We All Hunger (The Gardener Kings Book 2) by Monica Boothe

Author:Monica Boothe [Boothe, Monica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peniel Press
Published: 2022-04-03T16:00:00+00:00

When Dilwen comes back that evening, she hardly seems to see me but bustles through the door with a basket full of vegetables and miscellaneous herbs that she spreads out on the table.

“Dilwen,” I say, and she turns. She has a pine twig wedged in her hair. It reminds me of Rían. “I’ve decided to live.”

Her mouth coils itself into a toothy smile.

16

Because of Hunger

What will my life look like now? I wonder as morning creeps through the cracks around the door. Dilwen sleeps by the fire in a crumpled wad. Her breath like the buzzing of bees fills the cave with an insistent hum. I can’t stay here forever, living off the kindness of a priestess.

If only I had a boat. There are several still in Bryn, moored along the banks of the river. Do I dare go back there? I’d have to do it under cover of night. And even if I did, would Awel let me cross the sea this time? How easy is it really? Rían didn’t seem to have any trouble, casually rowing his way from one shore to another. But Atha taught him so much more about Gàrradh—about everything—than he ever taught me. Even so, Rían erred south and landed us in Lochmór.

I picture it in my mind, me slipping over a blue sea in a little fishing boat. The island on the horizon. Atha’s silhouette appears on the shore. The gardens are a swirl of color behind him. I don’t wait for the boat to reach land but jump out as soon as I’m close enough to make out the white roses at the bottom of the hill. Atha doesn’t wait either but wades toward me, seafoam splashing about him, flecking his beard and filling the air like his laughter. I fling my arms around his neck, and the waves crash around our knees as I breathe in his scent. Sea salt and roses. “I’m home, Atha,” I tell him, and at last I’ve kept my promise. One promise at least.

He kisses my cheek but then sets me down with a worried glance over my shoulder. “Where’s Rían?”

That’s when the dream dissolves like sand beneath the waves. What will I tell him? How will I explain how I led his son to his death? “It was Ceallach,” I would say. “Ceallach killed him.” I try to picture the horror that would sweep his face, try to imagine his gasp, his cry. But I can’t. I can’t fathom his grief at losing his only son.

But even this would be a lie. It would not be enough. “It was me,” I would have to tell him. “I didn’t protect him. You told us not to be separated, but I did. I left him. I led him right to Ceallach. It was my fault. I killed him.” But Atha’s face is gone now. I can’t even imagine him on the beach. I can’t imagine my homecoming. How could I bring him such pain?

But I promised. It’s the one promise I can still keep.

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