Chapter 32
The kernel of knowledge did not completely vanish.
Rather, it simmered weakly in my chest, a ghost of what it once was, as we scaled the mountains and began our trek through Sixth.
The Horrads equipped us with provisions and accompanied us to a low mountain pass before wordlessly watching us descend the slopes.
It was there, at the base of the mountain range, that we faced our greatest challenge. Heavy patrols monitored the area, particularly as night fell. Whether it was to keep visitors from First Territory out or to watch for our return, we couldn’t know, but it didn’t matter.
Aric’s soldiers were well-trained, but Harthon, Joris, and Stefano excelled at stealth and evasion. There was a reason they were so feared as mercenaries before they took over Fourth Territory. While we were forced to move slowly, we were past the guard lines by the time morning came.
It took three long days to cross Sixth. Our pace was stunted by the villages, merchants, and occasional patrols scattered across the land, but our journey was blessedly uneventful.
It was also terribly quiet. None of us spoke beyond what was necessary, because what was there to say? We were well and truly damned.
Even if there were words to say, it was hard to force sound beyond the self-reproach clogging my throat. And when it came to Harthon, well, I was at a loss.
He was shuttered, as cold and bleak as a stone wall. The sacrifices he’d made and extremes he’d taken in pursuit of Centralis had all been for nothing, and that was only part of the storm we were now in.
He wasn’t angry with me. I knew this because he still held me for our short stints of sleep, still tucked my hair behind my ear and checked the straps of my saddle before I mounted.
He was caring for me, just like before. But he was grieving—his purpose, his plans, his redemption—and I didn’t know how to make it better.
It was torture, seeing him like this, and it became unbearable as we knelt by a small stream on the third day in the woods. Behind us, Stefano and Joris were feeding the horses, offering us our first semblance of privacy since our last night in the Horrads’ tent.
I watched Harthon from the corner of my eye as I filled my flask.
He splashed the frigid water on his face, closing his eyes briefly as he slicked it back into his hair.
It was the first time I’d seen him look weary, the lines around his eyes deeper than I remembered, indigo smudged beneath.
When he rinsed his face again with a quiet sigh, I couldn’t take it anymore.
Some worked through tragedy on their own. They preferred it that way, and did best when others gave them the grace to do so. I’d assumed that was him—but it was clear it wasn’t working.
“There is still so much good you can do for your people,” I said quietly.
His reply was immediate. “It will never be good enough.” He wiped the water from his eyes, turning them on me with resignation. It was the only look he’d worn since we left the Domus.
“Maybe not.” To say otherwise would be a condescending lie. “But it will be better, and sometimes, that is all we can ask for.”
His eyes softened, and I knew then I should have broken my silence days ago. As hard and unyielding as he could be, he still needed comfort, whether he knew it or not. I would never delay giving it to him again.
He rinsed his face one last time. Running his hand through his hair, he straightened and came to me, crouching at my back. My fissured heart healed a bit when I felt his fingers tug at my braid.
Without a word, he removed the tie and gently undid the tangled ropes of hair.
I hadn’t redone the braid since we left First, and I was certain it showed.
His strong fingers carefully combed through the strands, sending pricks of pleasure across my scalp.
It reminded me of what he’d done after our battle with Koerlyn.
Even then, when he was angry at my betrayal, he’d soothed me with his touch.
“I’ve been so wrapped in my own misery that I haven’t thanked you, carella.” The low rumble came through the haze of bliss.
“Thanked me for what?”
“Taking us there.” He began braiding the hair, knuckles brushing against the back of my neck.
“Do not be grateful to me,” I said bitterly.
“Do not put blame on yourself.”
“Then where does it go?”
My question went unanswered until he finished the braid and tied it off. His palm skated around to my cheek and tilted my head up and back, so I couldn’t avoid his gaze.
“It is on me.” Said with the surety of a stubborn warrior.
“No, it isn’t,” I denied. “And if you insist on putting it there, then I’m bearing its weight with you. You cannot stop me.”
He scoffed, glancing at the stream before dragging his eyes back. “Stubborn,” he murmured. His thumb began to roam. “I do not want you to suffer needlessly.”
“Then you understand how I feel about you.”
“As I said, stubborn.”
“Are you describing yourself?”
He gave a wry smile. His thumb stopped, and his eyes roved over my face. For a fleeting moment, his misery was replaced by something warm. He lowered his head, and his lips met mine in a tender, soft kiss, turning my stiff muscles liquid.
Skies, how I’d missed that. Missed him.
When he pulled away, it was to consider me for several long breaths.
“Since you’re so determined to blame yourself alongside me,” he finally said, “let us choose to either use it to produce good, or ignore it altogether for now. Self-pity doesn’t produce solutions.”
“I think that is a wise plan.” I reached up to hold the hand at my jaw. “Though it’s easier said than done,” I admitted.
“It’s easier to feel like poor, helpless souls, because that absolves us of doing the hard things that come next.
” His fingers fell away and he stood. A long, slow inhale lifted his shoulders.
An exhale settled them with determination.
He extended a hand to me. “Let us find the strength we already have.”
He was right. It was far easier to wallow in shame than to rise above it.
I placed my hand in his, sealing a promise I hoped I could keep.
* * *
While our passage through Sixth had been quiet, ironically, it was our entrance into Fifth Territory that brought the most trouble.
It began when Harthon abruptly declared, “We’re going to see Josenne.”
I’d been half-asleep in my saddle, the sleepless nights wearing on me, when his statement jolted me into awareness.
Regarding him, I chose my next words carefully. “All I have is the knowledge of the path,” I said quietly.
With a stony expression, his eyes flicked between mine. “Yet your eyes look like the magvis’.”
They always have, I thought. And it’s never meant anything beyond bringing us into the Domus.
I didn’t argue, though. From his tone, he’d made his decision, and I could withstand the discomfort of Josenne’s presence if it meant satisfying his curiosity.
We stopped at the next village so Harthon could send a letter ahead to Ellan, informing him we would be stopping at his periphery city of Botton, near Josenne’s home, and requesting a meeting.
Ellan would need to strengthen his defenses in preparation for Sixth Territory’s retaliation, and Domus knew he couldn’t figure that out on his own.
As Harthon sent the letter by bird, we camouflaged ourselves, not wanting to deal with soldiers or curious villagers. Perhaps that camouflage was why a band of looters descended on the village while we were there.
They came in screaming, clearly not appreciating the value of stealth. There were twenty or so, and while they held their clubs and swords with an apparent lack of skill, the villagers chose to flee rather than fight—as one did when the world’s cruelty had drained the fight out of them.
It wound up being us against them.
They fought much like the looters in First: with sloppy, jerky movements and wild swings.
With Harthon fighting beside me, I dispatched three of them, reveling in how my muscles burned and mind emptied in focus.
It only took minutes for the village’s communal center to become a bloody graveyard, but the looters’ bodies littering the ground weren’t the only ones dripping crimson.
Stefano had been struck, a simple gash in his arm that ran deep.
Harthon was surprised. “You let one of them get you?”
Stefano just grinned as Joris wrapped the wound with a scrap of fabric. “There were six at once, and they just flail so unpredictably.”
Two days later, as we neared the city of Botton, Stefano was no longer smiling. For probably the hundredth time that morning, I glanced at him from atop my horse. His face was white and dotted with perspiration, body tipping to one side as his injured arm hung limp by his side.
The stubborn kid had hidden the infection from us all day yesterday, refusing to allow anyone else to change his bandage.
We only realized something was wrong in the early hours of this morning when he struggled to hoist himself onto his saddle.
Removing the blood-soaked fabric had revealed angry red swelling around a still-oozing wound, and his condition had only worsened since then.
He shouldn’t have been riding, but it was the quickest way to get us to Botton and him to a healer.
His eyes suddenly bugged as his chest convulsed.
I yanked my horse to a stop as he clumsily dropped from the saddle, braced himself on his good arm, and heaved up the contents of his stomach.
He thumped tiredly to the ground when he was done, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “Just need a minute,” he panted.
Joris frowned deeply as he felt Stefano’s forehead. “No. You need a healer.”
Concern drew lines across Harthon’s face as he crouched beside them. “You’re riding with me.”