“Who are you?” Moray barked, squinting. “What do you want?”
Torin was tempted to answer him, but he bit his tongue. It was better for Moray to remain uncertain about who was haunting him. Torin took another step to his left. Moray certainly noticed, but it reassured Torin that while Moray could catch glimpses of Torin’s movements, he couldn’t fully discern him.
Torin backed away, until Moray’s suspicions abated. Then he crept closer, amazed, when he saw that Moray was getting on his knees and easing himself over the edge of the cliff. Moray’s blond head soon vanished from sight. Torin walked to the edge and stared at the sheer rocky drop.
Moray was scaling down the cliff face, using all the power of the Orenna to shift from one tiny fingerhold to another. An impressive feat, and one that would summon certain death for anyone trying to do it with their own strength.
Torin arched a brow, wondering where Moray was descending to. He thought it safest to wait above on flat, dependable ground until Moray returned. But then he changed his mind, his curiosity far too strong to allow him to simply stand around. Carefully, Torin eased himself over the edge, knowing he was going to hate every moment of this. He studied the cliff’s long, slick face, which revealed golden pockets in the rock, a trail of cracks his fingers and toes could use to find purchase on the long, arduous descent.
Moray was already far away, just a blur as he ventured closer and closer to the mist that was rising from the waves.
Torin sighed and began to follow him.
About halfway down the cliff face, he finally saw what Moray was after. A vine grew up the rock, seeming to rise from the foam of the tides. It was covered in small white flowers, and Moray was plucking them one by one, as many as he could gather without losing his balance. He tucked the flowers into his pockets as if the blooms were worth more than gold.
Frowning, Torin finally reached a portion of the vine and could take a closer look at the glistening flowers. When he touched one, he was surprised by how cold it was. The petals were coated in ice in the middle of summer. He had never seen anything like this, and he wondered what the flower was. And why did Moray want it?
“May I take a few of your blooms?” Torin whispered to the vine. At first, nothing happened. Over the roar of the waves and the keen sting of the wind, Torin waited for the vine’s reply. It remained silent, but because he was watching it attentively, he saw the ice crack and fall away from three blossoms.
Quicky, he pulled the trio free from the vine, just as Moray reached him.
He passed through Torin again, arms, chest, legs. Moray was nearly as cold as the flowers in Torin’s hand, as though frost had spread over his skin.
“Still following me, I see?” Moray drawled. “Let’s see if you can keep up then.” He began to ascend the rock with alarming speed, and Torin struggled to maintain his reckless pace, nearly slipping from one of the shallow footholds.
He was relieved to make it back to solid ground and would have been happy to lie there for a moment in the grass, catching his breath and calming his heart, but a group of ferlies hissed at him, urging him forward.
“You promised vengeance,” they prodded impatiently. “Are mortal words nothing but lies then?”
Torin flushed with anger. How could he punish Moray if he couldn’t grab hold of him? If he couldn’t tear out his throat to avenge Orenna? That had always been Torin’s method in the past, hadn’t it? Slicing necks and piercing hearts with swords. It had been easy for him to fall back into his old ways, and now he had to take a moment to untangle his emotions. His desire to spill blood and his yearning to be different from the way he had been. To be someone who healed rather than severed.
He squinted, searching for Moray in the distance. Torin glimpsed him turning southward, deeper into the gloam of the Breccans’ territory.
Torin decided to continue his pursuit. His legs devoured one kilometer after another, and after swiftly catching up to Moray, he trailed him at a safe distance. But Torin’s anxiety swelled when he realized where Moray was going.
The Breccans’ fortress, built on a hill and surrounded by a moat, was ugly yet practical, its solitary bridge accessible only from the city. Sprawled across a valley, the city was a web of buildings with lichen-covered roofs, strung together by dirt streets, with a forge smoking on every corner.
It must have been nightfall, because torches were burning from iron brackets. Moray stole a plaid to drape over his head and entered the city easily without detection. He moved from shadow to shadow, glancing over his shoulder every so often to see if Torin was following. When he smirked, Torin knew Moray could still see him, and he wondered what he looked like. Was he a mere etching of gold, or did his mortality cast a faint illumination, giving him away?
“Keep up, bastard,” Moray said just before he ducked into a tavern. Torin rolled his eyes as he entered through the stone wall.
Moray had escaped from the dungeons, traveled from east to west, eaten a handful of flowers, stolen more flowers off a cliff, and was now retreating to a pub. Torin could scarcely believe this was happening.
The tavern was empty save for a young man sitting glumly in the corner, drinking a bottle of wine. The chairs and tables around him were mismatched, the glazed floor was strewn with hay, and a sad fire burned in the hearth.
Torin watched as Moray approached the man. His ruddy face was marked by a wound that looked freshly stitched, and he was taking a sip straight from the bottle when Moray converged on him.
“Rab?” Moray hissed. “Rab, it’s me.”
Rab choked. He wiped a trickle of blood-red wine from his mouth and gaped up at Moray.
“Moray? What are you—”
“I need you to sneak me into the castle. Now.”
Rab sat up straighter, but his eyes darted around the tavern. “How’d you get out?”
“It’s a long story and I don’t have time to tell it,” Moray replied, but he frowned. “What happened to your face?”
Rab seemed to sink a little lower. “Another long story. And if you want me to smuggle you into the castle, you’ll have to pay me something I can’t refuse. Because if your mother finds out I helped you . . .”
Moray reached into his pocket. He withdrew a handful of the small white flowers and forcibly set them into Rab’s beefy hand.
Rab blinked down at them, his fingers shifting as he counted the icy blossoms. “You went far, didn’t you?”
“Where the tide meets the rock,” Moray said. When Rab still seemed to hesitate, he continued: “You once rode at my side, through night and storms and raids. You were a shield and a friend to me, Rab. A brother. One I trusted. One I still do, or I wouldn’t have come to you like this.”