“Soldiers?” I whisper to Elias.
He shakes his head. “Not sure. I saw a flash of metal—armor, or perhaps a weapon. It’s definitely someone following us.” At my unease, he offers a quick smile. “Don’t look so worried. Most successful missions are just a series of barely averted disasters.”
If I thought Elias’s pace out of the Roost was intense, I was mistaken. The Tellis has nearly restored him to his former strength. In minutes, we have left the rock field behind and are making our way through the mountains as if the Nightbringer himself is on our heels.
The terrain is treacherous, pocked with overflowing gulches and streams. Soon enough, I find that it takes all of my concentration just to keep up with Elias. Which isn’t a bad thing. After what happened with Shikaat, after learning what the Commandant did to Elias, I want nothing more than to push my memories into a dark closet in my mind.
Over and over again, Elias eyes the trail at our backs.
“Either we lost them,” he says, “or they’re being very clever about keeping themselves hidden. I’m thinking the latter.”
Elias says little else. His attempt, I assume, to keep his distance. To protect me. Part of me understands his reasoning—respects it, even. But at the same time, I feel the loss of his company keenly. We escaped Serra together. We fought the wraiths together. I cared for him when he was poisoned.
Pop used to say that standing by someone during their darkest times creates a bond. A sense of obligation that is less a weight and more a gift. I feel tied to Elias now. I do not want him to shut me out.
Midway through the second day, the skies open up and we are deluged. The mountain air turns cold, and our pace slows until I want to scream. Every second seems like an eternity I must spend with thoughts I want desperately to suppress. The Commandant poisoning Elias. Shikaat dying. Darin in Kauf, suffering at the hands of the prison’s infamous Warden.
Death, everywhere.
A forced march in bone-numbing sleet simplifies life. After three weeks, my world has narrowed to sucking in the next breath, forcing myself to take the next step, finding the will to do it again. At nightfall, Elias and I collapse in exhaustion, soaked and shivering. In the morning, we shake the frost off our cloaks and begin again. We push harder now, trying to make up time.
When we finally wind down from the higher elevations, the rain lets up. A chilly mist descends over the trees, sticky as cobwebbing. My pants are torn at the knees, my tunic shredded.
“Strange,” Elias mutters. “Never seen weather like this so close to the Tribal lands.”
Our pace eases to a crawl, and when sunset is still an hour away, he slows.
“There’s no use going on in this muck,” he says. “We should reach Nur tomorrow. Let’s find a place to camp.”
No! Stopping will give me time to think—to remember.
“It’s not even dark yet,” I say. “What about whoever is following us? Surely we can—”
Elias gives me a level look. “We’re stopping,” he says. “I haven’t seen any sign of our tail in days. The rain’s finally gone. We need rest and a hot meal.”
Minutes later, he spots a rise. I can just make out a cluster of monolithic boulders atop it. At Elias’s request, I start a fire while he disappears behind one of the boulders. He is gone for a long time, and when he returns, he’s clean-shaven. He’s scrubbed off the dirt of the mountains and changed into clean clothes.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I’ve nursed the fire to a respectable little flame, but I peer into the woods nervously. If our tail is still out there—if they see the smoke—
“The fog masks the smoke.” He nods to one of the boulders and gives me a quick once-over. “There’s a spring there. You should clean up. I’ll find dinner.”
My face heats—I know how I must look. Ripped fatigues, covered in mud up to my knees, scratches on my face, and wild, uncouth hair. Everything I own smells of sodden leaves and dirt.
At the spring I strip away my shredded, disgusting tunic, using the one clean corner to scrub myself off. I find a patch of dried blood. Shikaat’s. Swiftly, I cast the tunic away.
Don’t think about it, Laia.
I peer behind me, but Elias is gone. The part of me that can’t forget the strength of his arms and the heat of his eyes during the dance at the Moon Festival wishes he had stayed. Looked. Offered the comfort of his touch. It would be a welcome distraction to feel the warmth of his hands on my skin, in my hair. It would be a gift.
An hour later, I’m scrubbed raw and dressed in clean, if damp, clothes. My mouth waters at the smell of roasting rabbit. I expect Elias to get up the second I appear. If we’re not walking or eating, he leaves on patrol. But today, he nods at me, and I settle in beside him—as close to the fire as possible—and comb the snarls from my hair.
He points to my armlet. “It’s beautiful.”
“My mother gave it to me. Just before she died.”
“The pattern. I feel like I’ve seen it before.” Elias tilts his head. “May I?”
I reach up to take off the armlet but stop, a peculiar reluctance coming over me. Don’t be ridiculous, Laia. He’s going to give it right back.
“Just … just for a minute, all right?” I hand the armlet over, edgy as he turns it in his hands, examining the pattern barely visible beneath the tarnish.
“Silver,” he says. “Do you think the fey could sense it? The efrit and the wraiths kept asking for silver.”
“No idea.” I take it quickly when he hands it back, my whole body relaxing as I put it on. “But I’d die before I gave this up. It was the last thing my mother gave me. Do--do you have anything of your father’s?”
“Nothing.” Elias doesn’t sound bitter. “Not even a name. Just as well. Whoever he was, I don’t think he was a good person.”
“Why? You’re good. And you didn’t get it from the Commandant.”
Elias’s smile is sad. “Just a hunch.” He pokes the fire with a stick. “Laia,” he says gently. “We should talk about it.”
Oh skies. “Talk about what?”
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you. I can take a guess, but it might be better if you tell me.”
“You want to talk now? After weeks of not even looking at me?”
“I look at you.” His response is swift, his voice low. “Even when I shouldn’t.”
“Then why won’t you say anything? Do you think I’m—I’m horrible? For what happened with Shikaat? I didn’t want to—” I choke back the rest of my words. Elias drops the stick and inches closer. I feel his fingers on my chin and make myself look at him.
“Laia, I am the last person who will judge you for killing in your own defense. Look at what I am. Look at my life. I left you alone because I thought you might find comfort in solitude. As for not … looking at you, I don’t want to hurt you. I’m dead in a few months. About five, if I’m lucky. It’s best if I keep my distance. We both know that.”
“So much death,” I say. “It’s everywhere. What’s the point then of living? Will I ever escape it? In a few months you’ll …” I can’t say the words. “And Shikaat. He was going to kill me—and then … then he was dead. His blood was so warm, and he looked alive, but—” I suppress a shudder and straighten my back. “Never mind. I’m letting this get the best of me. I—”
“Your emotions make you human,” Elias says. “Even the unpleasant ones have a purpose. Don’t lock them away. If you ignore them, they just get louder and angrier.”
A lump rises in my throat, insistent and clawing, like a howl that’s been trapped inside me.
Elias pulls me into a hug, and as I lean into his shoulder, the sound lurking within emerges, something between a scream and a sob. Something animal and strange. Frustration and fear at what is to come. Rage at how I always feel as if I’m thwarted. Terror that I will never see my brother again.