CHAPTER 36 JAX
JAX
An hour ago, Tycho had so much energy radiating from his form it was like standing beside a bolt of lightning.
Now, he seems so drained that it’s like walking beside the dying embers of a campfire.
I know he’s exhausted and hungry— we all are— but I wonder if it’s more.
I can tell he’s worried about Nakiis, and I am, too.
None of us have heard a word from Nakiis or Igaa since the battle began.
But as we walk down the lane from the forge, the king’s soldiers are following orders, pulling arrows and throwing knives from the fallen scravers. I don’t want an empty quiver, so I pause to pull a few for myself. We have so few with Iishellasan steel; they might as well be forged in silver.
“I’ll catch up,” I call to Tycho.
I’m startled when the king glances back and takes note of what I’m doing. “Ward,” he calls to one of the men. “Hand over the arrows you’ve gathered.”
I inhale to say it’s fine, that I don’t want to interfere, but I always forget that soldiers are used to following orders, and the man offers a handful of arrows before I can say a word.
I take them and thrust them into my quiver. “Ah . . . thanks,” I say.
He gives me a sharp nod. “Yes, my lord.”
“No, I’m not—”
But Ward has already moved away, onto his next task, dragging a body into the trees.
A flush crawls up my neck before I can stop it.
Bemused, I stride down the lane to follow Tycho and the others.
In the absence of the scraver’s magic, the heat has swelled in the air again, bringing humidity back with it.
All the snow already melted, leaving the lane a bit of a muddy mess, too.
I’m glad for the thick tread on these boots, because I don’t slip at all.
And with that, I’m struck by the fact that a year ago, I would’ve been slowly hitching my way down this same lane, praying my crutches didn’t go skidding out from underneath me.
I would’ve been avoiding my father’s wrath and probably hiding in Callyn’s bakery, wishing for my life to be different— all the while thinking nothing would ever change, and I’d spend my life here, bitter and alone.
Instead, everything changed, from the moment Lady Karyl showed up with that note. Or maybe it was the moment Lord Tycho walked into the bakery.
Was that fate, as they believe on the other side of the mountain? Or was it me?
Or was it a little bit of both?
The others have reached the barn, only pushing the doors open enough to slip through. A cool breeze snakes through the trees, making the leaves rustle, and I snatch two arrows from my quiver without thinking about it.
Lord Alek was the last one to head into the barn, and my sudden motion must catch his attention, because he stops and looks back, then scans the sky overhead, his eyes searching the trees just like mine.
But there’s no screech in the air, no winged creatures. No wind anymore either.
He looks back at me, and I wait for him to make a snide remark about wasting time. But he doesn’t. He just waits by the door.
Is he waiting for me? I shove the arrows back in my quiver and close the distance between us.
Like the rest of us, he took some damage during the fight with the scravers.
One sleeve is torn, his arm dark with blood all the way down to his wrist, though he doesn’t seem to be favoring it.
Another wound at his waist darkens the tunic under his armor, though his trousers are dark, so I can’t tell how much it bled.
He’s upright and glaring, so it can’t be too bad.
When I reach the barn, I completely ignore him, moving to push past him without saying a word.
Alek reaches out to grab my arm. “Jax.”
I whirl and shove him. He stumbles back, his eyes flaring wide in surprise.
Months ago, I wouldn’t have dared. I probably shouldn’t dare right now. He’s the head of one of the Royal Houses. Despite everything I’ve done and everywhere I’ve gone, I’m still just a blacksmith.
But for the first time, I don’t care.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap.
He steps forward. “Look, you stupid blacksmith. I’m trying to apologize to you—”
I shove him again, harder this time. He falls back in a way that makes me wonder if he’s really injured, especially when it takes him a moment to catch his balance. But then he straightens, and a familiar annoyance lights in his eyes.
“Are you going to call Tycho to break all my bones?” he says, his tone low and mocking.
“You think I can’t do it myself?” I shove him a third time.
He falls back a step, and for a second, I’m gratified. But then he surges forward, a fist swinging.
I block without realizing it, deflecting the blow and swinging a fist of my own.
He’s better than I expect, however, because he dodges and swings again, clipping my jaw before I can regroup.
He gets close enough to grapple, and this time, I land a strike.
I have a moment where I wonder if we’re going to end up on the ground.
Before we can, someone grabs hold of my armor from behind, and suddenly we’re being dragged apart.
“That’s enough,” a voice is saying, but I can barely hear over the rush of my heartbeat in my ears.
I blink, and Sephran has a hand against Lord Alek’s shoulder, holding him back. Alek’s lip is bleeding now, and his eyes are dark and furious.
I have no idea who grabbed me, whether it was Malin or Leo, but I jerk free of their hold.
It feels like my own lip is bleeding, and I swipe at it.
My father knocked me around often enough that I don’t appreciate the memory, especially since I forgot how much it stings.
“What do you want to say to me now?” I snap.
He spits blood at my feet, the derision clear. “I’m sure you can guess.”
I surge forward to take another swing at him, but I’m grabbed from behind again. The king speaks from behind me, his voice low and even. “Jax. I said, enough.”
That shocks me still, jolting the fight right out of me. As if he can tell, the king lets go, and I turn slowly.
It wasn’t Leo or Malin at all. Clouds above.
The king glances between us, his expression stony and unreadable.
I take a step back, then swipe at my lip again. “Sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry.” Then I repeat it in Emberish— as if the king isn’t fluent in both languages. “I didn’ t— I shouldn’ t—”
He lifts a hand and I stop. My heart twists into a knot as I wait for him to snap or yell or order us all to go back to the forge so we’re out of the way.
But his voice is mild as he says, “Come into the barn. We have a battle to plan.” Then he steps through the doorway, leaving us to follow.
I hesitate, then follow. Sephran shuffles in after me, and I’m glad. I wouldn’t want Alek at my back.
“Tahlas ?” he whispers, and it makes me smile. I’ve hardly talked to Sephran since we fled the last town, and there’s a tentative note to his voice.
“Tahlas,” I whisper back, and he claps me on the shoulder.
But then we move farther into the barn, and we’re struck by heavy silence. In the absence of the scraver magic, humid warmth has swelled to fill the space, because it smells like moldy straw and damp horse. But under all of that is the bitter scent from earlier: Infection. Sickness.
It’s dark in here, shadowed with the doors closed and no lanterns to offer light. But as my eyes adjust, I realize Tycho has moved across the barn to drop to a knee beside the two scravers, who are now wrapped up together. The queen and Callyn stand nearby.
The scravers are both alive, but even from here I can tell that Nakiis does not look well.
Overhead, it appears that the roof was damaged, because large sections have been torn out.
I don’t know if the other scravers did it or if Tycho’s lightning did it— or both— but it’s clear that something came through here.
Nakiis has his head in Igaa’s lap, and his hands are clutching hers to his chest.
As I watch, Tycho reaches out to rest a hand over his.
Then he looks up and meets my eyes.
I don’t know what I see there, but I know it’s not good.