by Mary Weber
A hurricane of images slips through my head. Eogan’s closeness, his coldness, his repeated withdrawals from me.
“It wasn’t until I hit my coming-of-age that I realized the only emotion Isobel left me with was a desire for her. Something I eventually came to disrespect. Four years ago, when I left Bron for Faelen, I thought that perhaps if I lived among the people I’d slaughtered in my youth, it might . . . fix me.”
A desire for her.
The people I slaughtered in my youth.
I narrow my gaze, not even attempting to hide the hurt and venom I feel. My fingers tighten into fists even as something from the smoky scene last night niggles at the back of my mind. Something he said . . .
Something made hazy by Adora’s medicinal herbs.
His gaze drops to the ground. “Not until I discovered the Valley of Origin did something alter in me. It didn’t break the curse completely, but . . .” His voice shudders. “It made me feel things. Remember things. And then . . .”
He lifts his eyes to mine and the niggling abruptly thrusts up the dim recollection of his arms around me last night, dragging me away from the burning buildings.
“Then I met the girl from the Fendres Mountains whose home I helped my father destroy in an undercover training session at the age of ten,” he whispers. “And I could still remember her white Elemental hair and her screams.”
His admission snaps through my mental fog so fast, it draws a breath up my raw throat that sends my insides heaving, yelling.
My parents. My home. I realize too late a cluster of tears are sliding down my cheeks as a tremor surges inside, his words carving up my heart like a piece of meat.
He killed them. He destroyed my world.
Reluctant inhale. Hardened exhale. “You . . .”
I can’t even get the words out.
And he let me believe it was me.
“Nym, I swear to you—”
“Don’t.”
“You have to understand—”
“Understand what? That you killed them? That you let me believe it was me? This whole time, Eogan, you lied to me! While you trained me! You lied while you touched me!”
And I thought I was the monster.
I scoot as far against the wall as possible.
“Nym, if I’d told you the truth at first, you never would’ve let me help—”
“Are you insane? I don’t want your excuses! You had no right! You’ve not been helping me—you’ve been using me.”
“I saved you! And yes, maybe I have used you. But you’d be under Adora’s thumb right now if it weren’t for me. Or worse—in the favor houses. And I did help—I kept you from becoming one of Adora’s war machines.”
“Oh, cut the bolcrane—you just turned me into a more civilized monster! But the blood on your hands is still the same.” I fight to keep my voice steady as the tears thicken up my throat. “Is this what Isobel did to you? Turned you heartless? Taught you to make people desire you in order to use them?”
He rubs a hand across his jaw and stares. And says nothing. He doesn’t have to. His silence says that’s exactly what she did to him—removed his ability to truly care about anyone but himself.
Hunger yes. Callousness yes.
Self-serving . . . ultimately.
It’s a single, raw realization.
But it rocks through me like a hurricane tearing a hole in the fabric of my skin, exposing affections and cravings for him bound around heart-bones that, until weeks ago, had barely existed. I hate myself for it. For the feelings. For the aching my own desire brings. For the lies I let him use on me.
I turn to the wall and tuck my knees to my chin.
“Just leave,” my voice snarls before a mangled sob erupts, and the quaking sets in and expands until the rest of me is cracking into a hundred wretched little fragments. Each one smaller than the last. Each one stabbing every inch of my flesh as anything left that matters is, bit by bit, swallowed up in the agony and anger.
The bed shakes beneath my chest until the only thing left is a fundamental need to breathe.
Eventually, even the breathing slows.
And at some point, my tears stop.
When they do, I discover that somehow I’m still here. Still me.
Still the Elemental I’ve been all along.
Just better trained and broken. Like one of Adora’s warhorses.
I wipe my eyes. Clear the husk from my throat. And when I turn, Eogan’s still standing there, his jaw working to speak.
“You were right, you know?” My voice sounds dead. A curse uttered from the lips of a ghost. “About our little game? You warned me you’d win.”
Eogan’s body solidifies as aching flecks of apology splay in rapid progression across his face.
I swallow. “And you did. So you can tell Adora I’m ready to speak with her.”
When he doesn’t move, I lift my chin. “I suggest you hurry if you want us to win this war.”
The aching in his expression deepens. A millennia of seconds goes by before he squares his shoulders and nods. “In the future, when you aim for their airships, use wind instead of lightning. You might be able to force them down without frying the occupants or exploding the bombs along their hull.”
“Right, and you know that because you’re not a spy.”
“I know that because I designed them. Six years ago.”
Then he’s gone.
I sag back on the bed as the lock clicks into place.
My mind clicks out of place.
And abruptly I’m lunging in a panic for the door, like a broken bird in a caged room. Fluttering to find the latch. To find air.
To breathe beyond the grief wrapping its talons around me as it pulls me to the floor.
CHAPTER 27
WHEN ADORA LETS ME OUT OF THE STONE room, it’s into the hands of one of her fancy, perfume-doused men who clearly views walking a stumbling, puffy-eyed girl up five stairwells to be the worst form of torture. When we reach my bedroom door, he prods it open and grumbles about following me in.
My hand is on his chest so fast he can’t recoil before a thunderclap rattles the wood hallway.
His eyes bulge and narrow.
“I need to change,” I mutter.
Straightening his vest, he shakes me off before airily peeking into the room, as if to reassure himself I’m not planning some elaborate escape with my leg split open. He finally retreats, saying, “Fine, but you’ll hurry if you know what’s good for you. And if I hear anything funny, I don’t care how naked you are, I’m coming in.”
Right. Try.
I slam the door, then limp to the window and push it open to inhale thick gasps of the cloying, damp air. I exhale relief at the sight of the Castle and High Court, both still very much intact, gray and glittering on the hill. Only to drop my gaze at the sight of the torched hillside with its broken buildings and obliterated families.
I cringe just as a whip of rainwater slashes over my cheeks and chin, bringing with it the bitter scent of loss and grief and urgency. As if the elements themselves are furious at the lives destroyed. I can almost hear them whispering approval of my choice. Nudging me to move. To change all this.
I turn toward the armoire.
A knock sounds.
“Go away,” I growl, but the door opens anyway, and Colin is there. He says something to the guard before pushing it shut, and even from where I’m standing, I can tell he’s jittering all over. Adora must’ve met with him.
“So are we gonna go before there’s not any Faelen left to save?” he says, bouncing on his toes. “I’ve got the map and Breck’s gettin’ the food. She’ll be ready when you are.”
“Adora’s sending Breck?”
“To help with meals and keep an eye on my fever—even though I’m fine. Also to help with your leg since you’re not yet ’ealed, an’ apparently she needs Eogan for somethin’ else. Except between you an’ me, I think Adora’s just tired of Isobel takin’ free rein bossin’ B
reck around and is lookin’ for a reason to annoy her.”
I allow myself a smirk, and not just because it’s a chance to irritate Isobel, but because it’ll also save me worrying about what Adora might do to Breck while we’re gone.
“Besides, I asked if she could come,” Colin admits. “Isobel’s taken to bossin’ her too far and I think maybe even hit ’er. When I saw the bruising . . .” His hands clench into fists and his voice shakes. “Adora had to hold me back from killin’ that witch. Breck’s keepin’ a stiff lip about it, but still . . . between Isobel an’ the airships, she’ll be in more danger here. I’d rather she be with me than have to worry.”
I nod but keep my mouth shut as to the real cause of those bruises even as a chill ripples down my throat.
“In that case I’ll be ready in half an hour,” is all I can say.
Turning back to the rain-slopped window, I allow myself one last look at the water coming down in sheets, coating the white Castle and far-off mountains in a rhythmic pulse that I swear matches the one churning in my veins. Bracing for what we’re about to do.
Colin moves to stand beside me. He stretches his hand out and lets the drops splat on his fingers. “It’s been like that since Eogan brought you in, you know. Like the sky’s cryin’ and won’t let up for anything.”
My skin freezes. I don’t glance over at him. Just keep my gaze on the storm-swept landscape.
“That’s because it is crying,” I whisper. Because my insides are crying.
He’s silent so long I finally look up to see what he’s still doing here. He’s examining my puffy eyes.
“They say it’s the only thing keepin’ the airships from makin’ more strikes,” he adds.
And then he’s grinning and turning and bounding for the door, calling behind him, “I’ll go saddle the horses.”
Shaking myself alive, I drag my shrieking leg to the armoire and pull open the drawer where I’ve seen Breck keep the hair-and face-coloring products, including the comb and bottle of liquid used to counteract walnut-root juice. Both in hand, I climb into the basin still full of freezing water from yesterday’s preparty bath and work quickly, stripping my hair back to its white.
Stripping my soul back to its creation.
Back to the Elemental I came into this world as.
When I’m done, I struggle into my blue leathers and strap my knives around my calf. I glance in the mirror on my way out the door, only to pause at the changes the past few weeks have wrought. Has it been so long that I hardly recognize myself anymore? I smile at the hair. Something within whispers how much I’ve missed that little bit of the old me. Like familiar friends that have spent too much time apart.
I grab my cloak and give way to another coughing spasm before hobbling out the door.
If Colin notices my hair beneath my hood when I reach the barn, he doesn’t comment. He’s too anxious to leave. “Breck’s waitin’ for us by the house.” He pushes a tiny wood box into my hands. “I stole it for you. Open it.”
Inside are a handful of small, odd-shaped tablets.
“Took it from Adora’s room. There’s enough medicine in there to dull the pain while we’re gettin’ to the fortress. It’ll help you ride faster.”
I refuse to cry.
Instead I thank him, then yell at him when it hurts like hulls as he helps me onto Haven. Once up, I feel over the bandages to ensure the wounds didn’t reopen, before pulling out two of the medicine tablets and swallowing them, hoping the herbs won’t just numb my leg and elbow, but everything else in me as well.
Tugging our cloaks around our faces, Colin and I canter out of the barn and across the yard where Breck’s waiting by the servants’ door. Our horses snort and shy when we get close, and judging by Breck’s tight frown at my greeting, I can’t really blame them. She’s clearly less than thrilled by this adventure.
Colin laughs. “It won’t be that bad,” he promises, yanking her up behind him.
We exit the gate through the pouring rain—and maybe it’s that we’re heading toward battle, or toward the deaths I’m about to cause, but a shudder ripples across my shoulders. And as much as I’m tempted, I don’t look back—for Adora. For Isobel.
For Eogan.
I gulp down the ache and, pressing Haven into a gallop, take the lead—weaving us through the mossy paths along the main road. It is cluttered with waterlogged carts and terrified-looking people, half of whom seem to be heading toward the High Court and the other half away from it. We slow a few times to cross paths between them, but then I’m right back to pushing our pace until, after twenty terrameters or so, the interior valley stretches out clear before us.
Soon the rain is the only sound aside from our horses’ hoofbeats as the sky pours out on the black dirt and wheat fields shooting straight through the heart of Faelen. We ride past farms and empty markets and people who’ve nowhere else to go but in their homes while they wait and listen for airships overhead or the metallic tromping of Bron feet. The downpour runs rivulets off the roofs and front doors of every hovel we pass, glinting with the slivers of candlelight from inside. Ushering us on toward the gnarled emerald forest and white mountains that, even from here, whisper haunting reminders of my parents and my past.
At midafternoon, we stop beneath an abandoned sheep shed for a meal. I take another two pills and tug back my hood to look over the map Colin’s pulling out.
He steps back and accidentally bumps into Breck, who’s shoving half a chicken in her mouth.
He clears his throat.
“You look . . .” He’s staring at my hair.
“Elemental, yes.” I hold my hand out for the map.
He passes it over and keeps gawking as it occurs to me he’s never seen my hair white before. Once I’ve unfolded the paper, he focuses long enough to point out a southwestern spot below Litchfell Forest where a sketched fortress is marked by a swirl of Adora’s ink. I nod and use my finger to trace the various roads and spots where Adora made notations of soldier encampments. From the looks of it, Bron’s forces are creeping along Litchfell and down on Faelen’s southern ridge. The airships must’ve destroyed our forces in the Fendres Pass days ago for how much of the area Bron now controls.
Colin leans over my shoulder. “What do you think?”
From her spot on the ground, Breck hooks a nappy chunk of hair behind her ear and says, “We need to be there by tomorrow afternoon.” As if neither of us were aware of the fact.
My thanks to her is canceled out by a coughing spell that rattles my entire body. When I’m done, I shake off Colin’s look of concern and show him the path I’m considering, which is the same as Adora’s with one exception. “Adora’s right. This is our best bet. It’s the fastest and will invite the least interference—both from our soldiers and Bron’s. Until we get to here.”
I indicate a spot on the forest’s edge, then move my finger farther north from her red line. “If we cut through Litchfell at this point and travel along the side of the Fendres range, we’ll arrive sooner. It’ll be more dangerous since we’ll be walled in, but if I remember correctly, it shouldn’t last more than a few terrameters and then we can cut up the side here.”
I glance at him. “And by ‘dangerous’ I mainly mean bolcranes.”
He grins. “Breck?”
She wipes her mouth with a handkerchief and shrugs. “Doesn’t scare me.”
“Finally grew a backbone,” Colin whispers at me conspiratorially. “From bein’ around Isobel I think.”
Breck lobs a hunk of bread and manages to hit him on the arm. I grab it and hobble off to feed it to the horses, leaving the twins to their scuffle.
I’ve just finished adjusting Haven’s bridle when Colin is suddenly at my elbow.
“About ready then?” I ask him.
He doesn’t move. Just crosses his arms and stands there.
I frown. “What?”
“Just wonderin’ if you’re actually gonna tell me how you’re doin’, or if I have to ask.�
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I glance away. “Better, thanks. What’d you do—sweet-talk Adora’s maid for the medicine?”
“Somethin’ like that, but that’s not what I meant. After I left your room earlier, Eogan talked to me. Said somethin’ didn’t go right between you an’ him and that I should look after you.” He steps closer. Taking up my vision. “An’ by the looks of the weather, I’m guessing there’s a bit more to it.”
A bark of thunder shakes the sky.
He raises an eyebrow and chuckles. “Thought so.”
I pull away. “I don’t want to talk about it.” And walk off to help Breck with the food-filled saddlebags.
“Fine with me,” his voice follows softly. “But when you do, I’m here.”
The lump that clogs my fiery throat is grateful and grieving all at once. I toss him a bag and then nod and yank my hood up before allowing him to take the pressure off my leg as I climb into the saddle. We leave the sheep shed behind with a pounding of hooves.
After that, I only glance back at Colin and Breck once, and it’s because his gaze won’t leave me alone. I can feel it. What does he want? When I look, the concern I find written there is caring. It’s authentic. And it’s the same expression I’ve seen a hundred times on Eogan.
The pain it brings clobbers my lungs.
The clouds crackle, and I press Haven to ride harder, the thumping of her hooves keeping time with my screaming heart until, whether it’s my exhaustion or the medicine, my mind eventually takes off to drift on its own in the rainy fog. I welcome the numb—the cold as it whittles away at me, hour after hour, until I’m nothing more than a dull pile of ice.
Shades of day have folded into black shadows of night when we finally reach the edge of Litchfell. We stop among the thick, peripheral trees long enough for the horses to feed on a disgusting nest of hornet-badgers and for Breck to help me rewrap the dressing on my leg before she wanders off enough paces to relieve herself. My leg is inflamed, but I can’t tell if that’s a warning of infection or just because it’s been abused on a horse all day.
