Unblemished

by Sara Ella

  “Where’s Kuna anyway?” I pick at the grass, letting my hair fall to conceal the discomfort blossoming on my cheeks. “Isn’t he supposed to be keeping an eye on you?”

  “He went back there to hunt.” Ky points the way we came, then cocks his head. “I think I will call you Ember. I’ve decided it suits you better than your first name.”

  “And why exactly?”

  “Because an ember is neither fire nor ash. Smoldering but not truly alive. That describes you perfectly. It’s who you are. Someone must’ve burned you bad. Hasn’t anyone told you anger is unbecoming?”

  The pleasure he’s apparently getting out of this sends a blaze up my arm. One of these days I’m going to punch him. And I’m not going to miss. “You tricked me into thinking we were rescuing my mom. The only person I’m angry at is you.”

  “You’re a horrible liar.”

  “Don’t act as if you know me.” I will Joshua to look at me, to care. He doesn’t. By now he’s caught three fish. Preacher has them cleaned and lined up in a neat, disgusting row.

  “I get it, believe me. No one understands holding a grudge more than I do.” Ky reels my attention back in. Why is it so difficult to ignore him?

  Stormy joins Preacher by his fish rock, holding her now-stained shirt out like a basket, a cluster of what looks to be berries resting inside. Good. At least there’ll be something edible on the menu. Joshua sloshes back to shore, two more fish in his closed fingers and a lopsided grin on his face. He used to smile at me that way.

  “Forget about it, Ember. David’s a jerk. You two just aren’t meant to be.”

  I cast a scowl Ky’s way. Why’s he still here? “Knock it off. I’d rather you call me princess, like before. Even if Jasyn’s not a real king.”

  “You think I call you princess because of your relation to Crowe? You really are clueless, aren’t you?” He lets loose a mocking guffaw.

  Not what I was expecting, but okay. Take two. “Isn’t it?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.” An elbow to my ribs.

  I elbow him back. While his gesture was playful, mine has enough force behind it to make him rub his side. “Why don’t you tell me, then I’ll decide if you’re lying or not.”

  “Suit yourself.” Ky crosses his legs, pulls a yellow apple from his pack. He slices it with his knife, then hands me a large chunk.

  I’m too hungry to refuse him. I stuff the whole piece in my mouth. Not too crunchy or mushy. Exactly ripe.

  “That mark on your face—” He points to my birthmark with the tip of his blade, and I lean away. “It has more meaning than what they’re letting on.” A quiet crunching emits from his mouth. Juice oozes onto his chin. I reach up and swipe it with my thumb, jerking away almost as quickly.

  Oh my word, what am I doing? I blame Mom. Her maternal instinct has apparently rubbed off on me. I ignore Ky’s slack jaw and questioning eyes. He almost looks like just another teenage boy.

  But he isn’t. He’s dangerous. A few rights don’t erase his wrongs.

  “How would you know?” Conversation back on track. I clasp my hands in my lap, sentencing them to solitary confinement.

  “I’d wager they’ve explained the basics. Your connection to the Verity’s vessel? How you’re the only one who can lead them to him?” Ky scoots closer. His patronizing tone makes me feel like a student in a class way too advanced for my knowledge. “Am I close?” He pulls something else from his pack. A canteen. He sips, then offers it to me.

  I hesitate. We’re sharing drinks now? What next?

  He sets the canteen in my lap. I don’t have to give him the satisfaction of an answer. His know-it-all expression gives him away. Crud. He knows he’s right. “You think these people are your friends.” A flippant gesture toward the stream. “But I’d be careful who you trust. Crowe isn’t the only one with an agenda.”

  I snatch the canteen and take a swig, giving myself time to process what he’s implying. The cool liquid has a slight sweetness to it, as if he added honey or something. But I can’t enjoy it. Not when my mouth has already turned bitter. Does he really expect I’d believe him over them? Over Joshua?

  “I changed my mind,” I say. “I’m not interested in listening to your conspiracy theories.”

  Ky wipes his knife on his pants and tosses the apple core toward the stream. It bounces and rolls, covered in dirt once it reaches the bank. “I’m just trying to help you. Do you really hate me so much you’d refuse to see what’s right in front of you?”

  “I don’t want your help. I didn’t ask for it. So just stop, okay?” Taking no care whatsoever, I toss him the canteen. Water sloshes and soaks the front of his shirt and pants.

  Nostrils flaring, Ky screws the cap on the canteen, stashes it, and then rubs both hands on his thighs. Dirt streaks his pants like tire tracks. “Have it your way.” He moves to stand. “If you won’t listen to me, at least consider asking your precious David why he’s fighting so hard to protect you. Why they all are. You might be surprised to find what dirty little secrets they’ve been hiding.”

  I shoot him a stone-cold glare.

  His mismatched eyes lock on mine. “One last thing.” He slides his hand into his pack, withdraws a familiar leather tome. “This is yours.” He tosses it to me.

  My gaze widens. “Mom’s sketchbook.” Emotion swells, lodging in my throat, pressing against the backs of my eyes. “How—?”

  “You dropped it. The night I followed you.” He kneels and double knots his bootlaces. “I held on to it.”

  Is this some sort of game? Another trick to earn my trust and gratitude? “Why would you do that?” The words sound more like an accusation than a question.

  He shrugs. “After this delightful conversation, I have no idea, to be honest.”

  His transparency unnerves me. I hug the book to my chest. “Thank you.” Swallow. Does he have any idea how much this means? To have this piece of Mom when I’m not sure I’ll see her again?

  A nod. “You’re welcome.”

  He grabs his flashlight and tromps off down the hill, leaving me adrift between suspicion and uncertainty. I inhale Mom’s pencil and paper scent, the familiarity easing my headache. Part of me is aware this is his strategy to gain my confidence.

  But there’s another part, small and fragile and insecure, wondering if his words hold even a modicum of truth.

  “Crowe isn’t the only one with an agenda.”

  To the Crown until Death.

  My breath hitches. Not to me, to the crown. But what does that mean, exactly? Would the Guardians go to any lengths necessary to see their king returned to the throne? I stare at my red-ringed wrists. Everyone supported Gage’s decision to tie me up.

  Everyone. Except Ky.

  A warning bell pings in the recesses of my mind, its context obscure. Is the alarm for Ky or something else? Ugh. I draw my knees to my chest, rest my chin in the space between them. The only person I can count on is Mom, and she’s not here.

  Scrape, scrape. Gage kneels beside a teepee of twigs, a nest of dry grass situated beneath. He’s striking his knife against something black and shiny. Flint? Sparks fly. Flames burst. Gage cups his hands around his mouth and blows. Soon a small fire crackles, smoke rising from its center.

  Ky’s relaxed against a tree down the hill, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head. He’s with the others, but he’s not, always maintaining his distance.

  My own eyelids droop as I tune out everything but the stream’s mollifying babble. Can I trust him? I hug the book more tightly against my chest, clinging to the lifeline Ky’s given me. He didn’t have to save Mom’s sketchbook, but he did. Knots form in my stomach. I can’t let my guard down. Ky’s peace offering isn’t enough. Not yet.

  Not until Mom is safe. Not until we’re home.

  EIGHTEEN

  Might Have Been

  I’m going to hurl. Chew, smack, swallow. Chew, smack, swallow. How long does it take one tin
y person to finish a meal?

  Stormy strolls alongside me, nibbling a chicken leg. It took Kuna all of thirty minutes to catch, kill, pluck, and clean the thing. He roasted it section by section over Gage’s small fire, then everyone took a piece to go. Except me. How can anyone eat something that once had eyeballs? Disgusting.

  “Want some?” She waves the meat in my face, bits of torn flesh dangling like loose threads.

  My nose scrunches at the wood smoke fumes. I shrink away. “Gross.”

  She shrugs, shredding off another rodent-sized bite. “If you keep eating meals meant for birds, you’re going to starve.”

  I roll my eyes. I’ll die before I eat body parts that once moved. So far, the food here is a mixture, some familiar, some not so much. The berries Stormy picked had a raspberry look and feel, but a strawberry taste. Sour and not at all juicy, but I can’t be too particular.

  Kuna belches behind us, the resonance closer to a roar than a man-sized burp.

  Stormy giggles as if this is the most endearing thing in the world.

  Oh brother.

  Now that we’re beyond Shadow Territory, keeping track of time is less daunting. Gray fades to indigo as twilight bruises the day. When we crossed the stream, leaving the Forest of Night behind, the trees began to thin, the foliage spreading farther and farther apart. The ashy hues faded to actual colors, a black-and-white film remastered frame by frame.

  As the sun sets we tramp across rocky terrain, which Stormy informs me is Pireem Valley. To the east stands the tallest mountain I’ve ever seen, and to the west tall rocks and tree clusters block our view of what’s beyond. Despite the desert landscape, the depth of color awes me. Red rock and glittering sand and tulips! Tons of them, shooting from the hard earth. Total misfits yet the perfect addition to the otherwise bland valley.

  At the valley’s edge we pass beneath a stone arch. Knee-high foliage and arcing sycamores greet us on the other side. We take care with our steps, trying not to trample the undergrowth completely. I look over my shoulder. Ky straightens every bent weed and vine with meticulous effort. Kuna causes the biggest trail, but even his steps will be untraceable because of Ky.

  Distracted, I trip over a thick, unearthed root and stumble forward. Thankfully, Stormy let me continue our trek unbound. My hands reach out, free to stop my face from joining with the earth. Something thorny sinks into my left palm, stinging. Stormy pulls me upright, and I dust my hands on my thighs. A red line stains my jeans, and I turn my palm skyward.

  I’m bleeding. Again. I squeeze my fingers into the inch-wide wound and keep going. No big deal. Just a scrape. Might as well be a paper cut. I wince and hiss through my teeth. Okay, maybe a tad worse than a paper cut, but even so, it doesn’t sting as much as Joshua’s failure to notice my fall.

  The flourishing verdure thins and spreads. A fern here. A shrub there. I walk easier, no longer inhibited by weedy fingers of grass and vine. The branches seem to shift up the more the vegetation disperses, a trodden path materializing ahead. A tall hedge wall forms a dead end at the path’s conclusion, untrimmed branches sticking out like Ky’s cowlicks.

  We near the rectangular bushes, their true formation sliding into focus. Not a dead end, but actually two overlapping walls, the barricade an illusion. Gage sidesteps into the opening and leads our group into a maze of green. Right, left. Right, left. I can’t help but think of the labyrinth scene in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. A Portkey would be great about now. I’d rather be anywhere but here.

  The maze exits into a courtyard, a dry fountain as wide around as a trampoline at its heart. The knee-high bordering wall encircles a bronze statue of a serious-looking man with a book tucked between his forearm and chest. Unkempt hair brushes the back of his gladiator-style battle garb. As we near, I squint at the words engraved on a rusted plaque beneath him. “In sincere memory of Lancaster Rhyen—Wichgreen Province prince and founder of the League of Guardians.”

  Lancaster Rhyen? As in Ky Rhyen?

  We skirt the fountain, three to the left, four to the right. Ivy and wisteria crawl over its lip, and moss blankets the stony, hollowed-out belly. An iron gate, run over with more tangled wisteria vines, looms just beyond.

  “Why are we stopping?” Ky shoves past me and Stormy.

  Gage ignores the interruption, steps up to the gate, and rings a brass bell protruding from the vines.

  Ky turns to Joshua. “We have to keep moving. A village is way too obvious. The Maple Mines would be less conspicuous. There’s an entrance just a couple more hours south—”

  “Get back in line, traitor.” Gage darts to Ky, snatches a fistful of his jacket collar, and lifts him off his feet. “I have been lenient with your past discrepancies to this point. Do not try my patience or you may find yourself back in the Crypts where you belong.” He sets Ky down, bristling as he faces the gate once more.

  Ky rolls his shoulders and resumes his position at the rear with Kuna. Kuna doesn’t say a word, merely shakes from silent laughter, apparently finding Ky’s attempt to undermine Gage humorous.

  And Joshua? Joshua says nothing.

  My shoulders tense and my toes curl in my boots. Fear creeps its way up my spine, raising the hairs on my neck. The feeling is irrational. Despite his caveman methods of bringing me here, Gage wouldn’t put our entire group in danger. If he feels this is a safe place to rest for the night, who is Ky to argue otherwise?

  Right?

  An owl soars overhead, hooting hello. A few moments lapse before a haggard, hunchbacked woman hobbles to the gate. Her walking stick tap, tap, taps in rhythm with her meander. When she smiles, she bares half a mouthful of missing teeth and spreads lips so cracked and flaky I expect them to fall off. “Welcome, my friends.” She opens the gate, and it whines in dispute, offsetting her cool, deep voice.

  We file through, a cobbled path extending on the opposite side.

  Once the gate closes with an ominous bang, the woman shuffles to the head of our line. “Come,” she coos.

  On either side of the path, quaint cottages take refuge beneath the golden wings of maples. Walkways well kept. Weeds plucked. Stoops swept. A curtain in one window flutters, five little fingers curled around its hem.

  I gasp. “There’s a child in there.”

  Stormy just nods.

  “Families live here? Shouldn’t they be at the Haven?”

  “The Haven is for rebels only, people organized in the ongoing Revolution against Crowe and the Void. Many didn’t agree with his actions, but not all resolved to fight him. We’re in neutral territory now. The people here hold no loyalty to either side. Careful what you say. If Lark”—Stormy inclines her head toward the old woman who teeters as she leads—“gets the slightest notion of trouble, we’ll be sleeping in the woods.”

  Lark? Why does the name ring a bell?

  I glance back at the window. The curtain is still, the fingers gone. Stormy’s explanation only serves to deepen my anxiety. Is it really the best idea to stay in a place where the residents would surrender us should Crowe’s men come looking? Why is no one besides Ky questioning Gage’s decision?

  The farther we walk, the more my thoughts battle. Majority rules, right? Besides, the others have done nothing to deserve my mistrust. Ky, on the other hand . . .

  That settles it. The doubt stops here. I have to at least try to put my faith in those who have risked their lives for mine. Otherwise I’ll make myself sick with worry. What has Mom always said?

  “Distressing about the future only serves to make us miserable in the present.”

  When the path ends, it opens into a quaint square. Businesses bearing awnings and wooden signs line the perimeter, giving it a turn-of-the-century, small-town feel. A butcher shop with raw meat draped like tapestries beyond the glass. A bakery with bushels of bread and rolls on display. A library with a slanted welcome sign on its door. It’s a scene straight out of The Music Man. All this place needs is a building marked Billiards, and Professor Harold Hill would fe
el right at home.

  Lark ushers our group to a two-story brick structure at the northernmost corner. Two weathered Adirondack chairs face outward from the porch, and a calico cat sleeps on a paint-chipped windowsill behind them. The sign above the door reads Wichgreen Village Inn, the letters bleeding gold. Whoever fashioned it didn’t wait for the paint to dry. Lark walks in, and we follow her into an inviting, bed-and-breakfast-type atmosphere.

  A lemony scent settles around us. Whitewashed furniture dots a sitting room, and lonely vases rest on empty surfaces. I imagine in the spring they’re filled with flower arrangements. A chest-high counter stands close to the back wall, a balding man with deep dimples and rosy cheeks positioned behind. He’s got a book in one hand, his mouth agape as he reads by lamplight through a pair of spectacles.

  Lark clears her throat.

  Baldy doesn’t budge.

  She ahems a second time, an overacted sound.

  The man starts, as if he didn’t hear us come through the creaking door or walk over the moaning floorboards. His eyes fill with light. “Visitors? Visitors here?” He stretches up on his toes.

  “So it would seem.” Lark gives him a nod and then directs her attention to us. “May I introduce Master Thomas Grizzly, innkeeper and librarian of Wichgreen Village.”

  Thomas circumvents the counter, his distended belly squishing against the wall as he squeezes through to greet us. “Welcome, welcome. Pleasure, pleasure.” He shakes each of our hands in turn. “I’m Grizz, just call me Grizz. No need for formalities, no need at all.”

  Grizz steps back, puffing out his chest and rubbing circles on his stomach. He lets out a soft whistle. “My, my. What a fine group of guests, a satisfactory lot of patrons indeed.”

  Lark purses her lips. “They are in need of accommodations for the evening. I trust you can take care of them from here?”

  “Will do, Mistress Lark. Will do.” Grizz produces a grand bow, waving a hand and bending low.