31
In the daytime, my necklace offers a faint glow. Hours later, when we’re still trekking through the woods, and the sun begins to fade, it grows into a crown of light.
“It feels strange, being out in the open,” I say, remembering how many nights we spent hiding behind water. Or running.
Raker grunts. That’s the extent of his reply.
“You know, I was starting to get worried that this journey would get boring with the starlight protecting us. But your rousing conversation is definitely going to make up for the lack of danger.”
He ignores me.
This again. I roll my eyes. Let him be miserable. It’s the only state he’s ever known in his life.
The forest is dangerous, even during the day. But the necklace seems to offer us protection from more than just the demons.
There is rustling in the trees occasionally, but no creature or immortal ever approaches. We walk in silence.
Until the middle of the night, when the stillness is pierced by something
completely unexpected.
My brows come together. “Is that—”
Music. Voices. Laughter.
We look at each other. Are these demons? Is this another illusion?
The starlight casting a wide protective shield, we unsheathe our blades. It gets louder as we approach. Pots clang together. Conversation spikes.
Then … the smell of something recently roasted. The faelings fed us, but my stomach is already twisting in hunger. It smells good. Well spiced.
We walk through the trees, into the clearing—and everything goes silent.
More than two dozen heads turn to look at us, stopping their lively conversations. At the center of them sits a fire … no, an orb shining just as
brightly as my necklace.
Trapped starlight.
They’re all immortals. But they aren’t warriors. They’re dressed in modest clothing. Most don’t even carry swords. Some look like children.
Whispers begin the moment they see the light encasing us. All eyes turn to my necklace.
A man steps forward. He has long braided hair tied back, dark brown skin, and a friendly face, which is rare for immortals, who often look perennially unimpressed. “You wear the light, traveler,” he says, motioning toward my neck.
I turn to Raker. He’s standing perfectly still, as if he’s still assessing the situation.
I gently rub the miniature orbs between my fingers. “You—you know the faelings?”
More whispers. Excited trills. The man shakes his head. “No, no—but that’s where we’re headed.”
His meaning hits me. “You’re trying to find the Traveling City,” I say, looking around at them. There is a cheeriness, a sense of hope, among the group.
He nods. “We have the light to guide us,” he says. “We found it. It’s our destiny to find the city. We have been traveling for a while now, looking.”
In this land of immortals, I imagine a while could be years. Decades?
Guilt flutters through my chest, knowing we just left the place that these people seem so desperate to find. But I remember how it disappeared once the gates closed, already moving again. Maybe it’s still nearby. Maybe
they’ll find it, if they’re meant to.
“Why?” I ask.
A woman with a long scar down her pale cheek says, voice full of excitement, “If we find the gates … if we knock … they must let us in.
Those are the ancient rules.”
I remember Este’s insistence, like there was a code. I want to tell them that the Eldress also insisted we leave. It wasn’t a permanent invitation.
“Have you … have you seen it?” someone asks. A woman with curly hair and light brown skin. Her voice is edged with desperation.
I open my mouth— “No.” Raker’s voice is absolute. I turn slowly to face him. He doesn’t even look at me. More whispers from the group. Now mostly directed at Raker, who must look like a demon to them in his armor and hood, magnificent sword at his back.
“You are welcome to join us in our search,” the man says, motioning toward the group. “We’re just about to take off again. The more time we’re traveling, the better,” he says, smiling.
I can almost sense Raker about to refuse. My hand clutches his arm. I feel him tense completely.
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you so much.”
The man nods. “Take a serving, if you would like,” he says, motioning toward the roasting meat. “There’s plenty to go around.”
A few others get to their feet and start cutting some slices off, eager to offer them to us. I think of Stormside, where no one eagerly gives anyone anything. Starving people rarely share. But immortals … they don’t really need food the way we do. It’s an indulgence.
It’s a welcome departure, I think, for them to be so focused on the light around my neck and not the fact that we are human. Though some in the group look more eager to have us join them than others.
A plate is presented to me, and I smile, taking it with thanks, before retreating back to where Raker still stands at the edge of the clearing.
Immortal hearing is superior to ours. I wait until the conversation picks up again to whisper, “I really think we should travel with them. Until we get out of the forest, at least.”
“Of course you do,” he says, his voice as grating as ever.
My eyes narrow at him. “The gods are after us. There is a bounty on our heads. With them … we’ll blend in,” I say, meaning more me than him, since I don’t think Raker blends in anywhere. “Plus, it seems like they know their way around these woods. We’ve been lucky so far, but we don’t know what other dangers we might come across.”
Raker doesn’t say a word. He just shakes his head as he walks past me, likely off to go sharpen his blade or some other very him thing to do.
“You didn’t take your plate!” I yell at his back, but clearly he doesn’t care. Fine. More for me.
I sit down on a large rock, eating the spice-coated meat, groaning as the salt hits my tongue. Flavor hasn’t been a priority for many years now. But I
remember a time when food tasted good, even on Stormside. When my mother had a collection of spices, passed down through generations, said to have been from here. I always thought it was a myth, or a lie, but tasting
this food … It tastes like that.
“You’re human,” someone says. I look up to see a woman with light skin and pink cheeks peering down at me. All immortals look young, but she looks especially so, maybe even younger than me.
I blink, feigning shock. “I am?”
That earns me a wide smile. Her teeth are glimmering white, just like the rest of them. “I didn’t know humans could be funny.”
I snort. “Funnier than immortals, I would think, given our constant edge toward mortality.”
She seems to consider that. “What is it like? Knowing you’ll die so soon after birth?”
I smile between bites of meat. “For us, it doesn’t feel short.” I shrug.
“What’s it like knowing you’ll likely live centuries? Millennia?”
Her lips purse. “It’s terrifying.” In a flash, she pinches my arm, and I gasp. She nods. “Your skin is softer than ours. Less smooth, less durable.
But we too can die, especially at the other end of a blade like that …” She
looks at the hilt of my sword.
“Is dying common?” I ask.
“During war, it is,” she says, sitting down next to me. “But during relative peace … communities typically stick to themselves. Everyone is so cautious. So afraid of another war. So afraid of the gods and their wrath …”
She turns to me. Her heart-shaped face is covered in freckles. Her hair is the color of hay. “That’s why I left. I ran away and joined this group. Because I hear in the Traveling City, there is nothing to fear. Death rarely happens there.”
I think about Este and that she lost her mother. Now I wonder how. I want to tell this immortal that death happens everywhere, but I keep quiet.
“I’m Daphne,” she says. “Do you have a name?”
I scoff at the fact that she thinks humans might not. “Of course. Aris.”
Her eyes narrow. “That sounds like a name from here,” she says.
I grit my teeth, wanting to remind her that our lands didn’t used to be divided. The gates didn’t always exist. Humans and immortals lived together once, all beneath the gods.
Instead, I just offer a tight smile.
There’s clamoring as everyone stands. Pots and blankets are packed up.
Daphne turns to me. “Watch,” she says, excitedly. “He’s about to choose the
next leader.”
Leader?
The man who offered us a spot here steps forward. He walks around the crowd looking at hopeful faces before stopping in front of a tall man with long hair tied back into a single braid. “You,” he says.
The tall man smiles, steps forward, and carefully picks up the orb.
“It’s an honor to be at the front of the line, holding the light,” Daphne explains. “I’ve been picked twice before already. The light …” Her glimmering blue eyes drop to my neck. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.”
I feel it, against my pulse. An energy. Magic. Daphne’s eyes don’t lift until a drum is beat, and then she stands. “Welcome to the group, Aris,” she says.
The drums don’t stop. Behind the tall man wielding the bright orb, three people play instruments. The music is beautiful but quickly becomes tiresome. I can’t see his face, of course, but by Raker’s stance, he is thinking of ways to kill me for putting us in this position.
But I don’t regret it. Because right after sunrise, we pass a group of Masks, waiting in the trees, clearly searching for their next targets. Though I would expect them to want to steal the orb, they keep their distance. Does their god not want conflict with the faelings? I’m not sure. But we pass without notice or incident.
Daphne finds me in the line soon enough. She stares up at Raker. With her height, I imagine she can see the flash of silver beneath the shadow of his hood.
“What’s the deal with the mask?” she says, speaking to me as if he’s not standing right there.
I shrug a shoulder. “He’s embarrassed by his face. He doesn’t have one.”
I give my most sympathetic look. “It’s just … it’s just a coil of snakes under there.”
Daphne’s mouth parts in horror. She nods understandingly, readily believing that all humans might not look like immortals.
I can almost feel Raker glaring at me. It makes me smile.
Daphne bows her head before him. “I apologize for your … for your affliction,” she says, voice dripping with pity. Then she quickly moves down the line, as if Raker’s coil-of-snakes face could somehow be contagious.
I’m still smiling to myself when Raker says, “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
I lift a shoulder. “I think I’m hilarious.” I turn to him. “One of us has to be.”
“And if I really do have a coil of snakes as a face? Will you feel bad about mocking me?”
I blink, stunned to hear anything resembling teasing coming out of his mouth. I press my lips together, considering. “No,” I decide.
“No?” He seems shocked.
“No. You’re too much of an asshole for me to feel bad for you.”
He makes a derisive sound. “And you’re perfectly pleasant, Aris.”
There it is. My name again, sounding like an embrace. I ignore the chill working its way down my back.
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “One of us has to be.”
We travel for two more days with the group, only stopping for a few hours every night. That’s when I realize this might have been a mistake.
Immortals don’t need sleep the way we do.
They stop just to play music, and to eat, and to tell ancient stories about the Traveling City, most of which don’t match what we saw at all. It’s nearly impossible to sleep, but I do, until a peel of laughter wakes me up.
I blink my eyes open, only to see a group of children circling Raker, holding wooden swords up, all of them pointed right at him.
Shit.
I rush to stand, worry gripping my bones, ready to save them from Raker and his perpetual bad attitude, when all at once, he slides his towering blade
from his spine.
My eyes widen, my lips part— I’m too late. There’s a crack as his blade meets one of those wooden swords.
But he uses such little force, the oak remains intact.
I blink. He doesn’t break the blades with his bare hands, the way I know he could with little effort. No. Instead, he play-duels with them, battling all
six swords at once, letting some of the kids get a few hits in.
The boys scream with delight, closing in, and he hunches over, pretending to be injured, until they’re nearly on him. They make to tackle him.
Before they can, he stands to his full height, lifts his sword high, and roars.
The children scatter in a mess of giggles and gasps.
I’m standing with my mouth hanging open, wondering if I’m still dreaming, because there’s no fucking way Raker just played with those kids.
Slowly, sword still up, he turns right toward me.
He just stares and stares. Neither of us break our gaze. Then, he steps forward, sword up, just like he did with the children.
I don’t run. I take several steps forward, until I’m right under him and his sword.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say casually. I tilt my head. “But I am a little scared I died in my sleep, because there’s no other explanation for what I just saw.”
He huffs a laugh, returning his blade back into his scabbard.
“Do you … do you have siblings?” I ask, wondering about the life he left behind when he decided to go on this quest. The idea of him having a family feels odd. Wrong. He’s a deadly knight, with a reputation. I can’t even imagine him … sitting at a dining table. Laughing at a joke. Bringing a mug to his lips.
No. I can only see him as he is now, fully armored, wearing a mask, ready for battle.
I watch his body tense beneath all that metal.
“I did,” he finally says.
And then, he turns around again.
I did. I stand very still as the group begins to pack up once more. Those two words haunt me.
I frown, remembering what the Gardener said in those mists. Harlan Raker is a demon. There’s no doubt about that. He has hundreds—if not thousands—of kills on his blade.
But never did I once consider that often monsters aren’t born … they’re made.
The line is moving. I find Raker and stagger behind him, trying to keep up. My eyes are dry and red. My legs still feel stiff.
“This was your idea, remember?” Raker says from in front of me, as if he can hear me struggling. His voice is rough. I wonder if he attempted to sleep at all.
“How could I forget?” I say, taking a swig from one of the many water pouches the group has offered us. “You keep reminding me.”
Excitement blooms toward the front of the line. The youngest in the group, one of the immortal boys that was playing with Raker, has been chosen to hold the orb.
He’s traveling with family. They cheer him on at the front. The music is livelier than normal.
The stars are so bright here, a blanket above us. I look at them, fighting to stay awake. “Maybe … maybe we veer off after tonight,” I say. Behind Raker’s back, I consulted with one of the older immortals, drawing parts of my map in the dirt during one of our breaks. We’ve been heading in the right direction so far, but they plan to make a turn soon. If we keep going straight, we’ll be out of this forest in three days, and into a desert.
Miles and miles of sand are all that sits between us and the Land of the Gods. Reaching it sounds almost easy.
Then I remember what I learned in the Traveling City.
Even in this jovial group, with music spilling through the woods, I can’t help but feel the whisper of danger prickling the back of my neck.
Wondering if the gods are watching us now, readying their attack.
They aren’t going to stop until they get my sword. I just hope I can face
them in person.
They can have my blade.
Covered in their silver blood.
I almost trip, and Raker’s hand steadies me. He drops it the second I’m on my feet again. The roots are thick here, snaking across the powdery dirt.
I have to step over them every few minutes, and my knees ache with the effort.
We’re moving too slowly, thanks to me. The rest of the group passes us in the line, chatting with excitement.
I’m surprised Raker isn’t telling me to hurry up, or leaving me. I know he can walk faster, even with the lack of sleep, and all the armor.
We should have taken more of those flowers, I think. The ones from the Traveling City. I wish I could ask Raker to carry my sword, but of course I
can’t. I wonder if he would be able to take it from me. I think about the blacksmith’s warning.
If Raker knew it was a godsword, would he kill me, map be damned?
Even after everything?
Wait. Is Raker’s blade a godsword too?
A sharp gasp drags me from my thoughts. I hear it, even at the end of the
line.
It’s followed by a sickening crack.
Everyone ahead lurches to a sudden stop. The music cuts off on a shrill
note. The boy must have tripped.
He dropped the orb.
And shattered it.
In a flash, silver light races to the sky in high-pitched shrieks, as if the previously contained stars are eager to return home. It’s a brilliant
brushstroke of blinding starlight.
Followed by darkness.
The line goes deathly quiet.
The only remaining light is around my neck. But it isn’t large enough to
cloak us all. Not like the orb.
One second of silence. Two.
Then the scraping begins, as if the demons have been crawling along the fringes of the light, waiting. Waiting.
My heart hammers as that slicing continues. Closer. The carving is closing in.
Then—the first mind-splintering scream echoes through the woods, followed by the sounds of ripping flesh and splitting bone. An immortal is
being torn apart.
Chaos erupts.
My head jerks back as someone grabs my necklace. I gasp then choke as the immortal tries to rip it straight through my neck.
“Human bitch,” a voice I don’t recognize shrieks. “Hand it here. Your life is worthless, anyway.” Other hands, clutching. Ripping. I hear Raker’s blade unsheathing.
Before he can strike anyone, the grip goes limp. Gasping for breath, I turn to see Daphne standing there, knife in hand. She plunged it through the immortal’s back.
“Run!” she says, and I grip her hand, pulling her into the safety of the light. “They’re beneath us!”
I squint at the ground. Shit. She’s right.
Onyx blades are stabbing up through the dirt. Bone-white claws are breaking through, grabbing anyone they can. An immortal runs right into that grip—and is dragged through the dirt before I can even try to help.
Fuck.
“Stab through the ground!” I bellow, plunging my sword in and out as I go, but it’s too late. And so few have weapons. They had blind faith in the starlight. They thought it would keep them safe.
Screaming. So much screaming.
We sprint as fast as we can, and I try to pull more people into the light, but one by one, they’re dragged away. We all need to get to higher ground.
At least there, we wouldn’t have to worry about being taken from below.
Daphne has the same thought. “The cliffs!” she yells.
Then, her hand is ripped from mine. An immortal has grabbed it, in an attempt to be saved from attack. I stop and turn, lifting my sword.
Blood spatters onto my face as Daphne is torn in half by teeth sharp as
knives.
“No!”
Roaring fills my ears. Fills the forest.
I stumble back, screaming, into a strong body.
Raker.
He’s fighting them off, one by one. A demon emerges a few feet away, outside the crown of light, and Raker’s sword gleams as it cuts the beast in
two. But there are too many.
They’re everywhere.
Hundreds of them. As if they’ve been called.
And the demons might not be able to pierce our light … but the immortals can. Bloody and desperate, a woman who served me food lunges for me, reaching for my throat, trying to rip the necklace off.
My back hits the ground. My head cracks against a root.
The immortal is clawing at me, reaching for the orbs.
“I can—I can help you!” I say, knowing there’s room for a couple more people. Wondering if I can break the necklace so more can use its light.
Trying to keep her from choking me.
But it’s like she doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care. And there are far too many to even fit anyway. I hear the rest of them rushing forward, toward the bright glow.
The woman’s sharp nails scratch my check, and blood streams down my face. “Please stop,” I say, not wanting to hurt her.
She doesn’t. She reaches again, and I push her away, until her legs are out of the light.
And she’s immediately pulled into the ground. A blood-curdling scream pours from her mouth, and she manages to grip a root, keeping herself outside. I can’t just sit and watch. I lunge forward, trying to drag her out, but strong arms band around my middle, pulling me into the air. My legs thrash as I’m lifted away. Raker. He unceremoniously throws me over his shoulder.
“Let me go!” I say, watching from over his back as the woman disappears beneath the dirt in a spurt of blood.
Raker doesn’t. He’s running toward the cliff face.
“Climb,” he snarls, turning me in the air and hurling me against the rock with brutal force. Ears ringing, head pulsing, I grip on to the stone and climb all the way to the closest ledge, a sheet of jutting stone with just enough room to stand, planning on helping the rest up. On showing them the way. But when I turn around to help, Raker is there, pinning me to the
cliff.
Screams pierce the night.
“We need—we need to help them,” I say, shaking beneath the cold of his
armor.
Raker is silent.
“They’ll die!” I say, raising my voice so he can hear me through the yells
for help.
He doesn’t move a muscle.
“Fine. Stay. I’m going.” I try to push against him, but he doesn’t budge.
He’s as firm as the stone behind me. He’s pressing me against the rock face, his body shielding mine, not for protection … but to cage me. I can’t move without him moving first.
Their voices become more desperate. Their begging. My mind goes back to a time when I was helpless. Those screams are like knives through me.
“Please,” I say, my voice breaking on the word. Tears slip down my face, sliding against his armor. I can’t stand here and not help. I can’t live when
everyone else doesn’t. I can’t.
Not again.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move an inch. Not as I push. Not as I scrape with my nails. Not as I beg. He just stands there against me, body firm and all-encompassing and unyielding as the screams grow louder.
Then— As they go quiet.
“Bastard,” I say, voice shaking in a sob. “Demon. You … heartless, merciless monster.” For hours, I call him every name I know. I curse him over and over.
But he seems to have endless armor everywhere, even over his heart, even over his feelings, because his body does not shift in the slightest. He is not moved. He does not move, even when I dig my nails into the skin of his neck, even when I plead.
Only when the sun rises, and all traces of the demons are gone, does he budge. He shoves off the rock and lands on the ground. I land in front of him, legs nearly buckling from exhaustion.
The forest is carnage. Skin hangs off the trees. Blood spatters the ground.
I fall to my knees and retch.
When I finally look up again, he’s just staring at me, his hood and mask covering everything. But I imagine if I could see his face, it would be as smooth and expressionless as the cliff we just clung to for our lives.
I get to my feet and stumble toward him. I stab my finger into his chest and say with every smelted inch of my soul, “I hate you, Harlan Raker.”
He just looks down at me for a moment. His gaze dips to the finger still in the center of his chest and then back up at me.
“Good,” he finally says.
And then he turns around, back toward the path.
But I’m not fucking finished.
I really don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe I just want to get a scratch in that spotless armor, maybe I just want to show him he’s as fallible as us all.
Blinded by my tears and fury, I unsheathe my blade as fast as he taught
me and hurl it through his back.
Or I would have.
If he hadn’t unsheathed his sword so fas. It flies through his fingers, into the air—and then is caught behind his spine, perfectly blocking my hit,
while the rest of him still faces the opposite direction. He sheathes it again
in the same second.
Shit.
He turns in a flash, and then he’s right in front of me. Furious.
“You hate me?” he demands, spitting the words.
“Yes,” I reply, falling into my stance. The one he helped me perfect.
“Prove it.”
Then his sword is hurling toward my neck.
I lift mine, blocking it, the force of his hit nearly enough for me to drop my weapon, but I don’t. I spin, then lash out, slamming my steel against his, over and over, spilling my fury and sadness and rage into every single movement. He takes it, for just a few moments.
Then he meets me stroke for stroke, harder, forcing me to stumble back with every strike, my jaw clenching as his hits get rougher and rougher.
Our metals crash together, and I feel their joining in my teeth, it rings through my blood, ripples down my spine.
Raker isn’t even using a fraction of that famous strength, and it’s still nearly enough to bring me to my knees.
My body rattles as it takes another hit. My sweaty hands barely keep their grip on the hilt. Air rushes through my lips with the force of him.
He must see that I’m about to collapse beneath the weight of his strength, but that doesn’t make him back down, no. It makes him furious.
He swings his blade ruthlessly, snarling as I stumble, like this is a test I’m failing, like he wants me to fight back. I try. I groan as I give him every bit of resistance he’s giving me, and he doesn’t hold back. He pushes against my metal until I’m sure it’s going to break. Until my entire body is shaking. He’s just a wall of metal, closing in.
Fuck. Him.
“I hate you,” I spit into his face, my bones screaming against his pressure, our swords clashed between us.
“Hate. Me.” He pushes against my blade. “Harder,” he growls.
Then his blade pulls back and slams against mine with such force, my back hits the cliff face. A gasp spills from my lips.
Our metals meet again, and this time he just stays there, pushing down, edge skimming mine, sinking toward me inch by inch, steel scraping, his masked face getting closer and closer. When he’s just a breath away, he thrusts hard, trying to make me fall apart. I almost do.
Then I bare my teeth and push against him with everything I have, my senses shredding at that sound, of two blades made of the very same metal, both refusing to yield. I manage to hold my own.
But he’s stronger. And his sword is getting closer to my throat.
He’s so close I can see those steel-gray eyes, buried beneath his mask.
Hard and heartless. I glare at him with every piece of myself, every shard of my hatred, sharpened over many years, every unforgivable thing he’s ever done echoing through my mind. I wield it like a second blade.
And I guess I’m just as stubborn as my sword, because I don’t drop my weapon, I don’t admit defeat, even as my arms tremble, even as sweat spills down my brow, even as every muscle burns as he presses harder. Harder.
No. I spit in his face, and even though it lands on his mask, his eyes flash with fury.
He pulls back, to release his final blow, and again—I must really have a fucking death wish. Because instead of trying to strike him with my blade, I throw my weapon to the ground.
And launch at him with enough force that I actually manage to knock him down.
The air rushes out of his mouth as he lands hard, me atop his armor, and he could have his blade through my heart in a second, but I don’t care. I want to mark him. I want to rip his armor to pieces, I want to make him bleed, I want him to feel the fraction of loss and hurt that I do.
I swing at him wildly, pounding my fists against his chest, his mask, scraping and scratching, not even knowing if I’m reaching skin.
He lets me.
“They’re dead!” I scream, and all I’m doing is hurting myself, my knuckles going bloody, but I can’t stop. I don’t even feel my arms or hands anymore, just this growing hole of despair in my chest, and I—I can’t. I can’t keep it in any longer. It’s too much.
Any light that I found on this journey has been shattered and snuffed out, just like that orb. Just like waking up in a pile of ashes. I see flashes of it now, merging with the blood all around us.
Not again. Not again.
I’m breathing so hard, but I can’t get a full breath, and I can’t even see, the tears are blocking everything out, but I keep swinging, keep raging, until finally, he reaches up and takes both of my bloody hands in one of his, and says, “Enough.”
Just like that, the fight leaves me, and I collapse against him. And then I’m sobbing into his neck, trembling against his armor, and he doesn’t move. He remains very still, until finally, he gets up, me still atop him, has me retrieve my sword, and carries me out of this patch of woods.
Out of the bloodshed.