Chapter 23
I keep two steps behind Kaan as we make our way down the steep stairway that connects the different burrows, hunting every rise and fall of his broad shoulders, every hand clench and boot scuff like some leering beast.
I realize his motivation for wanting to stay in the handler’s hut might’ve had less to do with causing a stir and more to do with its close proximity to the burrow Rygun’s hutched in.
Something that does nothing to soothe the restless energy that’s resurged with a vengeance, like a blow of dragonflame churning in my chest. Nor do the bloody holes in the back of his white Runi robe. Holes I count—over and over.
Five.
Five iron pins that were meant for me. That he took.
We’re halfway down when Kaan begins running his hand along the jagged wall, like he’s seeking its stability. Certain he’s one wobble away from plummeting down the cliff, I edge closer, reaching for a strap on his saddlebag—
He tightens his grip so much the leather creaks, then heaves it up and flops it over his shoulder. “I’d have to be dead to allow that,” he rumbles without so much as looking back. “Even then, you’d have difficulty prying it from my cold, stiff grip.”
I bristle, sucking air between my teeth.
Stubborn male.
We collect Roan and Pyrok from the lower burrow Maell hutched in, then pass into the village, the stairs growing less steep and twice as wide, framed by gnarled trees dusted in snow and blotted with orbs of light.
And just off the paths, vibrant homes that look like miniature stone castles, their colorful windows lit, chimneys chugging spiced smoke that flavors the air like an apothecary.
The pathway opens as Siharna stalls, folds forward, and plants her hand against the lofty wall on our left, pulling slow breaths—in through her nose, out through her mouth.
Kaan radiates an instant surge of heat, straightening. He nudges Pyrok to the side and pushes through, just reaching for Siharna’s shoulder—
“It’s fine,” she grits out, raising a hand. “If you can carry your saddlebags while looking like you’re dead on your feet, I can damn well carry myself.”
It’s almost enough for me to drop a knee.
She clears her throat and charges on, walking with a sway so deep the motion swings her braid. “Due in seven cycles and he’s already making himself known. Creators know he’s going to test me, too.”
Pyrok chuckles, looking sidelong at Kaan. “In case you missed it, that was directed at you.”
Kaan grunts, nipping a glance back at me through firestorm eyes before he continues forward.
We follow the path’s bend until we come to a stone archway carved to look like nuzzling Moltenmaws draped over a crisscross of metal bars. The guards on either side bang thick wooden staves on the ground. Fists to their chests, they bellow, “Hagh, aten dah!”
The bars grind up, opening in slow, juddering increments, like a widening jaw. Something that reminds me of … other things.
I crack my neck, unable to mollify that broken part of me that’s half convinced I’m about to step out into a brimstone battle pit. Beat my conscience into a bloody pulp of burnt flesh and sunken skulls.
Siharna passes through and Kaan moves to follow. Wanting to see for my own eyes that this isn’t some sort of trap, I edge past.
Ignoring Kaan’s arched-brow perusal, I move into a snow-covered courtyard overlooked by numerous buildings crouched close, like a colorful puzzle, each wing boasting a unique character of its own.
The bars of the gate clamp shut with a weighty thud, caging us in.
I whip my head around, hand twitching to the hilt of a blade. Only realize I’m snarling when Kaan steps close enough to prickle my skin.
“We’re safe, Moonbeam.” His hot, gravelly words caress my ear. “I meant it when I said there’s no need for weapons. This is a peaceful place.”
Certain that once I open my mouth a flame of excess words will blast up my throat, I don’t answer. But in respect, I do lift my hand from my dagger-laden sheath, watching Siharna sway toward a yellow-toned building, its windows alight with a warm glow.
“This way,” she calls without looking back.
Kaan moves past, brushing against me—fire to my ice. A touch I feel all the way to my marrow, teeth gritted as I scan those bloody holes in his robe again.
“You can stay in the green wing,” Siharna says, gesturing behind us to a small mossy building on the far northern end—delicately shaped and half covered in a tawny vine, its big windows a shatter of powdery hues. “My sister, Creators cradle her soul, wouldn’t have it any other way.”
… Is she talking about Kaan’s mah?
When I look forward again, I notice Kaan’s movements are stiffer than they were before. Like something big just settled on his shoulders and dug its claws deep.
“Blue is also free and suitable for Pyrok and Roan,” she continues, moving up a wide stairway toward an arched entrance, her next words strained. “But neither are stocked with the supplies you’ll need to dig out those pins and close the wounds.”
A guard pulls the door wide, brow buckled as he watches Siharna pass.
Doused with the savory aroma of what smells like vegetable soup, we follow her into a lofty room reminiscent of the mountain dwelling Kaan took me to, but with straighter lines and furnished in warmer tones.
Though it’s hard to absorb much with the sound of Korie’s cries echoing off the walls.
A sound that plucks at me like there’s an instrument strung through my chest, each howl another firm yank.
My feet still, gaze sliding up stairs that feed into a mezzanine half hidden behind a balustrade of gnarled wood and stone. The source of Korie’s cries.
It’s suddenly hard to move or think or breathe, my every instinct on high alert, ears twitching to absorb the sounds of Korie’s carer gently trying to hush her asleep … not that it seems to be working.
Siharna makes for a wooden door beneath the stairs and jerks it wide, gesturing to what appears to be a storage cupboard.
“Roan, have at it,” she says, gaze speared at the mezzanine, her other hand rested beneath her bulging belly.
“There’s some dried meat in there, too. And jars of honeyed fruit.
I’ll have other provisions sent over once you’ve had a chance to settle in. ”
Roan hobbles toward the cupboard, dipping his head before he moves in and begins rummaging about.
Siharna grabs a gnarly basket off a wall hook and holds it out, eyeing Pyrok beside me. “Give him a hand, would you? Your brother looks almost worse off than my nephew does, while you look—”
“Regrettably sober,” Pyrok drones, winking at me as he ambles forward. He grabs the basket and peeks past the door. “Anything in there to mend me?”
“If you’re creative enough,” Siharna mutters, squeezing her eyes shut when Korie’s cries intensify.
“Is she okay?”
At the sound of Kaan’s deep rolling voice, I realize he hasn’t moved since he set foot in the building …
still standing at the base of the stairs with his saddlebag strung over his shoulder, staring up at the mezzanine.
Looking steadier than he has since he climbed atop Rygun and ordered him to cast flame across the city.
“Unfortunately, this is our new normal,” Siharna says past tight lips, words strained. Like splinters pulled from somewhere deep and sore. “Her pahpi sang her to sleep since the dae she was born. She hasn’t adapted to his absence.”
The last two words punch me so hard that for a moment, I think my heart stops.
Siharna adjusts her stance, rubbing deep lines up and down the side of her belly. “Bertha’s a gentle touch like Zior was. She has the most luck getting Korie down, but she still battles until she’s all but choking, eyes swollen from her tears.”
A heaviness drops on the room, making each breath feel heavy.
Stolen.
“Which song?”
“‘Tune of the Lifting Star’ was her favorite. He’d only make it to the second chorus before she’d drift off.” Siharna’s features soften a little as her chin drops, gaze on her belly, her next words quieter. “What I wouldn’t do to have it bottled …”
For the first time since I laid eyes on the austere Chieftess, I see a crack of tender vulnerability. Something that’s hard to look at, my gaze lured to the spot her hand is resting—properly observing her fullness for the first time.
For unknown reasons, that’s harder to look at—more uncomfortable—some sunken part of me rattled to the core.
Feeling as though I’m intruding just by being here, by listening, I look at the thick twine rug on the floor, finding a sudden intrigue in its twirled fibers.
Kaan sets his pack on the ground. “May I try?”
My breath snags.
Three small words, yet they shake me. Peel me open, then flip me inside out until my heart is flopped in the open.
Utterly vulnerable.
A moment of silence before Siharna dashes a tear from her cheek. “Of course. Just— Let me grab something.” She moves through an arched doorway, returning with a large instrument similar to the one Kaan has back in Dhomm, but made from a white wood.
Looking at it … hurts. Like a hook is lodged around one of my ribs, pulling. Not sure why, nor can I fathom the reason I’m suddenly desperate to watch Kaan’s fingers pick a tune from those dark strings.
“Zior’s lute,” Kaan murmurs, watching Siharna with cautious eyes.
“Yes.” She holds it out. “He used to play for her. I never learned.”
Kaan hesitates, his hands appearing heavy at his sides. “Has anyone played it since—”
Korie releases another scream—shrill enough to stiffen my spine.
Siharna presses the instrument against Kaan’s chest and lets go, his hand coming up to grip its neck as she spins, charging from the room in pained sways.
Kaan stands statue still, looking down at the lute in his blood-crusted hand. He opens his mouth, as if he’s about to speak, then bites down and moves up the stairs, wearing a stoic sort of silence—sturdy despite his pain.
Composed despite the discord. The death.