OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS, I learn the rhythm of the road, the gestures and nods between travelers that hint at what lies ahead and what was left behind. A tragedy unfolds in between the sweeping fields of crops and the stretches of scorched earth where nothing can grow. We pass villages razed to ash and villages that seem to thrive. The only constant is the wary eyes and forced smiles of the people we pass, weapons cradled in their arms.
I avoid conversation with North and try to displace the constant fear of Perrote’s men by spending the interminable days and sleepless nights scrubbing the wagon from top to bottom, or paging through North’s mountain of books while Darjin dozes in my lap. But North communicates around my silence, leaving books on the table that he wants me to read, or coins on my pillow so I can buy a new dress from the caravan of merchants who shared our campsite for a night.
I try to ignore his efforts, convinced an inevitable demand is waiting to be made in exchange—nobody is kind without caveat—but he never asks, and I finally realize: He never will.
I don’t need a friend, I tell myself after I find a book on plants waiting on the table with enough candles to see me through another night. I need Cadence.
But it’s a tempting alliance in a kingdom I don’t know, where Bryn is my only other option. What harm could it do, I rationalize after I pour North a cup of tea and he gives me a warm smile that strikes at something buried inside me. In four days, I’ll never see him again. And in the interim, it’s gratifying to be seen and deemed worthy of someone’s attention, to not be immediately discarded as a servant or another rat in the Brim.
We’re only a few hours from our halfway point, carefully marked on my mother’s map, when the wagon shudders to an unexpected halt. I’m curled on the top bunk, reading a history of Avinea while North studies notes in his leather book at the table below me. He looks up, as if waking from a dream, before his eyes land on me in unspoken question.
I shake my head, nerves firing with adrenaline as I peer out the small window above the bunk. Empty road stretches behind us, but smoke rolls across desolate fields, flecked with ash.
Tobek pushes open the upper portion of the stable door, face full of anticipation and dread. “I—I’m not sure,” he says, “but I think . . . I mean, I feel like . . . maybe . . . ?”
North closes his book and stands. He reaches for his crossbow, slinging the quiver over his shoulder. “It’s worth a look,” he says.
Tobek nods, relieved, opening the lower half of the door as North ducks outside.
“Now what?” Bryn growls from the bottom bunk. Unlike me, she sleeps easy every night, and I resent her for it.
“I don’t know.” I climb down the short ladder of the bunk and lean out the door.
A village lies in ruins ahead of us, all rubble and smoke and shattered glass. Only a simple, two-story farmhouse remains standing in the distance, wilting into the debris around it. Ash streaks the walls; smoke clings to the eaves. Every window is broken, and fat birds drift overhead, looking for lunch. Not shadow crows, I realize with a lurch of relief. Vultures. Even the fields beyond the village have been destroyed, the crops broken beyond salvage.
North and Tobek stand at the head of the road, crossbows cocked and raised into position. There’s no movement, no sign of life, and I lean out with a frown. “What’s wrong?” I call.
North looks back, holding a hand toward us. “Stay in the wagon.”
Bryn snorts, elbowing past me and jumping down. “Wood doesn’t hold wards as well as stones do,” she says drily. “And I’m not sitting in an unguarded wagon while my escort takes his weapons and goes for a walk.”
And I’m not going to be the only one left behind. North and Tobek exchange tight glances but don’t bother arguing. “At least stay close to one of us,” North says. His eyes meet mine before sliding away. “Doesn’t matter who.”
I hug myself. Ash drifts lazy through the air, settling on our shoulders, in our hair. “Was it the Burn?”
“Scorchers,” he says. “Religious fanatics who feel like the world is better off burnt to the ground, who don’t think Merlock is doing it fast enough.”
Bile floods my mouth as I survey the spill of houses and barns collapsed into each other. “Were there people in there when they burnt it down?”
“I’m sure they already left,” he says with little conviction. “Most people have moved closer to the few cities with any shred of defense. It’s not worth the risk to stay behind, not with people like Baedan roaming free.”
“Looking for magic?”
“Looking for slaves,” he says flatly. “You get someone with clean blood addicted to the Burn and then withhold the next high until they’re willing to do whatever they have to for another taste.”
A chill skates down my back. “Can’t anyone stop them?”
North looks at me, expression inscrutable. “There’s nobody left,” he says. He takes a deep breath and holds it, chin dipping toward his chest before he releases it softly.
“This way?” Tobek looks to North for confirmation.
“I’ll follow you,” he says.
“Where are you going?” I drop my arms, alarmed.
North pauses, almost guilty. “There’s still some magic buried somewhere.”
“But what if the Scorchers are still here?”
“Then we’re in luck,” he says grimly, hefting his crossbow in hand. “Scorchers are still human. A bolt will suffice.”
Openmouthed and reeling, I stare at him. He offers me a tired smile before he turns to follow Tobek’s lead into the village, kicking up plumes of ash that veil the sky.
Bryn looks at me, hands on her hips and eyebrows raised.
Wordlessly, we follow.
Our footsteps are swallowed by an eerie silence. Animal pens stand empty, fence posts burned down to the stone foundations. Half walls remain here and there, framed with furniture or peeling wallpaper. I kick a teacup out of the ashes; a broken carriage wheel sits abandoned on the road. My eyes skim past everything but settle on nothing. I don’t want to know what I might not be seeing.
Tobek reaches the farmhouse first and steps onto the paint-stripped porch, nudging the front door open with his boot before he settles his weight back and aims his crossbow to the shadows inside. When nothing comes barreling out at him, he lowers his weapon and looks to North for direction. North nods and, face set, Tobek steps inside. After a beat, North waves Bryn and I to follow before he brings up the rear, scanning the road behind us before he too enters the house.
The floors creak in warning as we huddle in the foyer, eyeing our options with some trepidation. A staircase or a parlor.