“Can you repair the wing flyer?” I ask, pressing a hand to my chest. My heart feels withered and worn from Brac’s parching.
“The rain put out the fire before the damage spread,” answers Rohan. “I can fix the wing in half an hour with my patch kit.”
“You have ten minutes.” My tone leaves no quarter for discussion. “We have to leave before Anjali wakes.”
Rohan stands taller. “Yes, Captain.”
Skies above, I wish everyone would quit using that title.
My brother steps forward. “I’ll help Rohan.”
An inner cold heavies my core, like impenetrable hoarfrost. “Don’t ever parch my soul-fire again,” I grit out.
Brac’s mouth turns downward. “Deven . . .” He reaches for me, but I tug away. Brac’s offered hand falls at his side. “I’m sorry,” he says and then goes with Rohan.
My mother strokes my forearm. “Your brother didn’t mean—”
“Not now,” I say.
When Brac and I had disagreements as children, even if he was in the wrong, I would make amends with him to end our mother’s distress. Mother said I was born a peacemaker. Her belief in my capacity for goodness inspired me to join the Brotherhood for a time and later influenced my training as a soldier. I still prefer levelheaded diplomacy over posturing and strong-arming. But Brac did not borrow my toy sword without asking. He took a piece of my soul and sent it burning across the sky.
Mother brushes the front of my wet tunic, her touch laced with understanding, and leaves to salvage our supplies strewn across the hillside.
Facing the night sky where Kali disappeared, the stars shine down on me, full of wisdom. I didn’t kiss her good-bye. The last time we kissed was when I found her on the rajah’s balcony, lying in the desert rain, Tarek dead inside the open doors behind her. That was two moons ago. Has it been so long?
I hobble to the cliff to view Brac and Rohan’s progress repairing the wing flyer; they are nearly finished. I scrub mud off my face, irritated at myself. Anjali came upon us so fast. I chose the advantage of the hillside so we could see our enemies’ approach, but after Rohan and Opal arrived, I lost my vigilance. My error could have gotten us killed.
Rohan and Brac soar up on the wing flyer and land near camp.
“We’re ready to go,” says Rohan.
I eye the flying contraption and its repaired wing. I am not fond of boats, and I doubt navigating waves of wind will be any less unpleasant.
Brac assists Mother onto the flyer, and Natesa and Yatin squish on next under the opposite wing. Rohan stretches out in the center of the platform. The room left is hardly wide enough for me.
“Opal said you could carry four additional people,” I say, boarding the contraption. “How overloaded are we with five?” I almost say six, since Yatin’s size could easily count for two men.
“I can manage,” Rohan says and then lifts us with a gust. My stomach dips to my knees. We tip left, and the toes of my boots brush the ground. Rohan straightens us out, but I do not trust his capacity to carry us all the way to Iresh.