Chapter 3 #2
The drip, drip, drip of never having enough food or enough fuel—always being at least a little hungry or a little cold.
Of not being allowed to leave your farm, marry without the overlord’s permission, ride a horse, wield a weapon, or read a book.
And then come the storms to rip out chunks of yourself, of your family, until you don’t have an older brother anymore; until your mother is a bitter shrew; until your dreams of marrying for love die underneath a mountain.
When we pull apart, I’ve left tear stains on the linen of Seb’s shirt, and his face is red and blotchy from crying. His hand trembles when he brings it up to wipe the wetness away, but the tracks from his tears remain. I imagine my face looks much the same.
I squeeze his hand with mine. His eyes are awash with grief and something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Seb’s wry grin turns into a smile, and a sudden lightness washes over his eyes, his face. “At least we’re together.”
“Yes,” I murmur. He’s alive, Leo is alive, and we’re together. Everything else we’ll have to handle in its own time.
We stay like that so long I doze. How I’m still tired when I just woke up from a two-day nap, I have no idea.
But now that my mind is somewhat quiet, I practice opening the part of myself that hears, sees, feels, smells, and tastes everything more sharply.
When I open to it on purpose, instead of gradually getting overwhelmed by sensations, I’ve found it hurts a little bit less. There’s even some wonder in it.
A river in the distance gently gurgles over smooth rocks.
We must be following the River Eleris. A frog croaks and then jumps into the water.
Leaves whistle in the wind, some of them breaking free from their branches and drifting to the ground, landing with a soft scrape.
It’s dusk, and an owl is awake somewhere in the distance, starting to hoot.
The crickets are waking up, playing each other a melody.
Leo is softly snoring over in the wagon.
Even with my eyes closed, I know the light is fading.
A hint of the sun’s warmth still kisses my cheeks as the coolness of darkness seeps into my pores.
It’s so peaceful, until … there.
I smell another human—salt and cinnamon with an overlaying musk of fine leather.
I flare my eyes open wide, but otherwise I don’t move.
Not yet. Unhurried, I withdraw my hand from Seb’s and casually raise my head to look around me.
I don’t think Seb realizes I’m on alert.
He releases his grip, steepling his hands together in his lap.
His eyes are open, idly taking in the pretty pinks, blues, and purples of the sunset.
I don’t alert him. I don’t want his reaction to give us away.
There’s a wisp of a creaking noise and then a whoosh.
My hand snaps out and snatches an arrow out of the air. A piece of Seb’s linen tunic snagged on the point, but I don’t see any blood despite the neat little hole in Seb’s shirt just over his heart.
I rise to my feet, the arrow in my right hand and my scythe in my left. I take a few steps forward to position myself in front of Leo. Seb runs toward the wagon behind me and grabs a sword.
Now, for the first time, there’s a rustling of leaves and the crunch of little branches breaking under boots as whoever tried to kill my brother gives up the need for stealth.
As soon as the man steps out from behind a massive oak tree, I launch the arrow.
It flies true, and I expect it to stab the stranger in his chest. But he swats the arrow to the side, and it lands solidly in a nearby tree trunk with a loud thwunk .
Then the man leans his shoulder negligently against the same tree.
He’s wearing a simple leather vest and trousers instead of the full, silver metal armor of the Faraengardian soldiers.
He’s tall, like Seb, but that’s where their similarities end.
He has a leaner, more athletic build, and an obvious lightness to his stance that promises speed.
His long blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and a darker beard covers much of his face, making his blue eyes even more striking.
Not blue like a summer day, but deep—the dark blue of the night sky that hugs the stars.
A scar cuts down from his forehead, through his right eye and disappears in the beard.
He holds his bow in one hand, a quiver full of those black arrows strapped to his back, black daggers lining his vest, and a black sword sheathed at his hip.
I tighten my grip on the scythe, widening my stance. “You need to leave. Now.”
He barks a laugh, deep and amused. “Trust me, I’d love to. But I’ve been sent to track down a couple of rebels—royal orders and all that. I’m Ryot, Altor of the Stormriven Vanguard.” He gives a mocking bow, then quirks an eyebrow. “And you are?”
Rebels. Royal orders. Altor.
This is my worst nightmare come to life.
“Fuck you,” I snap.
A slow grin pulls at his mouth. “Alright, Fuck You. It is now my mission to bring you back to the Synod. I mean you no harm.” He raises both hands in the air, like he’s surrendering. It’s a mockery. Every inch of him radiates confidence and control.
I couldn’t hold back the snort of derision if I wanted to. “You mean, except when you tried to kill my brother?”
“I was sent to execute a Selencian man who killed a contingent of Faraengardian soldiers without provocation,” he says, his eyes flicking to Seb and then to Leo, who is somehow sleeping through this debacle. “But I don’t see a man, I see two boys.”
“Excellent,” I answer. “Then you can leave.”
His eyes track back to me, his gaze turning pensive. “I can’t do that. The existence of an Altor changes everything. The king is no longer the authority, and his orders no longer hold. It is my duty to take you to the Synod, where the Archons will decide your fate.”
Seb hisses out a breath. “Over my dead body,” he barks.
Ryot doesn’t bother to reply.
“And my brothers?” I ask.
He flits his hand, dismissing Seb without even a glance. “They stay here. It’s clear you were the one to kill the soldiers.”
“They’ll be unprotected out here. Vulnerable,” I argue.
“That is not my concern,” Ryot says simply, without malice but with complete sincerity. He would leave both of them here with the untold perils posed by man, beast, and nature itself, without a drop of guilt.
No. I swing my scythe overhead.
“Come and take me, asshole.”