I pull on my boots and slink through the castle, headed for a stretch of bare earth washed in moonlight: the guards’ training grounds.
I may not be able to save anyone, living or Dead. But beating stuffed dummies with a wooden practice sword? No man or beast in Karthia can stop me from making the straw fly. Except maybe the one sitting on a hay bale beneath the archery target, her chin in her hands and her bow in her lap, watching me approach.
“Let me guess,” Meredy says mildly as I cross the flat ground cleared for sparring. “You couldn’t sleep either.”
“Thinking about all the spirits the Deadlands gained today?” I drop down beside her.
“Among other things.” She looks so composed, even after the day’s tragedies: her eyes bright and dry, her long hair brushed and shining, her clothes clean and unwrinkled. It makes me completely envy her composure.
I narrow my eyes at her, searching for some sign that she’s troubled by what we saw. “Do you ever get mad? Really mad, like you need to hit something or you might explode?” Meredy frowns slightly as I add, “Or what about sad? Has anything ever hurt you so much, you couldn’t hold it all in?”
Meredy grips the bow on her lap, but her expression doesn’t change. “Yes. Of course. Just because you haven’t been around me long enough to see me hurt or mad doesn’t mean I don’t feel everything as deeply as anyone else. Maybe I just have a different way of showing it. Not everyone needs to punch things when they’re upset.”
Her gaze is so intense, I want to look away, but I force myself to keep meeting her eyes. “I don’t believe you. I think you care more about appearance than how you feel.”
Meredy breaks our stare, glancing over her shoulder at the valley below. Every slight movement, from her restless shifting to wiping her palms on her skirt, sounds too loud in the otherwise silent night. The archery target looms over her, masking her face in shadow.
I can’t sit here another moment. I steal the bow off Meredy’s lap and pick up the quiver near her feet, selecting an arrow. Meredy turns back to me, a question in her gaze, but I let the thick silence wrap itself tighter around my throat.
“Do you even know how to shoot?” Meredy calls, heat rippling through her voice.
I don’t so much as glance at her as I stride over to the line that marks where the archers should stand.
Hurrying over, Meredy snatches the bow out of my hand and grabs an arrow. I’ve never seen her glower at anyone quite like this before, and I have to squash a sudden urge to laugh. Best not to tempt her into aiming at me.
Meredy’s lips remain pressed into a thin line as she takes aim and releases the bowstring.
“I’m angry that my brother’s dead and I never really got to know him!” Her words ring through the still night as the arrow sails straight to the center circle of the painted target, but I’m too distracted to be properly impressed. My head spins at her sudden confession.
Meredy studies the target with a satisfied smirk, and as the proud archer’s words echo in my mind, I realize there are a lot of things I want to shout into the night, too.
Clearing her throat, Meredy thrusts the bow at me. “Your turn. But don’t you dare snap the string or try anything stupid. This is the only one I have.”
I nod and take aim, resisting the urge to taunt her with a comment about my poor archery skills. I’ve only practiced with a bow a few times, years ago, with Simeon and Master Nicanor. I’d forgotten how much strength is needed to pull the string back and hold it, how much concentration is required to line up the arrow tip with the target.
The arrow flies wide. As I watch it, willing a breeze to correct its path, heated words tumble from my lips. “I hate that your mother tried to keep me from Evander!”
“Don’t get me started on her.” Meredy grabs the bow back, pressing her lips together like she’s trying to keep from grinning at the sight of my arrow lying in the dirt.
She takes another perfect shot. “I was never what my mother wanted me to be, and I never will be.” Her second arrow sticks beside the first.
Her face is as calm and proud as ever, while my heart’s picking up speed and my blood is running hot.
I think of Evander as I aim my next shot and release the bowstring. Of King Wylding and the other missing Dead. I imagine my arrow gaining speed, catching fire, and plummeting straight into the heart of the rogue necromancer.
I think, I’m sick of not being able to protect anyone I care about, no matter how hard I try. But something stops me from saying it aloud.
The arrow hits the very bottom of the target, and a flicker of pride curves my lips.
“Not bad, Sparrow.” Meredy’s eyes seem to shine brighter than usual as she takes the bow back and assumes the archer’s stance. “With some practice, you might be as good as Fir . . .” She falters, blinking hard. “Firiel.” As though saying the name took her by surprise, she sinks slowly to her knees and sets her bow aside.
Her shoulders quake. She bites down on her trembling lower lip. And a sob escapes her, a desperate sound like an animal caught in a trap.
I half sit, half fall down beside her. I don’t know what I expected to be hidden under Meredy’s stiff smile and porcelain skin. Certainly not pain deep enough to destroy her from the inside, though perhaps I should have seen it all along. She’s lost even more than I have.
Meredy’s crying gets louder, drowning out the small night noises of birds and deer and the wind in the trees. It’s the kind of cry that shakes her from head to toe, making her fingers curl and her whole body seem to shrink inward like she wants to disappear.
But I don’t want her to. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her against me and holding her until her angry cries become soft, hiccupping sobs.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“Before I met you, it wasn’t hard to be heartless.”
I stroke her wine-red hair. It’s not quite as silky as I’d imagined, but it’s thick and smells faintly of vanilla and cedar chips and something I can’t name, something that might just be Meredy, and I love the way it tangles around my fingers like it doesn’t want to let me go.
“Odessa?” Meredy draws back, gazing blearily at me. Her face is splotchy and damp, her lower lip raw where she must have bitten it.
And yet, somehow, she looks more beautiful than ever.
“Odessa . . .” She puts a hand on my arm, and I realize I’m still holding her.
We break apart. I hastily turn my head, hoping the night air will cool my burning face.
I don’t even turn back when Meredy says, “You didn’t have to do that. I just—” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “I want to tell you what happened. I want to be strong like you and live with the memory instead of pretending it doesn’t exist. We share Evander, and now I want to share Firiel with someone, too.”