I pull my hands into my lap to fist the material of my bright green top. “So—?so you left?”
“I should’ve said goodbye.” His face openly displays raw regret that cuts through me. He moves closer, eliminating the space on the bedrolls between us. “I didn’t because I wouldn’t have been able to leave if I saw you again.”
His words are picks and shovels, uprooting the hurt I buried long ago. I feel turned inside out by his confession. I want to wind back time and keep my feelings to myself. If I hadn’t met him that night, perhaps he wouldn’t have been reminded of my weakness. He would have stayed and apprenticed in Brentyn longer. And then maybe Papa would have lived.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.” His fingers brush my cheek.
I scoot back and clutch my hands together.
Even after Papa told me Cohen was accepted as the king’s new bounty hunter, I still believed he’d return to visit. For the first few months, I watched the road, analyzing every second we spent together, rethinking every interaction, every conversation. The unknown drove me mad. A year passed. When Cohen never returned, rejection and loss devastated me.
“It hurt a great deal when you didn’t return,” I admit. “But it hurts even more to hear you say you left because it was painful to watch me heal. Do not feel guilt over what happened. My foolish actions are the reason you have that scar.” My fingers curl into fists as I force myself to be candid. “I never wanted you to leave because of me. Now that you’re back, I don’t know how to be the friends we used to be.”
Cohen’s mouth curves into a bleak smile. “That doesn’t mean we cannot try.”
The lack of water has made my mind sluggish. I consider crushing handfuls of cedar leaves and sucking the moisture from them. My throat is dry. My body aches. My head pounds when the bouts of dizziness break. I cannot imagine how Siron must feel. Mostly, I fear the lack of water will give Captain Omar an edge, and before we know it, he’ll be on us.
From afar, the small town at the edge of the dry hills is no more than a brown smudge against the greener woodlands beyond. To me it’s an oasis. Where there is a town, there must be a nearby water supply.
Yesterday Cohen managed to siphon some water from the roots of a cedar, but the tree was stingy and didn’t provide much. So I don’t argue the dangers of being spotted near the town because I know Siron needs the hydration.
The colorful dyed dresses and tunics worn by the townspeople clash against the brown wood construction. As we come down the hill toward the outer-lying homes, the people look like a scattering rainbow. It makes them easy to see. Easy to avoid.
A timber-framed, two-story cathedral marks the center of town. We skirt around the buildings, moving toward the edge of forest beyond the town.
I hear a woman singing, a string of strange discordant notes and foreign words. Cohen does as well and stops beside me, gesturing to drop back. I shake my head. The sound of her haunting melody intrigues me. One woman isn’t a threat I couldn’t handle. Before he can argue, I draw my bow and follow the voice through the woods, leaving him to trail behind.
A woman with long onyx-colored hair pulled into a messy braid sits on the edge of a rock-and-mortar well, singing as she pulls up a rope from the depths below. At the sight of a well, the dryness in my throat doubles at the promise of water. A dog, snow-colored and large as a donkey, sits beside the woman.
With the cap pulled over my hair and my bow at my side, I gesture for Cohen to wait at the edge of the clearing. The woman finishes lifting the bucket from the well before she notices me. I try to keep my eyes from ogling the bucket. “Good day, miss.”
The dog lets out a small whine and then lays its head down. His mouth is foamy, which I didn’t notice before. He’s dying. Does the woman know this?
“You’re not from around here, boy.” Her voice is friendly, though a touch unhappy as she takes in my cap.
Even so, I worry she’ll realize I’m from Malam and notify the town’s guards.
“I’m passing through,” I say, faking a Shaerdanian accent. Hopefully the dry rasp will assist the charade. “If it’s all right, I could use a drink.”
She touches the rope protectively. “It’s a private well. I’ve no water to share.”
My gaze flicks to where Cohen waits behind a tree. “Please. My friend and his horse haven’t had much to drink in days.”
The dog lets out a whining whimper, and the woman’s face crumples as the animal struggles through labored pants.
“Shh, shh,” the woman coos as she gently strokes his head and neck.