Chapter 15
On the way back from the camp, Ren sucks in a hard breath and presses her hand to her chest. When he looks, there’s a red mark crawling over her collarbone, peeking out from the neckline of her robe. Did he burn her?
He doesn’t have a chance to ask. Ren picks up speed toward the portal, no words shared. But once her hands touch the gnarled bark around the portal, she looks up at him, lips parted in shock.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. A fear shutters over him—he’s drained all her magic. They can’t get back.
Ren looks back down, where the blue, swirling magic pools in the tree’s trunk. “One of my portals, I can’t access it. It’s gone. That’s never happened before.” Then, she turns her head, upward to the sky. “Something’s wrong.”
“Okay,” he says, though it twists his gut with unease. Something bubbles between them, fizzling like magic. “Let’s go.”
They stand a few feet away from one another but Ren won’t look at him.
“This is a different kind of magic,” she explains.
“Not a portal.” She demonstrates how he should hold his hands—fingers outstretched, curved like he holds a large ball.
“We’ll create a gust of wind, but you can’t simply imagine it into existence. ”
Bass, staring hard at the space between his hands where he imagines the wind to be, grunts a noise of disapproval. Magic is hard enough already, without all of Ren’s rules.
“We must ask the wind for help.” Ren closes her eyes, and blue light begins to whip like ribbons between her fingers. “The forest works together. We won’t have enough magic for both of us without its help.”
Basuin hates asking for help, so he tries to think of it like teamwork.
The forest and them, working together to create a gale that will take them to where Ren’s portal has disappeared—back to the bastion.
He doesn’t know why Ren’s burned, either, but Basuin knows that Kensy plays a part.
Whatever’s happened, it’s because of Kensy, and that’s enough for him.
He tries, but Bass doesn’t know how to call upon the wind of the forest. Staring down at his hands, Bass asks, Wind, will you help us?
The wolf-man barks a laugh, wheezing. One of Ren’s eyes opens, as if she heard the chuckle from inside him.
“It’s like any other spirit,” she says. “Their name is Ki-on. Treat them as you would anyone else—as a living being.”
He huffs a sigh and closes his eyes again. Ki-on, can you hear me?
In answer, a breeze blows through the woods. Ki-on twirls through Ren’s hair, tousling her bangs enough that the moonlight better illuminates her face.
We need your help, he asks it. I still have much magic to learn, so please, help Ren instead of me.
And, in answer again, a lighter gale circles them and makes Ren giggle.
All bell tones and knotting shapes out of his belly.
But the burn crawling across her skin rots that feeling into something gruesome.
There’s not enough time for him to look away before she opens her eyes again.
But Ren reaches out, hand to the wind, letting it collect around her fingers.
“See?” she says. “Everything works in tandem here. Together.”
Basuin copies her movement, letting the wind trickle through his fingers and curl up in his palm. It’s gentle, and a little playful.
“Now gather it, and then channel it.” Ren demonstrates, moving her hands in a circular wave, blue light mixing with the blowing breeze.
When the red of his magic hits hers, the gale turns to a bright purple—almost lavender in the moonlight. It reflects on Ren’s face and illuminates all her high-boned features. Softening, rather than sharpening.
Together, they push the wind toward the south. As it rolls through the trees, it seems to pick up, and pick up, until he can hear nothing else but the whistle and rush of it.
“Ready?” Ren calls to him, holding out her hand. He hesitates, only for a moment, a touch of fear turning him cold. If he burned her before, he could hurt her again.
But he takes her hand anyway—they shouldn’t be separated.
Basuin gives her a curt nod. Then, Ren pulls them into the gale and he loses his footing.
It’s the strong, clutching grip of Ren’s hand around his that keeps him from stumbling as they rush through the forest, riding on the spirit of the wind.
Ren looks back at him, a knowing smile sitting pretty on her countenance. He holds her stare, the way her eyes glow with this childlike glee in them, sparking something in his chest alive. It’s magical. A head rush.
Until it’s not.
Until they fly out from the trees into nothing. Nothing. A stretch of nothing at all.
Ren loses her balance first. Basuin’s never been one to let go.
His fingers are fettered around her and when she goes, he goes too.
But he dives for her, wrapping his arms around her before they hit the ground.
His feet land but the added weight of Ren against him topples him and they roll through the dirt.
Panting, Basuin surveys the area. But there is nothing—nothing here but cleared dirt and the light of the moon above them. It reeks of fire and ash.
Ren scrambles to her feet and Bass grunts as her elbow finds his stomach and her hand pushes off his shoulder. He jumps to his feet and trails after her, but he knows already. Acid crawls up his throat. His mouth tastes like cremation.
“What is this?” Ren asks, head tossing from side to side as she tries to take in the land.
In the distance beyond the fog of the night, the bastion stands glorious and untouched.
Only a few nights ago they were just here, watching the fireworks from atop a tree that’s been logged now.
Basuin says nothing, but Ren turns to look back at him.
Silver tears streak down her cheeks. Even Hwai-ga could call him a sinner for how the moonlight colors her crying.
“What have they done?” she asks him, and Basuin can’t look away from her.
“They’ve burned it down,” he answers. Just as he’s burned cities down, too.
In the name of the queen, Kensy always said. For Queen Ye’suite, soldiers were always taught to say. Because the gods aren’t allowed to be named anymore. Gods have no power in this world anymore. Just like the legion burned their church down, in Ankor, they’ll burn this forest down too.
They already have.
A trail of tears drips off the edge of Ren’s jaw in the same way a painter’s brush makes a single stroke. Her eyes are two moons, bright and wide. Then, dark, in such a quick second Basuin would’ve missed it if he’d blinked.
Ren’s eyes narrow, rage replacing her despair. Fury gathers around her so tangibly it stings his skin. Cerulean magic crackles as if crying for help—but who cries for help, and who is the help cried for?
With a scream yanked from her throat, Ren slams her palms down against the forest floor. Blue lightning surges across the clearing, cracking through the ashen earth. An acrid smell mixes in the air and Basuin slaps a hand over his mouth. Smoke. Gunpowder. Fire. Blood.
He’s brought to his knees, the sound of shrapnel shrieking through the sky in his ears.
The forest spins. The blackened, barren field floods with magic and out of it, light blooms. Painted in Ren-blue.
Then, seedlings burst from the fissures in the forest floor—new, pushing through all the ash the army left behind.
It’s incredible. New life, populating the clearing. All from Ren’s magic.
Basuin chokes. Something is ripped from inside him; something is being torn out of his body. His skin is sucked to his bones. He can’t hear anything—not even his own thoughts. There’s no air out here. He can’t breathe.
Strangled, Basuin is pulled to the ground on his hands and knees.
Red bleeds from his hands and sinks into the field, drawn toward Ren.
And on the other side, Ren is hunched over, too.
Panting with pain, drawing ragged breaths.
Behind her, the blue magic seedlings begin to recede back into the soil.
Magic. She needs his magic.
Basuin reaches for her. God mark outstretched. “Here,” he pants. “Take it.” Blood paints his palm.
Ren doesn’t look at him. She slams her own palms down against the ground again, but a cry of pain leaves her.
It shatters him. Enough to make him crawl on his hands and knees to her.
It feels like something inside him is dying.
Like everything that he is has been liquefied and now leaks from every orifice.
“Let me help,” he begs. For the pain of watching her, and for the pain that she wrenches from his body as she tries stealing her magic back. “I can help!”
“No!” she screams, fingers digging into the earth. “I don’t need your help. I can do this on my own. I’ve always done it on my own.” Her body shakes. “I’ve always been alone.”
From her fingers, blue magic bleeds into the dirt, but it isn’t enough. The seedlings are dying. The ash is drowning them again. Ren sobs.
Reach her.
Basuin throws himself toward her despite the cost of it—the searing ache of all his meat and bones. When his hand falls to her back, Ren shrieks and tries to force him away, but Basuin stretches for her god-marked hand.
“You don’t have to,” he grits through clenched teeth. “I can help you—” if you’ll let me.
His left hand finds her right. Beneath him, she’s trembling. Every breath she takes is labored, sweat dripping from her skin. He takes her hand, trying to match their god marks.
“Let me help,” he pleads.
A curtain of dark hair hides Ren’s face from him, but another silver tear traces the line of her throat.
Then, Ren presses her scarred palm to his, and a violent purple magic colors them. Basuin curls the fingers of his right hand in the dirt, like Ren does, and their magic bruises across the clearing.
Please. Let it work. Let their magic regrow the forest his people cut down. End the pain.
Let this be his penance. Proof that he isn’t just made to kill.