Time passed quickly when it had once seemed unending, and Tobias found himself missing the infinite waiting. Calm yourself. Anxiety crawled through him, and he wrested himself free of its pull. None of this had anything to do with him.
“Next in line,” a woman shouted.
They were at the front.
A woman in a white dress tied at the waist with a braided belt—the standard outfit for a servant of stature—stood before them, staring at an unrolled scroll in her hands. Her gaze darted to Milo. “Name?”
“Milo Christakos,” he said.
Her eyes panned to Tobias. “And yours?”
“Oh, he’s not entering.” Milo turned to Tobias. “Isn’t that right?”
Milo’s gaze became challenging, as if daring Tobias to reconsider. Tobias faltered, but only for a moment.
“Right.”
The woman glanced between the two, tilting her chin up and down to compensate for their height difference. “You have until sundown if you change your mind—”
“I won’t change my mind,” Tobias said.
The woman frowned, turning to Milo. “Follow me.”
Sighing, Milo looked up at Tobias. “Well then, any parting words?”
Tobias’s throat tightened. “I hope they don’t pick you.”
“A cynical shit till the end, I see.”
“For my sake,” Tobias said. “I can’t lose another.”
Milo went quiet, staring at Tobias with a look he wasn’t accustomed to—weakness. Finally, his cheeks picked up into their usual grin. “Have faith, brother.”
He hurried behind the woman and disappeared among the tents.
Tobias let out a heavy breath. Men filed around him, but he stood frozen, anchored to the ground like the nearby fountain. Slow seconds passed before he was able to shake the spell, and he abandoned the pool, making his way back into town. Pink streaked the sky, the sun just beginning to set, and his stomach rumbled; it was past dinnertime, and he hadn’t eaten all day. Fucking Milo. He hurried on his trek home, trying to focus on the path ahead as opposed to the day’s tribulations, but the strain within him didn’t lift.
His sister’s howls tore past the walls of his cottage, and Tobias pushed open the door and barreled inside. Naomi lay stiff in the center of her bed, digging her fingers into her sheets and burying her face into her pillow. Her body seized as if struck by a bolt of lightning, and she let out an agonized cry.
Tobias spun toward his mother. “More shocks?”
“Tobias!” His mother sprang from the bedside. “Where in God’s name have you been?”
“How long has she been like this? She was fine this morning—”
“You had me sick with worry,” his mother snapped. “Gone for hours without a single explanation.”
“I went to get valerian root.”
“And you were there all day?”
“The apothecary was closed. I tried, I—”
“Tell me where you’ve been,” his mother spat. “Tell me. Now.”
His mother’s gaze was sharp, but behind the vitriol, he could see her fear. “I didn’t enter the pool. I’m right here.”
His mother wavered, forcing back tears. “Don’t ever do that to me. Not again.”
Tobias mustered a quick nod before hurrying to Naomi’s side. She was a vision of misery, her eyes clenched shut, her hair plastered to her wet cheeks. He leaned into her and whispered, “Naomi…”
“There’s nothing you can do,” his mother said, hovering over him.
“I went into town.” He rested his hand over Naomi’s. “Everything was closed. I can get the valerian root tomorrow.”
Naomi’s back shot straight, and she shrieked in pain.
His mother grabbed his shoulder. “Tobias, you’re just upsetting her.”
“I’m trying to help.”
Naomi reeled once more, and his muscles clenched in response. He slid his fingers through her hair, brushing the strands from her face. “Naomi…”
His mother loosened her grip on his shoulders, her touch firm but kind. “Son, you must be famished. I started preparing dinner but hadn’t time to finish…”
Another shock. Naomi tried to fight this one, groaning through gritted teeth and squeezing Tobias’s hand. Her nails dug into his skin, and he wished she would squeeze harder, enough to draw blood, as if his pain could somehow justify her own. Their mother waited for the shock to pass before she spoke.
“There’s a pot on the fire. Just add a little salt—”
“I’m not hungry,” Tobias spat.
“Then rest.” She took his chin and guided his face toward hers. “Just rest.”
“Why won’t you let me help?”
“You help enough.” She cocked her head at his bed. “Please rest. Please.”
Her eyes glistened over, the sight enough to wound him. The suffering of his family was an endless, constant torture, and though his mother tried to shield him from it, her attempts were in vain.
Tobias turned once more to his sister. “Tomorrow, I’ll get the root. I’ll make it better tomorrow—”
Her body went rigid once again, though she didn’t stifle her cry this time; she sobbed loudly, her pain tearing from her throat and pouring from her eyes. Tobias gripped her hand, racking his mind for the right words to say, but there was nothing.
“Naomi…”
She opened her eyes, her lashes slick with tears. “Toby…” Her voice was barely a murmur. “Why?”
A pang shot through his chest; perhaps his heart was literally breaking, but whatever it was, he hoped to God it would kill him. Despite his misgivings, he finally obeyed his mother’s request, kissing his fingers and pressing them against Naomi’s cheek before heading to bed.
Rest at this time was ridiculous—the evening was just beginning, the sun still descending from the sky—but he curled on his side anyway, staring at the wall. Naomi shooed their mother away, insisting she’d rather suffer alone, and so their mother took root in her bed and promptly fell asleep. How she did it, Tobias hadn’t a clue; perhaps she was simply that tired. But Tobias remained awake.
Naomi’s cries echoed through the cottage, rattling in his bones. The sound was so maddening he thought to claw his ears off, and then he considered screaming with her, mirroring the sound of her anguish with his own—the sound of vicarious torment, of absolute weakness when it couldn’t be afforded. He tried to distract himself with pleasant thoughts, but all of them were so very miserable: the death of his father, the exhaustion of his mother, the Sovereign’s Tournament.
No, not the Sovereign’s Tournament. Anything but that.
Another scream pierced through the moment, a hammer to his skull. Think, and so he did, of the apprenticeship he sacrificed, of his job at the sugar mill, of the Sovereign’s Tournament. He winced, redirecting his thoughts to Milo, to Milo’s stupid grin, to the Sovereign’s Tournament. Dammit. A scream ripped through him, and he gritted his teeth. I’m not going to enter. Another cry, and the phrase repeated in his mind. I’m not going to enter. I’m not going to enter. I’m not going to enter.