wanted to be a healer.”
How had Melantha forgotten that? How he used to play healer and pester her with questions about what it was like to actually be a healer. She had spent those times brushing him away, still trying to come to terms with the fact that her magic forced her to become a healer instead of a warrior.
She smiled and touched his hand. “You would have made a good healer. You have a healer’s heart far more than I do.”
He had a loving, protective heart. It would have made him an excellent, caring healer, just as it made him a terrifying warrior.
“Perhaps.” Farrendel’s gaze swung to the ceiling, but it no longer seemed like he was ignoring her with the gesture. “While I do not enjoy killing, I enjoy the thrill of testing myself and claiming victory. I am, perhaps, more a warrior than a healer after all.”
Melantha focused on the floor. She was not a warrior. Not really. She had attempted to kill her own brother. Worse, she had not even had the courage to do it herself. Instead, she arranged to have him killed by the trolls.
She had thought getting rid of him would solve all her problems, as if he was merely an inconvenience she could do away with, the circumstances of his birth making him less worthy of life.
But, she saw now, she would have realized her mistake soon enough. She would have missed Farrendel, the guilt of his death gnawing in her chest the rest of her life. She would have been haunted by the brother she had killed to make her life a little easier.
Was it possible to change? To change her heart and the direction of her life? Or was it already too late? Had her choices cost too much and made her irredeemable?
FARRENDEL STIRRED from a doze. With Melantha’s magic banishing the pain and the blanket keeping him warm, he had let himself sleep. He needed the rest, since he got little of it during the night.
A faint vibration traveled across the floor a moment before Farrendel heard bootsteps in the corridor.
He blinked and turned his head to find Melantha curled up on the floor a foot away. Close enough to tuck her slippered feet beneath the blanket she had spread over him, but not touching him. “Melantha?” He would have nudged her, but he could not move enough to reach her. “Someone is coming.”
Melantha stirred, swiped at her face, and pushed herself into a sitting position. “Is it Prince Rharreth? Or someone else?”
If King Charvod walked in and discovered how lenient Prince Rharreth had become, he would not be pleased. Farrendel suppressed a grimace.
The locking bar grated, and the door creaked open. Prince Rharreth strode inside. He wore the same leather jerkin and black trousers as he had earlier in the day. His short white hair spiked above his tapered ears.
Melantha clambered to her feet, then gestured down at Farrendel. “You usually come before your brother in the morning, so I would like to leave my blanket with Farrendel tonight. You can bring it back to my cell in the morning. You would not wish for him to weaken from cold.”
Prince Rharreth glared, but Melantha did not back down.
Farrendel hardened his expression. It would do no good to let Prince Rharreth know how much he wanted that blanket. Or how much he was weakening toward Melantha. If all her help was a trick, then he should not let either of them know how close he was to losing his wariness.
“Very well.” Prince Rharreth’s thin-lipped, hard expression did not waver, giving Farrendel no hint to the reasons behind his actions. Why was he so willing to let Melantha help him? Did Prince Rharreth disapprove of the torture?
That was something Farrendel could leverage. Maybe. Though, figuring out people’s motivations was more Essie’s thing. Farrendel spent most time around people bewildered.
Prince Rharreth pressed a hand to the wall, and the stone shackle fell from Melantha’s ankle. With her head high, Melantha glided from the dungeon cell. Prince Rharreth followed a moment later.
Farrendel flexed his fingers and stared at the ceiling. If only he could ask Essie what she thought of Melantha’s actions. She would be able to tell if it was a trick or if it was genuine.
That foolish part of him so desperately wanted Melantha to be sincere. She was his sister. No matter what she had done to him, she was still family. As much as he had to keep