Entwined Paths (Swift Shadows Book 2)

by M. L. Greye

  In response, the Pale rubbed his hands together and ice flew out from them, covering the entire clay round. He’d turned the floor slick and frozen in less than a minute. Declan had to adjust his weight – widening his stance – to stay upright. He was about to blow caution to the wind and dive for the Pale when suddenly an entire layer of ice coated his body and clothes. It was like a second skin.

  Declan gasped, but instead of the cool autumn air, his lungs filled with frigid air so cold it hurt him to breathe. He coughed. It only made it worse. With each cough, the ice tightened around him – binding his joints. It burned. Everywhere. His skin stung. How could something so cold make him feel as though he were on fire?

  Panic and fear flooded his senses. He couldn’t move. He was stuck in place. He couldn’t move! His heart thundered in his chest as his breaths came out in coughing pants.

  He watched as the Pale coated his own hands into fists of ice. Like covering his hands in rock. Dread filled Declan. He knew what the Pale was going to do before he even took his first step towards Declan.

  When the Pale’s fist connected with his jaw, stars danced in Declan’s vision. He was knocked off his feet, landing on the iced round with a loud crack. Pain blasted through him, radiating outward from his right side. He wasn’t given the chance to dwell on it. A second later, he took another blow to his ribs. Then another and another. He lost count. Ice pierced into his thigh from either his own encasement or the round or shards from the Pale’s fists. Declan’s warm blood mixed with the ice, flowing out of him.

  He could hear himself screaming. “Stop!”

  Still the Pale hit him.

  “Stop,” Declan begged – blood spraying from his split lips, choking his rasping breath. “No more. No more.”

  The round was turning red, and the edges of Declan’s vision were going dark. His body was shaking uncontrollably. From the cold and the agony. Blended together in misery.

  “Enough,” Simon finally said, his voice almost bored.

  The blows ceased. The Pale straightened. Declan passed out.

  When Declan woke, he was in the infirmary tent on a cot – the thick, gray canvas overhead. He moaned. His entire body ached. The feeling was becoming his new normal, horrible as it was. He glanced down at himself.

  As he’d expected, he was shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose beige pants. What he was not expecting was seeing every inch of visible skin on his torso as a massive yellowed bruise. How long had he been out?

  Slowly, Declan eased himself upward onto his elbows and swore. His arms buckled beneath him, and pain shot outward from his left ribs.

  “No, no, no, no.” A Ruby appeared at the side of his cot. She steadied him with one hand and pressed her other hand to his left ribs – right above the pain.

  The throbbing calmed just enough for Declan to sit up but not to stop him from letting out another string of curses. The Ruby didn’t even blink. She simply reached to the side of his cot where a glass of water had been placed on a dented wood table. “Drink this,” she told him. “Slowly.”

  He took the extended glass with shaky fingers. He hated to see himself trembling almost as much as he hated himself for wanting to thank her for her help. Anywhere else he would have. Not here, though. Not where he was forced to fight and be injured and then healed. Forced to keep living to fight another day. Here, he thanked no one.

  “How long have I been out?” Declan asked, sipping the water.

  “Two days,” she replied, brushing back strands of her dark blonde hair from her forehead. “We had to keep you asleep to mend your ribs, that hole in your thigh, and your twisted wrist. You heal quicker while unconscious.”

  Declan didn’t even remember hurting his wrist. Again, the urge to thank her rose up. He pushed it back and finished the rest of his water in one gulp. The Ruby frowned down at him as he handed her back the glass. But all she said was, “Rest. We’ll be keeping you one more night.”

  He nodded and watched her walk away. Sometimes he wondered if the real Rubys were as much of a prisoner as he was. They healed what the Back Rubes broke. Yes, they lived in one of the brick buildings with the Back Rubes, but they were not permitted to leave the camp. No one ever left. The only people who ever came were new Back Rubes with new recruits. Or the Back Rubes who had killed off their last round of recruits and were ready for new ones. That was less often.

  Other than when Kearns had captured him, he’d only seen one Back Rube leave in search for new blood. For as much as the Back Rubes liked to torture, they wanted to keep their slaves alive. Kearns seemed to be the only one who didn’t have a semblance of caution.

  A wet, deep cough made Declan turn. There, across and two cots down was another Stolen. There were about fifteen cots in the tent, but it must had been a slow week for the Back Rubes. It was just Declan and this other man in the tent.

  It took him a minute to recognize who it was. The very same Pale who had put Declan in his own cot. Declan stared. The Pale held his left arm across his thin middle, and had an eyepatch across his right eye.

  He’d noticed Declan’s attention. He let out a hoarse laugh. “Surprised to see me here?”

  Declan was. He frowned. “I know I didn’t do any of that.”

  “No,” the Pale shook his head against the pillows he had behind him, propping him up. “This is just how it always is here. One day you’re the inflictor, and the next you’re the receiver.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? Declan grunted and jerked his chin toward the Pale. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Simon had me fight Rand yesterday. He stabbed a little too close to my eye with one of my own icicles. But no one ever beats Rand, anyway.” The Pale snorted. “He’s been here the longest. The Back Rubes sometimes talk about how grateful we should be that we weren’t one of the first ones here because they were test subjects. They didn’t survive. Well, all except one.”

  “Rand.” Declan blew his breath out in a rush. How long had the Gray been here then? When was the camp started? No wonder Rand called death a luxury. It was a luxury that hadn’t been granted to him. He’d somehow endured through the initiation of The Stolen – through whatever sick experimenting the Back Rubes had done.

  But for all the others to have died … Had there not been Rubys to heal them at the beginning?

  “I think one of the best things I’ve seen in my life was watching Rand lose to you.” The Pale laughed again. He shut the eye Declan could see. “I’ll never forget him stumbling to get his blades back up. You made him look like a fresh-faced. Thanks for that.”

  Declan blinked, startled by his gratitude. A fresh-faced was a new Stolen. He hadn’t made Rand look like that since the first time they’d faced off. With a grunt, he jerked his chin toward the Pale. “Will your eye heal?”

  “That’s what I’m told,” he retorted.

  “Good.” Declan lowered himself back onto his own pillow. “What’s your name?”

  “Teggin Previn,” he answered. “I’m from Quirl.”

  “You’re welcome for Rand, Teggin,” Declan replied.

  He was silent for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry about your ribs.”

  Declan grimaced. “This is just how it always is here.”

  :::::

  Three days later, Declan dropped to the ground and vomited his guts up onto the packed mud. Kearns was back to running him. Today, he’d made it past the base of the mountain and back three times in under a minute. It was the equivalent of about fifteen miles – Declan’s fastest time yet. Instead of congratulating him, of course, Kearns made him just do it again. Three more times. If he failed to make it as far or just as fast, she would punish him as she had in the past. He’d barely been set free of the infirmary. He had no desire to be sent there again so soon.

  On his fourth run, Declan had nearly not made it back in time. If he hadn’t pushed himself to the edge during those last two miles, he would have been a second or two late. Luckily, he’d made it, but now he felt like pas
sing out. If Kearns told him to do it a fifth time, he’d probably die. That wasn’t an exaggeration. He was still heaving up his breakfast, and his heart was erupting in his chest.

  Kearns’s scuffed brown boots appeared in this line of vision. Declan was half tempted to turn his head so some of the contents of his stomach would splatter over her feet. “That’s enough for today, Sharpe,” she told him. She didn’t wait for him to respond before she headed off – to torment one of her other Stolen.

  It was the middle of the afternoon. Declan was glad he’d waited to have his second and last meal of the day until after Kearns had run him. Once his stomach settled back down, he was going to be ravenous.

  Declan rolled onto his back on the grass – all of ten inches away from his own puke. It was as far as he could move. His arms wobbled and he couldn’t even feel his legs. He hoped they were still attached to his body and not left behind somewhere on the mountain.

  Releasing a moan, Declan stared up at the gray clouds overhead, wondering if his heart really would explode. There had been no lightning today. It was like that sometimes.

  Most days there would be sporadic bursts of lightning – half the time accompanied by thunder, the other half silent as the sun. Then, there would be days like today – neither lightning nor thunder. Just dark, billowing clouds above, blocking out the sky. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw the sun or stars or moon.

  “You look terrible.” Rand dropped down on the ground beside Declan – the opposite side from his vomit.

  Declan didn’t have the strength to respond. The world was spinning and his lungs couldn’t seem to take in enough air. To his surprise, Rand laughed. “Focus on your breathing,” he advised.

  It turned out Declan did have enough air to reply after all. “Thanks, I hadn’t already thought of that,” he retorted.

  “I had my doubts when you were just lying there hyperventilating,” Rand shot back.

  “Why are you here, Rand?” Declan groaned and pushed himself upright, leaning back on shaky arms.

  Even though he and Rand regularly faced each other on the rounds, neither one had approached the other since the day Declan won his tent. Declan figured it was to keep the Back Rubes off their backs. From drawing their unwanted attention.

  “I saw your last duel with the Pale – Teggin,” he said, as if that explained him seeking Declan out.

  Declan grunted. “I saw the results from your last duel with him.”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you.” Rand copied Declan’s position – arms back, legs stretched out in front of him. “You need to start seeing the angles. Right now, you’re only playing ability versus ability. You can’t win like that.”

  “What sort of angles?” Declan frowned. He had a feeling it was a rare moment for Rand to divvy out advice to anyone in this camp. Honestly, he’d never seen the man talk to anyone other than Simon and himself. It was hard for everyone else to be friends with a constant inflictor of pain.

  Even though Rand had been in this camp for months and months – probably even years – he had no one to talk to. Except maybe for Declan. Rand was as close to a friend as Declan could find in this awful camp.

  “Use your strengths to offset your opponent’s abilities,” Rand told him. “You’re quick. You can use that to your advantage, but don’t forget your superiority with blades. When Teggin threw those icicle daggers at you, instead of just dodging them, you should have grabbed one like I did. I turned it into a weapon that won me the duel.”

  “Because you stuck it in his eye,” Declan said wryly.

  “Because I stuck it near his eye,” Rand corrected. “He’s the one who threw it at me in the first place.”

  Declan tipped his head back, gazing up at the clouds. “Next time I’ll look for the angles.”

  “Good choice.” Rand clapped Declan on the shoulder. “Now, I’m off to find myself a fresh-faced to keep me company for the night.”

  At that, Rand shoved himself up to his feet. Declan watched, a little surprised. “Do you often take in a fresh-faced?”

  “All the time,” he replied, stretching out his neck and shoulders.

  “Why?” Declan blurted. The word was out before he could think better of it.

  “What else is there to do at night here?” Rand asked, his voice taking on a brittle edge to it. “Explore ways to kill myself? Dwell on what-ifs? Visit the dark places of my mind?” He let out a bark of laughter. “I think I’d rather have some new frightened female keep me warm.”

  A part of Declan balked – the part of him that was disappearing more and more with each passing day. Rand had been here a long time with no reprieve in sight. Even in just the short period Declan had been stuck in this camp, he knew what Rand meant. It was literal torture being here as a captive. A Stolen. If Declan dwelt on the what-ifs or the events of the past day, he really would go mad.

  For Rand to admit any of that to Declan … he trusted Declan. Trusted him enough to make light of his struggles and fears. Or maybe it’d just been so long since he’d had someone to talk to that he didn’t see how disturbing his words could be. Either way, Declan saw what Rand was offering – friendship.

  Rand was lonely after all. Declan knew the feeling well.

  He was glad on the nights he was too exhausted to think – when sleep claimed him fast. He had no desire to be left alone to his own thoughts. Those led down dark roads. Filled with hopelessness and despair. And isolation.

  To be a Stolen was to be alone – in pain and suffering. For Rand to seek out a fresh-faced for the night … Declan suspected Rand needed the contact more than she’d ever need the use of his shelter from the cold. He didn’t condone Rand’s choices, but he wouldn’t take them from him, either. Whether or not the fresh-faced accepted Rand’s offer–

  In a camp where agency was a commodity, the ability to say no was the greatest power any of the Stolen could have. The fresh-faced could say no.

  It wasn’t up to Declan. How Rand chose to live what little life he could make for himself here was up to him, not Declan. Even though the thought of taking in a fresh-faced repulsed Declan … he and Rand didn’t have to agree on this to be allies.

  Rand was lonely. Declan honestly was too. So, he merely shrugged and said, “I’ll see you on the round.”

  Rand flashed him a grin as a farewell before heading off. Declan watched him go. After a little while longer, Declan finally rose to his feet. His stomach had settled and was now grumbling in hunger. He headed toward the mess hall for his last meal of the day. He’d eat it fast and trudge back to his tent where he’d stay for the rest of the night. Alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was snowing outside. No, it was more like a blizzard. It’d begun as mere snow that morning, but had shifted into a windy, frozen storm that had ruined Emry’s plans for the day. It was a merchant day, but on days of inclement weather, the stable she rented her horse from knew not to come. Today she was stuck inside the palace. There would be no Turanga practicing for her.

  The blizzard had driven her to wander the palace halls without purpose. Eventually she came to her sister’s music parlor. From out in the hallway, she heard Citrine fingering out some melancholy tune. It was haunting and beautiful and matched Emry’s mood perfectly. With a sigh, Emry slid into the room.

  Cit lifted her eyes from the keys for just a second before dropping them again. “You must be bored.”

  “Why? Because it’s snowing?” Emry flopped onto the lilac settee near Citrine’s pianoforte.

  “No, because you’re in here during the day,” her sister retorted.

  Emry couldn’t refute that. She was fairly certain the last time she had entered Cit’s music room in daylight was during a rain shower. Emry groaned and stood, crossing the room to its small fireplace. She extended her fingers out to warm them on the cheery flames. The wood wasn’t crackling or burning, which meant that Cit was controlling the fire.

  “I see you’re keeping yourself busy
,” she quipped.

  Citrine sighed and ceased her playing, lowering her hands into her lap. “It’s getting easier.”

  “What is?” Emry asked without turning.

  “Keeping all the fireplaces and candles burning while going about my daily routine,” she replied.

  Emry turned at that. “All of them? In the whole palace?”

  “Including the kitchen fires.” Cit nodded. “Moira was right. I come from an impressive pedigree. She says I’ll begin training how to keep myself from drowning at the hands of a Blue next week.”

  Blue-eyed were known to be able to fill the lungs of their enemies with water – drowning them on dry ground. Emry had never loved that particular fact, but she always figured if she was ever put in that situation, she’d pull out the Blue’s light – ending the Blue’s life. She wasn’t sure if that would actually save herself, but at least she’d go down fighting.

  “What does that particular training entail?” Emry frowned.

  Cit shrugged, glaring at the sheets of music in front of her. “According to Moira, Blues fill your lungs based on your location. Maybe I’ll do something with moving around. I don’t know.”

  That didn’t exactly sound right for an Orange. Emry tilted her head to the side. “Or, it might have to do with evaporating the water inside of you?”

  “I guess that would work, too,” Cit returned absently. Her gaze was still locked on her music.

  Emry twisted away from the fire to fully face her sister. “What’s going on, Cit? What has you so distracted?”

  “I-” She stopped, smoothed the fabric of her dress on her lap, and spun around on her bench toward Emry. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I have a confession to make.”

  “Alright,” Emry replied slowly. What could Citrine possibly have to say that would upset her? Emry stepped back to the settee and sank onto it. “What is it?”

  “Yesterday,” Citrine gulped in another breath. “Yesterday, I spoke with Father. I- I told him I was ready for a Trials. I wish to marry.”