Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Any child of Storms knew about water-collection. At night, dew formed on smooth, nonporous surfaces—like our leathers.
But first, we had to survive the night.
We stepped over the second skeleton in a half hour. This time, neither of us slowed.
The Eldermaze offered no wind, no birdsong. Just the hiss of thorns shifting against each other and the creeping certainty that we weren’t alone.
Hours later we arrived at a four-way split—paths stretching out in each cardinal direction, identical in their promise of misdirection.
We’d agreed earlier we just needed to find a safe place to sleep. But what did safe mean in a place like this? The hedge seemed to breathe. The dirt reeked faintly of piss and shit. And the bones we passed had all been mangled.
“There are said to be places in the maze,” Dorian said, voice low, “hollows where you can find food and drink. Shelter. Just for a night.”
I turned in a slow circle, gaze trailing the darkened corridors. “Just a night?”
“That’s the lore.”
I glanced at him. The thorns behind him caught the faintest glimmer from his blade. “Any idea how we find one?”
“They’re hidden. But they say you can reach them if you look right.”
“‘Look right,’” I repeated, deadpan. “That’s the whole strategy?”
He gave me a half-shrug, mouth twitching with distant humor. “Fae scholars have written entire treatises on the subject. Some say it’s a state of mind. Others say it’s about intent. Perception. Worthiness.”
“Or maybe it’s luck.”
“Or maybe it’s blood,” he said softly, almost to himself.
I didn’t ask what he meant. I didn’t want to know—not right now.
Instead, I turned back to the intersection. “Say we only took right turns…”
Dorian scoffed. “It’s not a child’s riddle.”
“Have you got a better idea? We only have a few hours of daylight and no real plan.”
He gestured wide. “What constitutes a right turn when there are four options?”
That was fair. But then…
“We pick any of them,” I said. “But from there, we always turn right.”
Dorian exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking down each of the four paths before returning to me. He didn’t mock it. Didn’t scoff again. Just nodded once, sharp and silent. “It’s as good a plan as any.”
He’d let me call a shot. I just hoped it was the right one.
I started down the path on my right, but Dorian stopped me with a hand on my shoulder and stepped past me. “I still have the better senses. If I tell you to turn the other way or run, do it.”
I paused, and his hand fell away as he continued down the path. I saw it in his stride, in the turn of his head: His only goal was to keep us both alive right now.
We walked, taking right turns where we could.
Around us, silence prevailed. The noises of the Eldermaze were muffled by the hedge, a natural barrier to wind and everything else.
Which meant everything was amplified along our path—our footfalls, every creak and whisper of the shrubs and thorns, the rustle of our leathers.
The Eldermaze was, as Dorian had said, unfathomable. Every path looked like every other path, and they all seemed to continue forever. I hadn’t so far recognized a spot we’d passed through, so we weren’t moving in circles. But I had no idea where we were headed to except that we took right turns.
Dorian removed a canteen from his belt. He uncorked it and passed it to me as we walked.
I took hold of it; the scent from inside was nothing, but it sloshed. I felt suddenly parched. “What is it?”
“Pure Sylvanwild ambrosia.” When I didn’t drink, he said, “It’s water. Measure your sips.”
My hands shook as I lifted it to my mouth, and I realized how dehydrated I’d become. Cool sweetness spread across my tongue, and once I began drinking I could barely register anything else.
It was ambrosia. This tasted nothing like the water in the Kingdom of Storms. Somehow it tasted even better than the Sylvanwild water I’d drunk for over a week, but then hunger and thirst were the most potent spices.
Finally, Dorian said, “That’s enough.”
With effort, I lowered the canteen. “What about you?”
He took hold of it and recorked it. It disappeared into the folds of his cloak at his belt; I already wanted it back. “I’ll be fine.”
“How long can fae survive without food or drink?”
“Longer than you.”
I paused, gaze sharpening on his profile. I’d wondered half a dozen times— “How old are you?”
He half-turned, just enough for sunlight to catch the angle of his cheekbone. “Our lives aren’t like yours. But I’ve been alive for five and twenty of your seasons.”
He was a young man after all. Not like Rhiannon’s hundred years.
“You’re only five and twenty.” I stared up at him. “And how long do fae live?”
He hesitated. “For as long as we can evade death.”
Something twisted in my chest—tight and strange. That was an odd answer, and yet I felt a lightness knowing he was barely grown, like me. He knew things I did not about books and history, but he had only lived five seasons longer. I knew things he did not, too.
“And what would bring death for you?”
“Only iron, heartbreak, or stupidity.” His gaze fixed on me, hazel eyes green in the light. “Fae don’t wither; we’re only undone. Those of us with enough cunning or power live longest. The rest die like your kind.”
“Crushed by their own walls in the dead of night?”
The words spilled out before I could check them—sharp, precise, merciless. I didn’t take them back; Isa’s broken body wouldn’t let me.
Dorian didn’t speak. His gaze returned to the path ahead, expression unreadable. “Something like that,” he said at last.
The sun hung low, the temperature falling fast, when the cry pierced the air. Sudden. Sharp. It cut upward through the Eldermaze and curled into the sky.
Dorian’s arm snapped out, stopping me. We both froze, heads lifting as the sound twisted into something higher—shrill and long, like something mourning its own death. It came from nowhere and everywhere, building in pitch until it vanished, leaving only silence.
“A fae?” I whispered into the ringing quiet.
“Yes.”
We didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The silence pressed down, taut and watchful. When nothing followed, Dorian lowered his hand and straightened. “We’ll keep moving.”
I said, “Could you tell where it came from?”
“No.” His voice was clipped as we walked. “The hedge warps your senses.”
“So it isn’t just me.”
He didn’t answer. Words had become less frequent between us since the sun began to disappear.
By the time the horizon bled orange and shadows lengthened into the paths behind us, we reached another alcove. Dorian stepped in first, then turned back to me.
“This is where we’ll stop for the night.”
I followed. The space was small, no more than six feet across, and nestled at the crook of two branching paths. From here, you could see in both directions clearly.
He unclasped his cloak, hooked one edge on a thorn above the entry, stretched it to the other side, and secured it to form a curtain of shadow. The way the fabric blended with the hedge was uncanny, almost as if the cloak had grown from the thorns themselves.
As the light faded, the illusion deepened. It was clever.
“Did you just think of that?” I asked when we were enclosed.
He crouched to hook the cloak in place at more points. “In our court, children learn camouflage before letters.”
I shook my head, wryness curling my lips. “I should have liked that.” My mother had always pressed me to learn from Elisabet, to be traditionally schooled in every way possible. And yet I had always found more use—more delight—in ripping paper than reading from it.
Darkness crept in, the stars appeared, and the temperature dropped fast. Above us, the hedge allowed a view of a starscape unobstructed by clouds. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t so fucking cold.
We sat on the ground, our knees up, careful not to touch the hedge. I wrapped my cloak around myself and knew within an hour it wouldn’t be enough. But we couldn’t light a fire; for one, we didn’t have the supplies, and for two, the light would draw attention.
So we only had each other and the sky above to look upon.
In the semidarkness, the moonlight traced the sharp lines of Dorian’s face in silver. His eyes caught the light strangely, the carmine visible. Without a word, he reached into his cloak and drew out a small bundle that he placed between us on the ground.
“Eat.”
I stared at the shape. It was a dark, leather-wrapped lump, knotted with a thin cord. “What is it?”
“It’s meat.” Then, when I didn’t move, “I know you’re starving.”
The hunger in me howled at the word. I reached out and untied the cord. Inside was dried meat, rough and dark. Its scent woke a fresh ache in my stomach. I bit in. It was salty, tough, divine. “What kind of meat?”
“Rabbit.”
I swallowed too quickly. “Oh.” Rabbit was delicious.
“This might last us two days,” he said, watching me. “If you only eat a few pieces tonight.”
“And you?”
He gave a small grunt and turned his face upward.
I ate a second piece. Then a third. The silence between us grew almost comfortable, woven through with exhaustion and something I didn’t yet have a name for. Comfort? Companionship?
If we were not here, I would still knife him in the neck. But we were, and he was my only tether to life.
I tied the sack off and held it out. He took it, and in return offered me the canteen.
The water was cool against my tongue, the metal mouth of it colder against my lips. I forced myself to drink slowly. Part of me wanted to insist he drink too, but the rest of me knew better. I doubted a fae needed reminding of his limits.
I exhaled, wiping my mouth. “I don’t suppose the others expected us to live this long.”
He gave a one-note laugh, dry as bone. “No, I expect not.”
“You thought we’d be dead by now, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even pretend to soften it.
I stood up and unsheathed my sword.
Dorian’s eyes tracked me in the night. “Going out to change our fate?”
“No.” I unclasped my cloak and laid it on the ground. “I’m ensuring we have water in the morning.”
Without my cloak the chill hit instantly, biting through the dried sweat on my skin. I shivered but ignored it. That was our way in the Kingdom of Storms—pretend the elements didn’t touch you, even when they carved through bone.
Behind me, Dorian shifted. “What are you doing, exactly?” His voice was lower now, curious.
“It’s simple, really.” I laid the sword flat atop the cloak, then bunched the leather at either side to create an angle. “The dew slides down the leather and pools on the blade.”
A pause. Then I heard him shift again, closer. “And that actually works?”
“It should. In the Dip, there was a man famous for his dew collectors. Once, he pulled enough water from a linen shirt and a leather cord to fill a flask.”
“That’s impossible.”
“We all thought so. Until he did it.” I straightened, brushing the damp from my palms. “But this? This is nothing.”
Silence followed. Then, from behind me:
“It really only rained acid there, didn’t it?”
I sat back down across from him. “Not always, but often enough that regular rain felt like a dream. I remember the first time I felt it…”
“Yes?”
“I was maybe four or five. A normal day. And then… it rained. All day. No acid, no green haze, just clean, cold water.”
“You were four the first time it didn’t rain acid?” When I nodded in the dark, he said, “Why didn’t it?”
“No one knew.” I could still see it in my mind—silver against stone, water running in rivulets between roof tiles. “People danced. Some fell on their knees and wept.”
Dorian remained carved of silence, unmoving in the dark.
“And what did you do?” he asked quietly.
“My mother took my hand,” I said, my voice smaller than I meant it to be. “She lifted me up onto her shoulders so I could get closer to the white clouds.”
The memory had always been bright. Joyful. For the first time, it made my nose and eyes sting.
I turned my face away and swiped at them, quick and sharp. The ache stayed.
This was the moment when someone with heart might murmur something soft. Might touch my shoulder. Might say they were sorry. I knew he could see me clearly in the dark.
But Dorian only sat still, silent.
At last, after a long pause, he said, “You should sleep.”
I nodded, surprised to feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down all at once. Despite the cold, I dropped onto my side and curled in tight, head on my arm. “Do you think we’re safe here?”
Dorian stood. He towered above me from this angle, more shadow than man. “We’re safe.”
It was a lie. But I was still grateful for it.
He stepped toward the cloak strung over the thorns and lifted one edge, tugging one edge taut, the pale moonlight gilding the straight lines of his shoulders.
“Are you going to sleep?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, not looking back.
I wondered if that was a lie, too.
I fell asleep with the image of him standing like that burned into my mind. Silent, watchful, his black hair silvered by moonlight.
Somehow, I dreamed. Just one dream.
In it, I swam beneath a frozen lake, shattering ice with my arms, trying to reach a shore that never drew closer.
I woke shaking hours later, my teeth chattering. Dorian was still at the alcove’s edge, exactly where I’d last seen him.
He turned toward me in a slow crouch, his movements careful. The back of his hand pressed lightly to my cheek. He made a low, guttural noise of disapproval—it reminded me of the noise Isa the nurse would make when she treated my cuts and scrapes.
“I c-can’t s-sleep—”
“You’re freezing.” He stood and disappeared from view.
Then I felt him behind me. The weight of him settling close. A hand came around my shoulders and drew me back, firm and steady.
I tensed, instinct flaring. For a breath, I resisted.
But his warmth was drugging. And his strength was absolute—especially now, when my limbs trembled from the cold. I let him pull me in, let him align my spine with his chest, let his body wrap around mine.
Heat bloomed down my back, through my legs, curling into my fingers. It was almost as wonderful a feeling as that day my mother had lifted me onto her shoulders. But different. Not better, but necessary.
From near my ear, his voice murmured, “Sleep. Morning will come soon enough.”
And I did. I slept the rest of the night without dreams.