unload something, and Daphne had vanished around the far side of the carriage. There were no witnesses willing to intervene. I took the packet.

"This is coercion."

"Read."

"I know where we’re sleeping."

"Read."

"I know where we’re going."

"Read."

I sighed and sat down on the carriage step. The packet was six pages long. Six, for a road. Page one was the route. Page two was the route again, with estimated travel times. Page three listed approved stops, page four listed emergency stops, page five listed Crown contacts, and page six explained what to do if the route changed.

I looked up. "Do roads often change?"

"No."

"Then page six seems pessimistic."

"It’s preparation."

"That’s the same thing with worse expectations."

She ignored that, and I kept reading. Tonight was Crown Waystation Nine. Tomorrow was Crown Waystation Twelve. After that came Marrowfield, and then a string of smaller stops all the way to Fort Halden.

"Why are the waystations numbered out of order?"

"They’re numbered by district, not by route."

"That’s terrible."

"It isn’t."

"It offended me immediately."

When I had finished, Elizabeth took the packet back. "You survived."

"Barely."

"You skipped the emergency procedures."

"I read the headings."

"Alash."

"Headings exist for a reason."

She closed her eyes, and I left before she could open them again.

***

The waystation had rooms. Real rooms, with beds and walls, and a dining hall, and a bathhouse. I had been fully prepared to dislike traveling, and it was becoming suspiciously manageable.

Then Commander Renn gathered us in the courtyard.

"The Crown rooms are being inspected."

"Why?"

"Because that’s what inspections are for."

That was not helpful.

"You’ll eat once the escort rotation is settled," he went on. "Until then, you’re helping unload."

I looked at the servants, then at the guards, and then down at myself. "Helping?"

"Yes."

"I thought we were representatives."

"You are."

"That sounded less physical."

"It isn’t."

James smiled, and I disliked him for it. Sophie had already picked up a crate. Daphne took another. Elizabeth was pulling off her gloves. I looked at all four of them, and then at Renn.

"This feels coordinated."

"It is."

The wagons carried food, spare equipment, medical supplies, water barrels, tents, and several long bundles of training gear. I went for the smallest crate. Renn pointed past it.

"Those."

Logs. Not metaphorical ones. An actual stack of cut wood beside the supply wagon.

"Why?"

"Firewood."

"There’s a kitchen."

"The outer escort cooks separately."

"Why?"

"Because thirty people don’t fit in the kitchen."

Reasonable answers were becoming a real problem on this trip.

James picked up two logs at once, because he was James. Sophie tucked one under each arm. Daphne lifted one, and Elizabeth took a smaller pair. I stood beside the stack.

[You could carry one.]

’I know.’

[Then why are you staring at them?]

’I’m choosing.’

[They are logs.]

’Some are better than others.’

[...]

I picked one. It was heavier than it looked. I lifted it, and Daphne, passing with her second log, glanced at my hands.

"You’re doing it after."

I froze. "What?"

"Gravity."

I looked down. I had started taking part of the log’s weight with mana, and I had started after I lifted it. Again.

Daphne set her log down by the fire pit. "Before it moves."

"I remember."

"You aren’t doing it."

"I remembered late."

"That’s the same problem."

James walked past with two more logs. "What problem?"

"Nothing," I said.

"Gravity," said Daphne.

James slowed down. "You’re using Gravity to carry firewood?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because carrying firewood is unpleasant."

He considered that. "Fair."

I set the log down and looked at the next one, and this time I let the mana settle around it first. Not pulling, and not pushing. Reducing. It still felt wrong in my hands. Gravity was nothing like Water. Water moved when I told it to, and a Barrier became something I could put somewhere, but Gravity asked me to stop thinking about the log as a thing I was holding and start thinking about what the world was doing to it. Daphne had explained that several times. I breathed, changed the weight first, and then lifted.

The log came up easily. Not weightless, but lighter.

Daphne was watching. "Better."

I carried it to the fire. "That was almost praise."

"It was praise."

I looked at her, but she had already turned away. Apparently Greywall praised people without warning. A dangerous culture.

On the next log I tried too hard. It jerked upward and I had to catch it against my chest.

"Too much," said Daphne.

"I noticed."

"You fixed it after."

"I also noticed that."

"Then stop doing it."

I stared at her. She stared back.

"Your teaching style lacks warmth."

"It works."

The worst part was that it did.

***

Dinner happened outside. Not for lack of a dining hall: James had somehow persuaded Commander Renn that eating around the escort fire counted as learning road procedure. I suspected Renn had agreed because it kept all five of us in one place.

So we sat around a long fire with bowls of stew. I had Dream Haven behind my back. James sat on a folded blanket and Sophie sat cross-legged near the flames. Elizabeth had found a chair from somewhere, and Daphne sat on an overturned crate. Renn ate a few yards away with two of his senior escorts, close enough to hear us and far enough to pretend he couldn’t. I approved of that too.

Sophie blew on her stew. "Do you think they’ll actually keep the treaty?"

Nobody answered at first. Then James did.

"They signed it."

"Not yet," said Elizabeth.

"You know what I mean."

"I do."

James looked into the fire. "They’ve spent years getting here. It’d be stupid to throw it away."

Elizabeth’s spoon paused. "People throw away useful things out of pride all the time."

He looked at her. "That sounded personal."

"It was historical."

"Same tone."

She ignored him. Sophie turned to Daphne. "What do you think?"

Daphne shrugged. "If both sides want the border quieter, they’ll keep enough of it."

"Enough?"

"Treaties don’t stop everyone. Some people will ignore it. Some will hate it. Some will make money breaking it."

James frowned. "You’re cheerful."

"It’s still better," said Daphne, and that surprised him. She looked down at her bowl. "Fewer people fighting is better than more."

Sophie nodded slowly. Then she looked at me, which I had been hoping to avoid.

"What?"

"You haven’t said anything."

"I’m eating."

"I noticed. What do you think?"

Four people were looking at me. I considered pretending I hadn’t heard, but Mira was a full day’s ride behind us and there was no one to rescue me.

"I think signing it matters," I said.

Elizabeth watched me. "But?"

"There doesn’t have to be a but."

"There usually is."

"That’s pessimistic."

"It’s preparation."

Elizabeth had a talent for turning old conversations into weapons. I looked down at my stew.

"The people signing it probably mean it."

James leaned back. "Probably?"

"The humans want the western border stable."

"And the beastkin?"

I answered before I had thought about it. "The cat, deer and rabbit factions have wanted talks for years."

The fire cracked. Someone laughed at another fire, and a horse shifted in the stable, but our part of the courtyard went quiet. I looked up. Elizabeth was staring at me. James had stopped eating. Sophie looked curious, and Daphne looked exactly the same as always, which was somehow worse. I had said more than I meant to.

"Three factions?" said James.

I took another bite. "Yes."

"Which ones?"

"The ones I just said."

"I know. Why those three?"

I swallowed. "They were the ones I met."

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. "At the border?"

"Mostly."

"During the kidnapping?" James asked.

"Some of it."

Sophie tilted her head. "You said partly, before."

I disliked people with good memories. "Did I?"

"Yes."

James lowered his bowl. "What exactly happened to you out there?"

The humor went out of me before I could stop it. I looked at the fire, and the rest of it came back without asking permission: the cave, three black envelopes, Nyra’s blood on my hands, Caelum, Vessa, my father, and a road I had spent years not remembering.

"I spent longer with them than people think," I said.

Nobody interrupted, and I was grateful.

Elizabeth spoke more carefully this time. "With the beastkin."

"Yes."

"Those three factions."

"Mostly."

"How long?"

I looked at her. "Long enough."

She didn’t like that answer. She accepted it anyway, for now.

Sophie looked toward the dark road beyond the wall. "So they wanted peace even back then?"

"Talks," I said, immediately.

Three faces turned toward me, and I understood why I had said it so fast. It had been Liora’s correction, years ago. I had asked about peace, and she had said discussion; peace would be premature.

I rubbed my thumb along the side of my bowl. "They wanted talks. Not peace. Not yet."

Elizabeth had gone very still. "Who told you that?"

I should have lied. Instead I said, "One of their leaders."

James stared at me. "You met faction leaders."

"Yes."

"More than one?"

The stew had stopped being any use as somewhere to look. Sophie leaned forward.

"Which ones?"

"No."

She blinked. "No?"

"I’ve answered enough questions."

"That isn’t how questions work."

"It is now."

James laughed once. Elizabeth didn’t. She was still studying me, and it wasn’t suspicion exactly. It looked more like someone rebuilding a calculation from the beginning, which was worse.

"If he knew their leaders," said Daphne, "that explains the request."

Everyone looked at her. She took another bite.

"What?"

Nobody had an answer for that. I was beginning to value Daphne’s ability to end a conversation by declining to have feelings about it.

Elizabeth looked back at me. "It explains part of it."

I knew that tone. I would hear the rest eventually.

Across the courtyard, Commander Renn stood up. "Rooms are cleared."

I very nearly thanked him.

***

My room had one bed, one desk and one narrow window. Dream Haven went onto the bed, and I went onto Dream Haven, and for almost six minutes everything was perfect. Then I remembered Penelope.

Three letters. I still had days, technically.

[You are calculating the minimum acceptable delay.]

’No.’

[You are.]

’I was thinking about the treaty.’

[You were thinking about whether "the first few days" could mean four.]

’It can.’

[Write the letter.]

I pulled Dream Haven over my face.

[Host.]

’Tomorrow.’

[You packed the notebook.]

’Against my will.’

[You agreed.]

’Under pressure.’

[Write.]

I waited. The System waited longer. I have never liked patient people, and the System was the most patient of all of them. I sat up, took the notebook out of my storage ring, exactly where Penelope had put it, and opened it on the desk.

Then I stopped, because I didn’t know whom to address. Penelope had said to write to Sanctuary, and writing Dear Sanctuary felt ridiculous. I tried it anyway.

Sanctuary,

I crossed it out and tried again.

Penelope,

That looked worse. I crossed it out too.

[You are overthinking a greeting.]

’Greetings establish tone.’

[Your tone is already poor.]

I ignored it and started without one.

We reached the first waystation. Nobody died. James has complained several times, Sophie nearly hit him in the face while waving at strangers, Daphne counts the turns in the road, and Elizabeth made me read six pages about roads.

That wasn’t terrible, so I kept going.

Commander Renn is competent, which means I am not currently responsible for anything important. This is going well. The food is acceptable. Dream Haven remains superior to every bed provided by the Crown.

Penelope had said to tell them what James broke. He hadn’t broken anything, so I wrote that down.

James has not broken anything. I assume this will change.

Then the pen stopped. There were other things I could have written. That the west already felt wrong. That every hill reminded me of a different hill. That the beastkin had asked for me and I still didn’t know who would be waiting. That I had told the others more than I meant to, and that Elizabeth had noticed. That I was traveling with four people who carried pieces of the Akashic Key without knowing it. None of that belonged in a letter to Sanctuary, and none of it belonged in a letter to Penelope either. Not yet.

I wrote instead:

Everyone is fine.

I looked at it, and added:

Including me.

That looked suspicious. I almost crossed it out, and didn’t, and signed my name underneath. There was no reason to add anything else, so naturally I did.

Tell Roland that betting on how many outfits I brought is unethical. Also tell Mira she won.

Better. I tore the page out, folded it, and sat looking at it for another ten seconds.

[You could send it.]

’I know.’

[Today.]

’That seems aggressive.’

[Send it.]

The waystation clerk was downstairs. Apparently letters between Crown stations and Zenith went back and forth all the time. The clerk took mine and dipped a pen.

"Recipient?"

"Sanctuary Residence."

"A specific person?"

I thought about it. "Penelope Declair."

He wrote it down, and it felt strangely final. I almost asked for the letter back. I didn’t.

***

The next morning I woke before the bell, which was unacceptable. The room was still dark and Dream Haven was warm beneath my head. I closed my eyes, and nothing happened. I opened them again.

[Good morning.]

’No.’

[You are awake.]

’Temporarily.’

[Morning cultivation is in twenty-eight minutes.]

’I liked you better before you learned schedules.’

[You have always disliked schedules.]

’Correct.’

[That was not praise.]

I got up anyway. Outside, the waystation was only half awake. Grooms were feeding the escort horses, two guards were changing posts, and someone in the kitchen was already shouting.

Daphne was in the courtyard, beside yesterday’s stack of firewood. She was holding a full log on the flat of one hand, as easily as if it were kindling. Nothing about her arm looked strained. The log simply weighed less than it had any right to.

She glanced at me. "You’re early."

"Don’t spread it around."

She set the log down.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Practicing."

"At this hour?"

"Yes."

That was disturbing. I looked at the stack, then at her, and sighed. "Fine."

I chose a log. Mana first, then weight, then hands. It grew lighter, and I lifted it with no jerk and nothing to correct afterwards.

"Better," said Daphne.

I carried it five steps, set it down, and picked up another. The first three went well. On the fourth, my control slipped halfway through the lift, and the full weight came back all at once. My arms dropped.

Daphne moved. The log slowed in the air as if it had changed its mind about falling, and came down onto my palms no heavier than a loaf of bread. I felt the Gravity settle around it, precise and immediate.

I lowered it and looked at her. "You could have warned me."

"You already knew."

"About the slipping?"

"About the rule."

I rubbed my wrists. She was right, and I disliked it.

"Again," she said.

I looked toward the carriage yard. "Cultivation’s in twenty minutes."

"Again."

I stared at her. She stared back. I picked up another log.

***

By the time the convoy rolled out of Waystation Nine, my arms ached. Not badly, but enough to notice every bump in the road. I sat in my usual corner with Dream Haven behind me. James was asleep, actually asleep. Sophie was reading, Elizabeth had the route packet open on her knee, and Daphne sat by the window.

I looked at her, and she looked back.

"Twenty-three?" I asked.

"Not yet."

"Good."

The carriage passed through the gate, and the road west opened ahead of us, long and grey and quiet. I leaned back.

Yesterday, I had thought I was only learning how the four of them traveled. This morning, I was starting to suspect the road had lessons of its own, and that it had no interest in whether I wanted them.

That seemed inconvenient, which probably meant it was going to matter.