Chapter 16
16
“I T ’ S A SHAME YOU ’ RE going to die.”
Harper perches on a large, smooth stone near the fire, gazing at me with her enormous, all-seeing eyes. They shimmer like orbs of pristine lake water in her small face.
I lie in my sweat-soaked bedroll, shivering, every warm breeze scouring me like the iciest wind. Initially, I fail to process her words. Zephyrus departed hours ago, seeking a herb to help dull the pain as the venom works its way through my system. Last night, my health began its sharp decline. I scribbled in my journal for a time, noting my final thoughts as my fever intensified, my lips cracked and bleeding. Despite my fatigue, I pushed on. Only in pouring my heart into my journal do I feel secure, loved. It is a compulsion that cannot be stopped.
Here at the end of my days, the fight has all but gone out of me.
“For once in your life,” I rasp out, “can you show a little compassion?” Allowing space for compassion should never be a burden.
“You know people don’t buy your little act, right? Perfect Brielle, who can do no wrong. What a joke.”
An edged pain jabs beneath my sternum. “I wasn’t aware it was an act,” I grit, trembling from the spasm. “Why should I not treat others as I wish to be treated? They are our brothers, our mothers, our sisters, our children. That is what the Text teaches us.”
Harper scoffs, which only agitates my irritation to further heights.
“Have you even thought about what becoming an acolyte means?” I ask her. “Have you considered how you’ll use your mantle for the betterment of Thornbrook, and the world?”
If Thornbrook is a pillar of faith and goodwill, then novitiates are its bedrock. We are responsible for the day-to-day tasks required of keeping the abbey doors open. Acolytes, however, actively shape the surrounding community. They travel to Kilkare, to Aranglen, to the smallest towns on Carterhaugh’s border, spreading the Father’s word. Come , they urge. This is the way.
“And I’m to believe you have?” she snaps. “I was not aware there was any space in your head for such thoughts, considering your nose is stuck in the Text every spare moment.”
Again, this disdain for my continued studies. I do not understand it. Abbey and community—stronger together, weaker apart. But Harper, a woman who sees nothing but her own reflection? She covets the prestige gained in wearing the red stole and nothing beyond it.
“Not every acolyte is required to break their backs seeking lasting change,” she says, leaning forward on her perch.
“You do not think He expects your best effort?”
“Just because I haven’t thought of some grand plan doesn’t mean I will do any less good.” She crosses her arms. At least she’s returned to wearing her cincture properly, the white cord knotted at the front of her wrinkled cotton dress.
I cough into my hands. “Spoken like someone who has given little thought to the responsibility.”
I’m surprised steam doesn’t billow from Harper’s nostrils. She drags her pack closer and begins yanking out her filthy clothes, folding and unfolding them, as if busying her hands to stop herself from walloping me in the face.
“What are your ideas,” she snips, “if you think they’re so much better?”
I flip onto my side to ease the pain radiating through my bones. The summer’s warmth presses heavy hands against me. It is so oppressive I struggle to retain clarity of mind. I fumble for the buttons on my dress, manage to wrench the sleeves down, then my chemise, exposing my sweat-drenched upper back to the air.
When I look toward Harper, I find her face oddly pale, mouth slack. That’s when I remember Mother Mabel’s lash, the marks spoiling my shoulder blades, the length of my spine.
Teeth gritted, I slowly rebutton my dress. How could I have forgotten my penance? Then again, what does it matter? In a few hours, Carterhaugh will begin to bruise with approaching twilight. I wonder if I will even see the morrow.
“I never said my ideas are better than yours,” I state. “For that to be true, you’d have to have your own ideas to begin with.”
Tension grips the lines of her body, and I do not imagine the heat rolling in waves off her skin. “Well,” she murmurs, eyes reduced to haughty blue slits, “you are certainly opinionated today.”
At this point, I’ve nothing to lose. “Do you want to hear my ideas or not?”
She flaps a hand. It’s the only consent I can hope to receive.
“I was thinking along the lines of an apprenticeship,” I say.
“Elaborate.”
“Thornbrook has an excellent relationship with Kilkare,” I say, too weak to do anything but lie in stillness, “but what of the smaller towns to the north and east?” I think of Veraness, its scattered remains. “Many of the children in those parts go hungry, having received no proper schooling. We could teach them how to harvest grain, how to read and write and complete simple mathematics, how to mend clothes, forge weapons. In return for work, they would receive food, shelter, and the means to provide a better life for themselves and their families.”
In my younger years, I visited Kilkare every few weeks to apprentice with their local bladesmith. Three years later, I graduated with an arsenal of skills, the means to create any manner of blade. Providing children with the same opportunity could greatly benefit the community as a whole.
Harper appears contemplative. Perhaps I’ve given her something to ponder. And yet, I’m imagining what will occur once my heart ceases to beat. Harper, sauntering into Thornbrook, Meirlach hanging from her waist. Mother Mabel’s grief at my passing overshadowed by the acquisition of that remarkable sword. Another red stole bestowed upon someone less deserving than I.
I think, I am going to die . Why fight when the Eternal Lands await? But in my life, there are still so many things left undone.
“You claim Mother Mabel favors me,” I whisper hoarsely. “What do you think she will do when you return to the abbey with the news of my death, sword or not?”
Harper crams the clothes into her pack. Then she sits, glaring at me. She understands my logic, and she hates it. Alas, that is nothing new.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she says, though her tone suggests otherwise, “but novitiates are a drop in the bucket to Mother Mabel. Dozens pass through Thornbrook every year. Do not think you are irreplaceable.”
Harper is wrong. I am a valued member of the abbey. Only I can shape the blades that protect us from the fair folk. “Even if you become the next acolyte,” I counter, “your mantle will be forever tainted by my death.”
She scoffs. “You volunteered to take this journey. You knew the risks. Mother Mabel wouldn’t fault me for your demise.”
“Wouldn’t she?” I feed her dubiety, crumb by crumb. “I imagine there would always be certain reservations.”
She brushes dirt from the front of her dress. “You think too highly of yourself. You are nothing more than a pair of hands, like everyone else.”
It takes mettle to hold the gaze of my tormentor, but I force myself to do it. At this point, I’m out of options. “I think,” I say slowly, “you underestimate Mother Mabel’s affection toward me.”
“I’m confident I do not. If the abbess truly favored you, why pass you over for others less diligent? She only gave you the opportunity to try for the position because she pities you.”
Harper knows exactly what buttons to push. Still, I refuse to cave. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am just another pair of hands , as you put it. But if I am not?”
“You are.” Trembling.
I shrug.
Lurching to her feet, Harper stumbles toward the nearest tree. She braces a hand there, back bowed with the force of her breaths. Only the seed requires planting. She can see it all unravel, this dream of hers, before it has even occurred.
“What do I have to do?” she whispers. “I’ve worked too hard to botch this opportunity.”
“You save me,” I tell her. “Otherwise, you’ll be left with nothing.” And that, I’ve realized, is something Harper cannot bear.
A fraught silence sinks into place, then all at once, she deflates. “But Zephyrus said there’s no cure.”
I give her my blandest stare. “And you believe him?”
Frowning, she searches my gaze, and in this moment, she appears as deeply uncertain as I do, caught unaware by the support I’ve given. She considers this, then strides over to Zephyrus’ bedroll.
“What are you doing?”
Harper loosens the tie on his satchel and begins to rummage through his possessions. “Searching for leverage,” she states, as though it were obvious. She pulls out a small book, frowns, and shoves it back inside.
The only thing Harper loves more than proving a point is… well, nothing. At least she finally agrees with me. The West Wind is too cunning, too keen.
“And here I thought I was doing a good deed,” drawls the West Wind.
He emerges from the thicket in shades of gray. Crossing into a patch of sunlight brings color to his green cloak, the simple brown trousers. He moves so swiftly he is gone when I next blink.
Dropping the pack, Harper whirls on him, blade out. She is the most bull-headed woman I’ve ever met. Why else would she pull a blade on the West Wind?
He halts a hair’s breadth from her outstretched hand, not alarmed in the slightest. She may as well hold a feather to his throat. “Do you even know how to use that thing?” he asks.
Harper’s low, throaty laughter washes out in a cascade of sound. “I stick the pointed side into your flesh. What more is there to know?”
His mouth smiles. His eyes do not. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“And if I did?”
Zephyrus examines Harper as I have done many times before, with the understanding that the one you address hides many untruths, and you must search in every crack and crevice, down to what lies beneath.
“Let me speak plainly,” Harper says. “We need Brielle for this mission. If she dies, so does the opportunity to acquire Meirlach. She will ensure our time is not wasted.”
I stare at my surly traveling companion in astonishment. Never has a word of praise flowed so naturally from her mouth, and certainly not about me. As always, she speaks with conviction. Even I believe her.
She tosses the dagger toward her pack, as if having decided it’s not worth the trouble. I wince as it hits the dirt. The blade will need to be cleaned. “Our only option is to save her life.”
The West Wind’s attention shifts to where I lie prone. Another shiver rattles my insides, and he frowns at the sight. “As it turns out, I agree.”
“Oh.” Harper blinks, then straightens. “Very well.”
“Someone owed me a debt,” he says, “and that debt has been repaid. This”—he lifts a vial of pale liquid—“is the answer to your prayers. I know a hedge witch in Carterhaugh. A master healer. This is one of her more potent remedies. Although, it required a trade: a few drops of your blood.” He lifts my hand, and I notice a small bandage wrapped around my thumb. “Hopefully you don’t mind.”
“That will cure me?” I croak.
“It will.”
Harper speaks from behind. “If you knew this was an option, why didn’t you visit the hedge witch sooner?”
She has a point.
“I wasn’t certain that I could obtain the remedy,” Zephyrus says. “The hedge witch travels great distances to procure ingredients and cannot easily be reached.”
I want to believe him. Harper, too, appears suspicious as she shifts into my line of vision. Then again, she believes nothing. “How convenient that you managed to acquire it at the eleventh hour.”
“Yes,” he replies with a bite. “It is.”
Every feature of my tentative ally pinches in wariness. “Very well.” She waves a hand. “Heal Brielle and be done with it.”
Zephyrus approaches my side, the vial squeezed in his fist. He kneels. Sunlight halos his springing curls. A warm breeze stirs the branched canopy overhead.
“Open your mouth,” he says.
With his attention focused wholly on me, I struggle to form words. It is his voice, his scent, the heat of his leg through his trousers. Too easily, he overwhelms, even more so in my weakened state. “I can dispense the cure myself,” I say, holding out a hand for the vial.
A pout softens his lips. “You would deny me the honor of healing you? Or is it my touch you shy away from?” He traces the line of my sleeve, drags his finger upward toward my collarbone. “But why? After all, we have already shared a kiss.”
The air falls like a dead weight against my skin. I can neither move nor think. I do not want to look at Harper. I must look at Harper.
She stands stiffly, with a stillness that reminds me of a large predator. The gleam of her eyes twists my gut into knots. She is ravenous, too eager.
Oddly calm, Harper says, “A kiss?”
“I can explain.”
She offers me a sugary smile. “I’m sure you can.”
Plucking the vial from Zephyrus’ grip, I uncork it and dump the contents into my mouth.
The result is instantaneous—relief in the purest form. The weight on my chest lifts. My lungs open, my breath flows free.
“I thought I was going to die,” I tell her. “He didn’t touch me but for the kiss.”
“Did you ask him for the kiss?” Arms folded across her chest, she regards me unblinkingly.
“Harper—”
“Did you, or did you not, ask for the kiss?”
The West Wind’s eyes rest on my face. My heart quakes in light of this truth. “I did,” I whisper hoarsely.
Spinning on her heel, she plunges through the ferns, and I do not have the voice in me to call her back.