a gruesome rhythmic pouring of his life onto the stone. His eyes flash, swinging wildly until they find my face again, and for the first time I see not hatred, not zealous certainty, but fear. He tries to speak and coughs blood.
He thought he would die instantly. He thought it would be like a fairy tale, going out in a blaze of glory for the cause he worshipped. Instead, he’s bleeding to death in the dark on a lonely riverbank with a girl who cannot even try to staunch his wound, futile though it would be. A girl who cannot even hold his hand as he dies.
“B-b-blessings upon you,” I manage, the voice coming from somewhere within me, bypassing the frozen horror seizing my mind. “May you walk lightly through the void until you live again when the world is new.”
The boy’s eyes stay on mine, though I cannot tell if he is glad for my prayer or if it is an insult to him.
“M-m-may forgiveness find you, and compassion keep you until …”
There is no more coughing and gurgling now, no more attempts to speak or move, but the boy watches me still. He watches me, still.
“Until we meet again.”
I stay there while the blood stops, for even after the rhythm of its flow fades away, it seeps from the wound. I stay there, crouched by the boy, unwilling to take my eyes from his as long as he continues to watch me.
When the last of the flames die down, it is nearly dawn again. The boy is still watching me with the last vestiges of moonlight in his eyes, and I crouch there by the smoking embers, keeping my silent vigil as morning comes.
THIRTY
NORTH
I’m covered in stinging scratches, dirt clinging to my skin and sweat in my eyes, but I can see a faint light ahead—I’m nearly there. I push a branch out of the way and duck underneath before it snaps back, and then I can’t stop myself breaking into a run.
A piece of my heart is tugging me backward, but I make myself focus on the things that keep me moving forward—my mothers, my grandfather, my friends, the safety of my people. My pulse is hammering impossibly fast as I see more light between the trees ahead, the forest thinning out—it must be the clearing I’m aiming for.
When I push past the edge of the trees and stumble out onto the patchy grass, I skid to a halt with a horrible, lurching sensation in my gut.
There’s nobody here.
I can’t have missed them—I’ve been on the move for two hours at most; they must have allowed that much time.
Then I see the fire. It’s set within a ring of rocks, a lazy wisp of smoke curling upward, plenty of wood left to burn on the log within it. It’s been built recently—it must be to show me that this is the place. It must mean Don’t go far, there are people nearby.
So I lean over to brace my hands against my knees and catch my breath, and I wait. I briefly consider shouting, but I don’t know what animals are out there, so instead I try to pull myself together.
Who will it be, come to rescue the prince? Neither of my mothers would be allowed somewhere so risky, I’m sure. And how do they plan on getting us all back up? Unless … They’ll have a way up, won’t they? I wouldn’t put it past my bloodmother to send a bunch of guards down here on a one-way mission to protect me until she could figure out how to get me home.
A stick snaps behind me and jolts me from my thoughts, and I spin around to see a pair of men coming out of the trees at the edge of the clearing. But those aren’t uniforms from Alciel.
Those are the uniforms of Nimh’s temple guard.
I turn slowly, and that’s when I see the others emerging. Inshara, dressed in Nimh’s red robes, with Techeki—that oily traitor—walking by her side. Elkisa is on her other side, eyes down, still captive. There are four more guards gathered around the clearing, pinning me in. No wonder they wanted me by the fire, right in the middle of the open space with nowhere to run.
“Cloudlander,” says Inshara pleasantly. “I see you hurried to get here. We’ll have someone tend to those scrapes once we’re back at the temple.” She makes me sound about five years old.
Murderer. The word almost makes it