Chapter 13
Sabine
Night slinks in as I crouch in the ruins of an abandoned old sheep barn somewhere deep in the woods, stacking firewood with trembling fingers.
The scent of sulfurous smoke still clings to my hair—a heady reminder of what happened.
Basten lies across from me, his head cushioned by a few handfuls of hay. He’s still unconscious. How many hours has it been? Three? Four?
Myst and Ranger stand partway in a dilapidated stall, half open to the outside, swishing their tails. They don’t eat the hay in front of them. They’re still jittery. Anxious. Stomping their feet.
I lay another few twigs, then snap my fingers for a spark.
Damn. Doesn’t work. My fingers are weak, shaking.
I grit my teeth and concentrate, pushing past the exhaustion that digs all the way to my bones, and snap again.
This time, fey sparks a tiny flame.
I sag in relief, but it took the last ounce of my strength. I sit back on my heels, dig through Basten’s knapsack at my side, and pull out his iron pot. I pour in the last of our water canteen, then crush a handful of beautyberries and pine needles into it.
Wiping my tired eyes, I give a nod of dismissal to the chipmunks. Thank you for gathering these for me, friends.
They scamper back into the barn’s rafters, where they have babies to care for.
I stir the brew with a stick, willing the water to boil faster. If I had more strength, I’d make the fire burn hotter. Hell, I could probably even boil the water without a flame. But after what happened at the convent, I’m barely able to keep my eyes open.
I chew on my lip. Twist my hair in knots. Keep crossing and uncrossing my legs.
From across the fire, a weak groan sounds. I perk up so fast I forget to breathe, then scramble over to Basten’s side. He moans again, reaching up to the angry red bruise stretching across his neck.
“Basten?” I shake him with eggshell gentleness.
Suddenly, he awakens with a jolt. He sits up fast enough to kick over my knapsack, his hand flying to his neck. His breath comes fast and hard.
“Sabine?”
“Shh, it’s okay.” I rest a calming hand on his shoulder. “You’re all right. We’re safe. We’re in the ruins of an old barn I found. I brought you here with the horses’ help.”
His eyes—wild like an animal’s—lock onto me. He still has his hand clutched around his throat. He swallows hard and winces, like it pains him.
I flinch with guilt.
“I’m making pine needle tea,” I rattle out fast, moving back to stir the pot to busy myself. “I added some berries for taste. There’s wild bergamot, too. It’ll ease your sore throat.”
He takes a moment to look around the old sheep barn, reassure himself that both horses are here and safe, and only then slides his feet under him and sits up.
He sniffs the air. “Sulfur.”
I bite my lip, stirring the pot. Willing it to bubble faster.
“Sabine.” His voice is so hoarse he can barely speak. “What…what was that back there?”
“Blue smoke exists in nature,” I explain, wincing as my voice comes out sounding defensive. “I read about it in one of Woudix’s books. When a crack opens in the earth, sulfurous gas can rise, and when it’s ignited, it burns blue and hot. It’s called brimfire.”
He watches me for a minute like a hawk. “I wasn’t talking about the fire’s damn color.”
I clear my throat, digging in his knapsack for a tin cup.
“Are they all dead?” he asks, voice hollow.
A stitch in my stomach tightens. I busy my hands by wrapping a towel around the pot so I can move it off the fire. As an afterthought, I flick my fingers, and the fire snuffs itself out.
“They were always so cruel to the goats.” I explain, not looking at him.
“They’d separate the newborn kids from their mothers within days, so they’d produce more milk, and have me feed the babies watered-down gruel mixed with egg yolk instead.
Those two workhorses you saw are named Mayflower and Bluebell.
Once, Sister Ruby whipped Bluebell hard enough to break the skin.
An infection set in. Bluebell fell lame, but they only whipped her harder. ”
His voice is hard, uncompromising. “Sabine—are they all dead?”
I pour him the pine needle tea with badly trembling hands, sloshing half of it onto the dirt floor, pretending he hasn’t spoken.
As if tea can make everything bad go away.
“The land the convent was built on was once a beautiful glen, did you know that? An old turtle told me, who’d lived long enough to see it.
The Red Church cut all the trees. Tore up the earth for stone.
Built that abomination instead. Here—tea. ”
I pass it to him, not meeting his eyes.
Finally, he takes it. He says flatly, “So they’re dead.”
“I…assume so.” I quickly turn to smooth the wrinkles from my saddle blanket.
“You were never in danger, though. I want you to know that. I knew what I was doing with the vine. Just trying to keep you from getting hurt. It was better if you were unconscious—I could keep you away from the smoke. I promise, I was in control, even though it might not have looked like it. It wasn’t like during the Gloaming.
And see?” I stretch out my hands toward the fields beyond the barn ruins.
“Bremcote, the fields, everything is safe. I didn’t singe so much as a blade of grass beyond the convent walls. ”
Finally, there are no more wrinkles to smooth. No more hay to pick out of my hair. No more pots to fiddle with.
I rub the back of my neck as I kneel next to where Basten sits, and for a long time, silence stretches between us.
I find the strength to look him in his bloodshot eyes. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?”
My voice comes out in a whisper, breaking just like my strength.
Somewhere far off, a coyote howls.
I can feel the ghost of my father’s words. Acolytes count their lifespan in months, not years.
Basten sighs deeply, scrubbing his hands over his face as if he’s as exhausted as I am.
When he finally looks up, the wariness has eased into concern.
“It isn’t my place to scold you, Sabine.
It’s to support you. Hell, I gave myself to you.
I do let you hurt me—willingly. You can bleed me.
You can break me. I’d give my life to you, if you asked it.
The thing is, I don’t want you to take it on a lark. ”
The reek of smoke clots in my mouth. “What happened in the convent wasn’t a lark.”
He leans forward, muscles tensing. “Look, those sanctimonious bitches had it coming. If it had been me, I’d have put them in the grave, too.
There was a time in my life when I did kill my enemies—and worse.
But…we both know it’s different with you.
You aren’t some vengeful street boy. You command nature itself. That much power comes with duty.”
I bristle, arching back from him. “Why do you get to make mistakes, and I don’t?”
This catches him by surprise. He doesn’t have an answer right away.
“There was no sorrow in your eyes when Jocki died,” I continue.
“I didn’t kill Jocki.”
I press, “You told me once that you tried to, as a boy. So why is it wrong when I’m not sorry my tormentors are dead? Why can’t I be petty? Vindictive?”
Finally, his hand falls away from the back of his neck. “Because, little violet, one petty word from you could break the world.”
Somehow, last light has come and gone, and without the fire, it’s completely dark now. I stand, muscles jittery and slack, adrenaline from earlier still punishing me, no place to go. I settle on grabbing a brush from my knapsack and moving to clean the road dust from Myst’s back.
As I rub the brush over her, she side-eyes me closely.
Sharp words between you and him, she observes.
I brush her a little harder without meaning to, and when she flinches, I ease up. I sigh. Do you think it was wrong of me to have killed the Sisters? They would have kept hurting Mayflower and Bluebell, just as they hurt us.
She leans into my brush, finding an itchy spot, as she considers this. No, she says eventually. But I don’t like the look in your eyes when you shine. I don’t recognize you.
My hand pauses.
I lean my head against Myst’s shoulder, breathing in her musty scent beneath the reek of brimfire—the scent I know in my bones—and sigh.
I assured Basten I was in control, but was I?
The memory rises unbidden, curling like smoke through my mind.
The convent walls cracking with heat, stones breaking loose.
The earth itself groaning, opened up to swallow the Matron whole.
Spit out sulfurous gas in its wake, which sparked and caught fire.
Blue flames rising high on the thatched rooftops, jumping from one to another.
The only thought in my head was: Good. Let it all burn.
Now, Woudix’s words echo at the back of my skull.
My advice? he said. Answer the anger.
The God of Death wouldn’t judge me, I feel certain—he’d applaud me. Even now, he’s probably ushering the Sisters’ cursed souls into the underrealm. More citizens for his dead kingdom.
And—maybe he’s not wrong. Some things need to end for others to begin.
But Basten…
Basten, with his steady gaze and calloused hands, and my name carved into his skin. I don’t know where Basten’s true feelings lie. If he fears me or understands me.
I’m not sure he knows, either.
I finish up with Myst and then sink into a cross-legged position on my unrolled saddle blanket, listening to the crickets outside.
“So,” I start, testingly, trying to make peace. “Tomorrow we’ll reach Old Coros?”
There’s a moment when I’m not sure if Basten will press our earlier conversation. He sips the pine needle tea, and slowly, the tight set to his shoulders eases. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking out the last ashes.