Chapter 51
little way away, Ruben is crouching next to one of the Rottings lying on the edge of the crumbled-in hule. My eyes bulge at the sight in frontA of me.
Stide was right. Leading them over the unstable ground stopped dozens of them from reaching us.
As I step a little further away from the burrows, Ruben turns the now-still body over with a grim gentleness, as if the dead might still feel the indignity. ‘He’s wearing a uniform,’ he says, voice low. ‘He was a soldier before he was … that.’ The words hit hard. A uniform is supposed to mean something. Order.
Duty. Someone who belongs somewhere, to someone. It makes me think of Grenda and her sons.
Kyor doesn’t comment at first. He just stares down at the corpse, jaw tight, braced, as if he’s waiting for the soldier to sit up and accuse him of ordering him to his death. ‘He was,’ Kyor agrees finally, eyes tight. ‘One from Wrohelm,’ Ruben continues. ‘I bet he was from the Hirathean Pass. Do you think that means we’re getting close to the Issen?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I reply truthfully, my mind skipping back to what Ryne said about the conflict with the Torailians. Could this soldier have been here, not battling the Issen, but the Torailians? If so, his presence means we’re no closer to Issen lands.
Kyor looks away from the soldier’s body. He swallows. Hard. ‘I killed him,’ he admits. ‘One of my own men.’ ‘Hey, you did the right thing,’ I tell him. I rest a hand on his good
shoulder and feel the rigid line of him beneath my palm. ‘Did I?’ The question is quiet, but it slices through me all the same.
I don’t answer straight away.
Because this isn’t about right or wrong. Not really.
I look at the body again. At the uniform. At what he was and what he became. At the way Kyor’s jaw is locked tight, as if he loosens it even a fraction, something inside him will crack. ‘He stopped being a man the moment he became a Rotting,’ I say. ‘You had no choice.’ My mind goes back to the Myrkr. Would I have plunged the dagger into it, knowing what existed beyond the shadowy self? Knowing he was a priest once? I think so. I don’t see what choice I had.
Kyor’s gaze flicks to mine, sharp and wary. ‘You did the right thing,’ I continue, pushing my thoughts away and
focusing on him.
His breath catches. ‘It was the right call,’ I repeat. And then I throw his own words back at him. ‘Fucking own it, Kyor.’ He shakes his head, eyes haunted. ‘They train you to make these decisions quickly,’ he says, voice stripped bare. ‘But they never teach you how to live with them.’ Kyor’s jaw works, tension rippling through him. His voice drops, and when he speaks his words are just a murmur. A confession. ‘There are men missing from my rolls who were never reported dead.’ He looks at the soldier’s Wrohelm uniform, face tight. ‘I guess this answers what happened to them.’ The prince stands abruptly, steps away from the circle, and swings up onto Elska’s back.
He sits with his jaw clenched and his gaze fixed forward. ‘We need to leave,’ he says abruptly. ‘Mount up, and let’s get the fuck out of here.’ He and Elska surge away, and I watch them go.
I know, with a cold certainty, that in his mind he’s already added another tally to his wall, and I hope no one else saw the way his hands shook before he mounted Elska. Or how he didn’t look back, not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much.
Fen’s ears flick back, tracking Kyor until he vanishes between the trees.
He carries ghosts with him, Fen says quietly.
I swallow.
So do I, I think, but I don’t say it. Or I try not to, but Fen may have heard the words all the same.
I’M GRATEFUL FOR FEN. His back is warm, and his presence is comforting.
For once, I do not try to disentangle my mind from his at all. I crave his closeness, like a child clinging to their parent after they discover that monsters are real.
I killed a Myrkr. Mere months ago, I thought them nothing more than a folktale to scare naughty children into line, but now I know otherwise. They are more than myths. More than nightmares.
Thank you. That was what it said to me. Why would a monster thank me for its death, as if death were what it craved?
And what of those words it continued to say. The way it counted. Child of one. Of two?
What did it mean? The child of three makes sense. Me, Kay, William.
And everyone is born of two parents, right? But a child of four? Of one? I chew my lip, anxiety curling in my gut. Do I have another sibling out there?
One I don’t know of? A bastard of my father’s?
Surely my parents would have said something if they’d had another child together, stillborn or otherwise, but then again, my mother already hid one truth of herself, maintaining only enough knowledge of her Issen power to ensure her children took the tonic to keep them safe from it.
Who’s to say she didn’t hide more from us? Didn’t choose which parts of her past she wanted to hold on to and which she erased.
Silence engulfs the group as we travel on, each of us lost in our own tenebrous thoughts. If I had known what this journey would bring, I wonder if I would have started it or if I would have just hidden away for the rest of my life, a recluse forever in seclusion, like Jonas suggested.
A longing for that life back in the High Hold spurs within me, but I know it’s a dream. It isn’t just a case of me being a liability there. I need to get William help, although now more than ever, I’m glad I was firm with my decision to make him stay back.
As I consider the magic swimming within my veins, I remember what
Benny said about children on the Isles being born with less and less of it.
Will some lucky child, born right now, have all the power of the Myrkr within it, or will Mortidem split the power up and distribute it among many children?
It’s not like we even know if that’s possible; it’s not as if the Gods are forthcoming with their ways. ‘There’s a clearing just ahead,’ Kyor says as he and Elska reappear in front of us. ‘We can stop there for the night. Assuming it’s safe,’ he adds with a querying glance at the Sannings.
Stide nods. ‘It is as safe a place as any in this area. Let us make camp there.’ No one argues. We’re all tired. Broken in spirit if not also in body.
Victory’s only euphoric if you don’t consider the losses on the other side. So despite the fact that there is easily another hour of daylight, we’re all happy to make camp now.
No words are needed as we fall into what has become a routine. I grow a vine and then give Ruben the gift of extra magic so that he can start a fire from the wood Benny has collected. When the fire is roaring, Ruben moves on to the horses, brushing them down and picking out their hooves to ensure no unexpected injuries.
Caz and Thessa start serving out dry rations, and I ready the beds with Stide, who vaguely attempts to help, but she requires every bed to be just so, and as such takes a million years just to sort one bed space.
Once again, I consider pressing her about the vendari, about what she knows, but Caz has the book and something tells me we are best learning what we can from that first before pushing the Sannings so hard they refuse to tell us anything at all.
While Kyor finds a spot to keep watch from, Loch walks in lazy circles.
Generally, his role in setting up the camp varies between minimal effort and absolutely no effort. One night he stoked the fire, adding dried wood before helping Ruben brush down one of the mares, but mostly he just mutters to himself and paces, the way he is doing now.
This evening, freedom is his word of choice. ‘Nearly free. Nearly free.’ He says the words over and over, and while I hope he’s right, there’s a trepidation in his tone that causes me more than a little unease.
Sometimes I feel as if my unease comes from the unspoken words rather than the ones Loch mutters.
After all, it is clear that the silence that encumbers our group comes from more than just exhaustion. It’s caused by the fears swarming through our minds. The questions burning in our chests that we’re too afraid to ask, for what terrors the answers may unleash.
Ruben is the one who breaks the silence first, as if he can’t stand the pressure any longer. ‘That soldier must’ve come from somewhere.’ ‘Ruben,’ Benny says at once, ‘you’re doing that thing where you poke the bruise and then act surprised when it hurts.’ Ruben shoots him a look. ‘I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I’m trying to understand what the hell is going on.’ Benny looks at Kyor, and then at me. He presses his lips together and says nothing. ‘I’m just saying,’ Ruben continues, ‘surely the prince should know where his own men are? You’re the commander of the army.’ Kyor’s shoulders are tense. ‘It’s not so straightforward,’ he replies through gritted teeth. ‘Why not? Make me understand,’ Ruben demands.
Kyor’s head turns just enough that the edge of his profile is visible. ‘Because the battles move.’ ‘Fights move,’ Benny agrees. He can’t help but join in. ‘But the land doesn’t exactly get up and relocate to another county. We’re closer to Torailian territory here than Issen. What is a Wrohelm soldier doing here, west of Rowell? Rowell is at the edge of our domain.’ ‘There’s no point trying to explain it to you,’ Kyor hisses. ‘You’re dodging,’ Benny says flatly. ‘You always do it when there’s something you don’t want us to see.’ My stomach drops. I can’t bear another argument tonight, not after seeing the way Kyor’s hands trembled. ‘Stop it, Benny,’ I snap. ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ I regret the words even as they whip out of me. I close my eyes for a moment and take a breath. ‘Please. Can we not do this right now?’ Benny’s gaze flicks to me, then away. He’s still simmering, but he swallows it down, for me. I wish it didn’t make me feel so guilty. ‘Today was tough on all of us,’ I add, forcing my voice to steady. ‘We need to come together as a team, not fracture.’ Benny exhales through his nose. ‘Fine. Fine. I’m done.’
But I know he’s not. He isn’t ever done. He fights for what he believes in, and that’s one of the things I admire about him.
But … could he just … not, right now?
I look to Thessa and Stide. ‘The Rottings,’ I say, ‘they didn’t attack you.
Why not? I noticed it last time, too. They moved around you. Never targeted you.’ ‘They are the Quiet Ones,’ Loch says pointedly. ‘They have no magic.’ ‘Yes, thank you, Loch,’ Ruben says. ‘We all know that. The Sannings don’t have magic, nor do the Torailians.’ ‘They can hear you,’ Loch replies in his sing-song voice. ‘Hear us all. But they’re not happy.’ ‘Do they hear like you?’ I ask, suddenly curious. Maybe the they of which he speaks are people who could help him. People who could help us.
The Gods know we need all the help we can get. ‘Not ears.’ Loch taps his forehead. ‘Not like me. Same, same, different.’ I have nothing to say to that. The thought that people can hear us in a manner similar, albeit different, to Loch is unnerving, and I’ve got more than enough on my mind to add that to the list of things I don’t want to think about.
I let the matter drop. I’ve already had enough nightmare fuel for tonight.
KYOR DOESN’T NEED to tell us he’s going to take the first watch; there’s something about the energy that’s radiating from him that tells us all he’s not going to let anyone else take it from him, so none of us even try.
He keeps his back to the fire, face half in shadow. For a split second, his shoulders sag, but a moment later, his posture is rigid. Too rigid. The kind of stillness that only comes from pain held in check by sheer, stupid stubbornness, and tonight I’m not having it. ‘Hey,’ I say, moving across to him. ‘You were fighting with your wounded shoulder earlier.’ A sigh escapes his lips. ‘Yeah. I think I fucked it up worse. It hurts like a son of a bitch.’ I hesitate. ‘Maybe some more of the Robbard’s?’ He licks his lips and then nods. We both know it’s addictive, which
means he’s in a serious amount of pain if he’s willing to risk more.
This is the third day in a row he’s needed it, but as much as I hate him taking it, we need Kyor functional, not distracted by pain. His magic is the deadliest of all of ours, so we can’t afford to have him operating at less than full capacity.
I get the vial from his bag and offer him some. ‘Two drops,’ I say as I hand it to him. Yet as he tips it onto his tongue, it’s four – if not five – drops
that land. ‘Kyor!’ ‘It hurts a lot, Thorn.’ The pain bleeds through in his voice despite his
efforts to contain it.
Fuck. It must be really bad.
I put the vial away and then settle in to keep watch alongside him. Even five drops is far less than he took that time in the slums, but it’s still enough to slow him down, and the Rottings’ attack is too fresh in my mind to leave him alone.
I sit on his left, where his arm is free to move, and while the invitation is only subtly implied, he takes it. His uninjured arm slowly rises and settles around my shoulders before he draws me into him.
For a moment, that’s all it is. Weight. Warmth. The simple act of being held. But although I’m relaxing at his touch, his contrasting tension ripples through me. Not just pain, but restraint.
His muscles are taut, and his heart is thudding too fast. ‘You don’t have to be strong all the time,’ I say quietly. ‘Not with me.’ His breath hitches, barely noticeably, but I feel it where my temple rests against him. ‘I don’t know how not to be,’ he admits.
My heart aches, and I tilt my head just enough to look up at him. His face is drawn, eyes shadowed, jaw tight with everything he hasn’t said since the Myrkr fell. ‘You don’t have to carry it all alone,’ I whisper. ‘You don’t have to keep adding names to some invisible wall until it crushes you.’ His gaze drops to mine. ‘I killed one of my own men,’ he says hoarsely. He presses his eyes closed for a beat. ‘I hate it.’ ‘And I killed a priest,’ I reply before letting out a sigh. ‘We did what we had to. That man wasn’t a soldier anymore. He was a Rotting, and you
stopped him from killing us, the same way I stopped the Myrkr.’ The firmness in my tone is absolute, and I realise I’m saying the words as much for myself as for Kyor.
Silence stretches between us – heavy, but for once, not hostile. ‘I was so scared I’d lose you,’ he whispers. ‘When you went for it, I thought—’ He breaks off, jaw flexing. ‘I won’t survive losing you, Thorn.’ The raw honesty steals my breath, and I shift closer, sliding my hand over his chest, feeling the frantic, very human beat of his heart beneath my palm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I want to be able to tell you everything. I don’t want there to be secrets between us.’ ‘But secrets keep people safe, right?’ As I meet his gaze, I see his relief.
He believes I’m talking about him, not me. But I’m not.
I want to give Kyor my all, but not enough to risk my brother’s life. ‘Do you know that mistletoe can’t grow in soil by itself?’ I say the
thought as it appears in my mind. ‘Mistletoe?’ Kyor questions.
I nod. ‘It has to be attached to a tree to grow. It can’t get its nutrients otherwise. Can’t survive. Sometimes I think that you and I are like that. Like we need to be together. Like we can’t grow without each other there.’ He presses his lips together. ‘And which one am I?’ he questions. ‘Am I the mistletoe or the tree?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I reply truthfully. ‘I don’t think it matters.’ I close my eyes, pressing my brow to his. ‘I don’t need you to be perfect, Kyor. I just need you to be human, to let yourself feel things, and I need you to see this world around us as it really is, not as you desperately want it to be.
I also need you to see me as I really am, and I need to know you won’t abandon me again. Not for your father. Not for anyone.’ ‘I have always seen you,’ he whispers. ‘From that first night in the temple, I have always seen you.’ His breath ghosts over my lips. ‘Rose …’ This time, when he kisses me, it isn’t desperate or wild, but careful.
Almost reverent. Full of emotion that I don’t dare name. Not yet.
I kiss him back just as softly, one hand fisting in his tunic as the need to pull him closer to me takes control. ‘I’m the mistletoe,’ he whispers softly. ‘I’m the one who can’t grow alone. I need you more than you’ll ever need me.’ Behind us, Fen shifts – not withdrawing or intruding, simply giving us space – and his approval hums faintly through the bond between us, deep and
steady.
My body is still losing itself in Kyor’s taste when he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine again. ‘After all this,’ he says quietly, ‘after we’re safe, I want to talk. About everything we can lay on the table. No more walls between us.’ A smile tugs at my lips, small but real. ‘Good. Because while I’m pretty fucking good at climbing, I’d really rather you just let me in.’
