JEANS definitely had their advantages, Charlotte decided. For one, they provided a nice protection for one’s thighs when in a saddle. Unfortunately, they did nothing for the ache in her core muscles. It had been two and a half years since she had last ridden a horse, and although her posture and balance were still good, after eight hours, her inner hip muscles and her butt had turned into painful mush. The reality of expending so much magic so quickly had crashed into her a while ago. Her head felt fuzzy. Her eyes wanted to close.
“Almost there,” Richard murmured.
“I’m fine. Please don’t worry.”
Considering that he was near death less than twenty-four hours ago, of the two of them she was in much better shape.
They rode side by side on the Salino-Kelena Adrianglian highway. Around them tall oaks dripped long beards of moss. The day had long since burned down to night, and the moon shone from the sky, drenching the road in silver light. Darkness hid between the tree trunks. Strange noises came from within the woods: a deep guttural grunting, followed by the distant snarls of a predator, the high-pitched squeaking of some rodent, and the eerie hooting of the great twilight owls trying to flush out their prey. Somewhere between the shrubs, the dog glided, silent despite his bulk.
They had searched Voshak’s bags and found the cipher and another map, hidden in the false bottom of his canteen. Richard translated it while she chose the best horses and searched for useful weapons. The map indicated a pickup point just north of Kelena, a large harbor city. The map gave a specific date and time, eleven o’clock, evening, the day after next. The moment they had finished gathering supplies and Richard finished stuffing some of the more outlandish pieces of leather into their saddlebags, they had ridden out.
Richard slowed his horse.
“What’s wrong?”
“My wound is aching,” he said.
Her magic told her that his wound was no worse than it had been hours ago. He was giving her an opportunity to rest, and she was too tired and too grateful to fight him on it. Still, she had to. “I appreciate it, but please don’t make allowances for my sake. I’ll manage.”
“We’re only a few miles away,” he said. “Have you ever been to Kelena?”
“No.”
“It is a noisy, garish hive of a city. We’ll be walking into the Cauldron, one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Adrianglia. They call it the Cauldron because that’s where the worst humanity has to offer is thrown together and allowed to boil until the scum floats to the top.”
Charlotte laughed softly. She hadn’t thought she would ever laugh again after what she had done, but her body had passed the point of pain, and she felt weightless and disconnected. “You’ve missed your calling.”
“I’m a complete failure as a poet,” he said. “When I was fourteen, I wrote a long ballad about the bleakness of my life and the heaviness of the burden that was being me. My brother stole it and read it out loud at a family gathering. That was the first and the last time I managed to make the entire family laugh.”
The laugher kept coming. She heard the hysterical tone in her own voice but couldn’t stop it.
Richard halted his horse and dismounted.
The back of her eyes grew hot. She had to get ahold of herself.
Richard took her reins and led their horses off the road. She slid out of her saddle, her body whining in protest. Her limbs were shaking. A big poplar loomed in front of her. Charlotte circled it and sat on the ground, wrapping her arms around her legs and gathering herself into a ball the way she used to do when she was a homesick little girl.
It was all over. If you were more grounded, you’d sprout roots, Charlotte. She wasn’t grounded anymore. All of her trials, all of her self-imposed exile, all of it had been for nothing. She murdered people. She held their lives in her hands and snuffed them out. It brought her joy. And éléonore was dead, and there wasn’t a damn thing Charlotte could do about it. éléonore was gone, and she must’ve suffered before she died. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Charlotte bit her lower lip, trying to hold back the flood.
Oh Dawn Mother. How did it all go so wrong? Please, she prayed silently, please, please make this all into a nightmare. Please let me wake. I just want to wake up. Please . . . She would have given anything to turn back the last twenty-four hours. Anything to keep éléonore and Daisy from dying. Anything to shield Tulip. Poor Tulip. She was all alone now. The slavers wrecked her life. One moment she had a sister and a future, and the next she had nothing, only grief.
The warmth behind her eyes turned into tears. They rolled, wetting her cheeks. Her chest hurt. She sobbed. Suddenly, she couldn’t hold it any longer. The tears tore out of her.
A dark shadow emerged from the bushes. The dog lowered himself on the ground by her feet and licked her ankle. She slumped over her bent knees and cried like a child.
Please. Please let me wake up.
She cried and cried, praying in her head even though she knew nobody heard her. It was godsdamned unfair. Why? Why did they have to die? She’d killed the bastards who killed them, but it didn’t make things right. It was just a circle of pain and death, and she was trapped in it, angry, grieving, and helpless.
The sobs turned into dry heaves. There was no balm, no poultice, no pills she could create to make things better. Dead would remain dead. Nothing could take back their suffering or hers.
Finally, even her dry heaves died. Exhaustion smothered her.
She felt alone. So utterly, completely alone. She raised her head, straightening, and realized that fabric was touching her shoulders. Richard had draped his cloak over her. She hadn’t even noticed.