Chapter 43
Durvla
Everything that I’ve ever known has been a lie.
Not only do Mages like Kilkenny exist, but so do Wielders who can bend the elements.
I can’t fathom a human truly shooting flames or lightning from their hand—such occurrences are the things of myths and legends.
Yet Kilkenny can speak into my mind, and Alys can mend wounds and some illnesses with the touch of her hand.
Osheen had gone bone white when Alys mended his broken nose, and even whiter when I told him that I also had powers.
I choose to ride with him rather than Kilkenny anyway.
We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember—I should feel more comfortable with him.
Riding with him should be the more natural thing to do.
Still, the image of his horrified face lingers in my mind. It doesn’t help that my own powers are a mystery to me; Kilkenny and Alys aren’t willing to divulge the details until we’re in a safe place.
As if this all isn’t mind-jarring enough, both Alys and Kilkenny are involved in the rebellion in some way. Another thing they won’t discuss until we’re sure no one can overhear us.
We gallop through the torrential downpour, our horses’ hooves sluicing through the mud as we flee Mainland.
My heart constricts as we ride far away from the friends I’ve made—farther from my home in Cluain Baile and toward the unguarded bridge on the western side of Erleya.
We cross the bridge, riding into the Grounds, staying just outside the borders of Fiada Purlieu.
Apparently, not many people would dare to wander so close to the Veil to the Otherworld.
My body is a discordance of aches and muddled thoughts as I’m the last to dismount, clambering off Osheen’s horse, Ffion.
Everything buzzes within me, as though we’re still fiercely riding across the land, even as the forest ground sucks my feet into the mud.
I have to pull my knees up ridiculously high with each step as I make my way toward a large, mossy boulder nestled between two thick tree trunks.
Kilkenny, Alys, and Osheen also have to regain their footing after riding without rest for so long. They all stretch stiffly before Kilkenny finally speaks up.
“We cannot stay for too long,” he signs. “But we should rest for a little while.”
Kilkenny’s plan is to ride along the coast as far as the forest will take us before we’re forced back to civilization. Hopefully it’s enough to throw any Forayers off our trail and buy us some time before making our way to his hometown in Dubh Carrig.
“I’m going to make sure no one’s followed us,” he says, focused on me. “How is that dampener treating you?”
I glance down at the leather bracelet around my wrist. I’d almost forgotten about it.
“Fine,” I say as I scoot backward on the mossy rock and pull my knees to my chest. My soaked clothes stick to my body, sending shivers of cold through me that make my teeth chatter.
A throbbing pain on one side of my head and face slowly makes its way to the forefront, besting every other ache within me.
Nausea roils my stomach, and I swallow hard.
Kilkenny stares at me, concern etched between his brows. “Even though you’re wearing the dampener again … let me know if anything changes, yes?” he signs.
I nod numbly. In my attempt to stop shivering, I prop my chin atop my knees and squeeze my arms even tighter around my legs. Kilkenny hesitates for a moment, rooted to his spot before he turns to walk away.
Osheen approaches me, running his fingers through his damp hair and spraying water onto my face. I wince and he immediately apologizes. “How are you faring?” he signs. “I mean … you have magic … Do you feel any different?”
Yes. “No.”
“That’s … good.”
Then why are you being so awkward about it?
I inhale shakily, afraid to open fresh wounds when I’ve only just calmed from the storm of emotions—finding out that Taig was captured, then rescued, and somewhere on the road to safety. Hopefully. But I have to know. I tentatively sign, “After the Forayers took me away … what happened next?”
Osheen’s shoulders tense, rising slightly. “I had to tell Ma and Granny about Taig.”
My stomach drops. It isn’t necessarily a surprise, but after so many years of keeping my brother’s existence a secret—even from the people who’d taken me under their wings—it just feels … odd. “I understand,” I sign.
“I didn’t know how else to make it work. I stayed at your place—with your home empty, no one complained about me claiming it—and Ma brought over food as often as she could. Granny stayed with Taig while I was out in the fields where Finn accompanied me.”
My heart swells with relief. Taig had someone with him at all times? It’s … unfathomable. Amazing. And my sweet Finn. It’s good to know that he’s alright. “I’m grateful. How did they react when you told them about Taig?”
“Granny seemed unsurprised, and Ma was … well … not the happiest that you’d kept it from them. She says they would’ve dropped everything to help.”
Annoyance leaks into my gratitude, leaving me bewildered. “I don’t regret keeping him hidden. It was for the best.” I gesture at our surroundings, my hands trembling from the cold. “This is what I was trying to prevent. I never wanted to put you or your family in danger.”
“They’re fine, Durvla.”
“You were almost hanged! They could’ve suffered the same fate.” They still can. I shove the nausea away.
His brows pinch together, his face tensing. At last, he unclenches his jaw, relaxing his face. “I don’t want to argue.”
I clasp my numb hands together.
Osheen has been the person I’ve trusted more than anyone else in the world. Since my parents’ passing, at least. He’s put his life on the line for Taig, for me. He’s been caught and it was my fault.
A chill rises within me, threading along my arms, only to abruptly end. I let out a huff of air, my throat closing, my head flaring with pain. As I press my palm to my forehead, Osheen takes a step toward me, his arm outstretched.
Then he seems to reconsider.
“Do you feel an episode coming?” he signs. His struggle to hide his panic is painfully obvious.
I look at him with one eye closed, wincing. “No …” I motion. This is different. Maybe it has something to do with the dampener. I blink and open both eyes, resisting the urge to squint as I stare down at my bracelet. “I’m fine,” I mumble aloud to Osheen, my focus still on the dampener.
He gently waves his hand to draw my attention, and I turn to him, waiting for him to say something. After a tense moment of wordlessness, he signs, “If we find Taig, the three of us … we should flee Erleya. Build a life together elsewhere.”
I blink at him, combing through his words in my mind.
Flee Erleya? “If?” I ask aloud. Perhaps too loudly, because Alys glances over from where she’s been stroking Mirren’s ecru mane.
I turn to Osheen again, returning to silent signing.
“There’s no if. We are going to find Taig.
” And then I intend to stay put; I am already tired of fleeing.
“It’s good to have hope but …”
I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth to keep from saying something hurtful to the man who’s looked after Taig in my absence.
Until he was caught, of course. But this whole fantasy he has of us fleeing Erleya together is not my desire.
I don’t know what will come next once I find Taig.
We’re ultimately heading toward a place where the rebels dwell; only the gods know what will come of that.
I fiddle with the leather of my bracelet, running my finger over it. My mother gave me this bracelet when I was very young and made sure I understood that it was not to be taken off. I’ve never questioned it. Never had to. I’ve always assumed it was valuable, and she feared that I’d lose it.
Who would’ve thought that she feared I’d lose control?
For three days, we lie low in the forests close to the Veil, before we set off toward Dubh Carrig. The foliage seems sparse even for spring—the pine trees appear emaciated, oaks and other deciduous trees barely blooming. Strange …
One week drags by—forest turns to flatlands, dirt roads replace brick roads then morph into winding, grassy pathways. We ride through rolling green hills with majestic black mountains all around us.
I tug my fur-lined cape, stolen from a clothesline, tighter around my neck.
A cold gust of wind sweeps into the valley, and I tighten my arms around Osheen’s middle, pressing my face against his back.
Kilkenny rides along beside us and I swear there’s a flash of something like discontentment across his face.
He becomes increasingly broody the closer we get to his childhood home in Dubh Carrig. It’s the only true stop we have planned on the way to the rebellion base in the Verge. I’m unsettled, but I keep my mind on the thought of wrapping my arms around Taig again.
Overhead, thick, dark clouds roll through the dimming sky.
A surprisingly decent road stretches out before us and soon, we’re walking between rows of brick houses, workshops, and forges.
The scents of metal and smoke cling to the air.
Beside us, Kilkenny sits even straighter in Ghendor’s saddle.
He glances sidelong at me, his face drawn.
“Welcome to Dubh Carrig,” he signs.
All the houses in this valley are built identically—one story of crude black brick and gambrel roofs of stone and steel. The homes blend into the backdrop of the black hills surrounding the village. Still, they each have a touch of something unique.
Kilkenny dismounts Ghendor as drizzle chills my skin. The cottage before us has a door with a knocker welded into the shape of a bull’s head. Massive horns curl out from either side, and there’s a ring through its nose.
My legs and rump are sore from the last ten days of nearly constant riding, my back aches, and my first few steps on the gravel walkway are unsteady. Alys and Osheen appear similarly afflicted, but Kilkenny—of course—appears unbothered.
He smiles at the knocker as we approach. “We’ve always called my sister bull-headed,” he signs.
The pride that briefly gleams through his mask when he speaks about his sister is touching. The only thing he’s told us about her before now is that, at twenty, she’s seven years his junior.
Raindrops begin to seep into my cape and a gale whips curls around my face as Kilkenny grabs the bull’s nose ring and raps it three times against the door. Moments later, the door swings in and a petite young woman stands in the doorway, her very presence rivaling the storm brewing out here.
Her eyes are dark in the candlelight, angular and slender like Kilkenny’s, but deeper set.
She shares his high cheekbones, but unlike the warm undertone of his complexion, hers is like moonlight.
Her straight hair falls to her shoulders, colored muted blue from her roots, then darkening to deep brown from midway to tips.
Something like recognition crosses her face and she steps forward, not even flinching when the intensifying rain showers down on her.
“Tiernan?” she asks.
Kilkenny swallows and nods, his throat working as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. “Hi, Cloda,” he says at last. He starts to smile, hesitantly.
Then his head snaps to the side from the force of a slap.