18. Chapter 18
eighteen
Rye stared into Dorothy’s face, teeth gritted. He held his sword steady, its blade inches from her neck. Dorothy simply gazed back, her expression impassive, arms limp at her sides, as if nothing about Rye’s reactiveness surprised or even phased her.
As if she knew him that well.
I held my breath, awaiting the moment the tension would break and something would happen between them. Something more than this standstill.
Seconds ticked by in which Rye’s expression slowly morphed from rage to confusion before finally settling into cool recognition.
“Dorothy Gale,” he said, releasing her and lowering his sword, the fight draining from him in an instant.
“You almost caught it this time, scarecrow,” she said with a shaking voice, “didn’t you?”
The grip of Rye’s sword slid from his hand. The weapon clanged against the stone floor. He didn’t move and he didn’t reply. He just kept staring at Dorothy as if waiting for her to fade away—to prove herself a mirage.
As much as I wished she would disappear, of course, she remained.
Pushing off the wall, she rushed Rye, slamming into him hard, her arms wrapping his middle. Rye lifted his arms out of the way. As Dorothy pressed her cheek to his chest, squeezing her eyes shut, he scanned the ceiling, the floor, and the walls, like the answer to what was happening might be found anywhere other than with the person coiled around him.
Seeming at last to grasp that he wasn’t dead or dreaming, he did something he hadn’t done when I had been the one embracing him.
He enfolded Dorothy with his arms—and crushed her against his narrow frame.
“Dorothy Gale,” he said again, his voice catching in a way that it never had in the entire time I had known him. Which hadn’t been so long. A mere blip compared to the time Rye and Dorothy had known one another.
“I’d given up hope I’d ever see you again,” he said. “If you are really here and this isn’t some…trick.”
“That’s the difference between us.” Dorothy pushed back from him, though she still held Rye by the arms as she peered up into his eyes. “I always knew I’d be back. I just never thought…”
Rye dropped his gaze from hers, another thing I’d never seen him do. Rye had never had trouble keeping eye contact with anyone. Something about Dorothy, though, summoned from his depths this second self, a person I had yet to meet. Someone Rye must have been before a crown—heavier than any of his friends knew—had been placed on his head.
“Nick,” said Rye, though still he didn’t glance up. “I’ll ask about Pae later. For now, what can you tell me of the Emerald City?”
“My scouts report that Langwidere has successfully captured the whole of the capital,” said Nick, his steps clunking against the stone as they brought him to stand next to me. “There’s been resistance in the city and, more successfully, in the outlying areas. The princess herself has established direct communication with me and attests that Cahal lives. She has offered to exchange him for Tip. I forwent replying. She has yet to threaten with any action. Neither has she pressed for an answer.”
At the mention of my name, Rye’s cool gaze flicked to me, then back to Nick. He blinked once, his jaw set, a subtle response that implied some potent emotion. His stony expression allowed no glimpse at what sort, though.
“Something has gone wrong with her plan,” he said, “if she hasn’t pressed.”
“My thought as well,” admitted Nick.
“Likely, Cahal is dead,” Rye said.
Dorothy, who still held Rye, gave him a shake. “How could you say that?”
“Because it’s likely true,” he replied, peering down at her again.
“It can’t be true.” She shook her head at him. “Cahal can’t be dead. What if he escaped somehow? If anyone could give them the slip, it would be Cahal.”
“Rye,” said Nick, drawing the king’s attention away from Dorothy once more. “We need to respond.”
“We give her an answer,” said Rye. “We agree to her exchange if she can prove Cahal lives. If she refuses, we will know he’s gone.”
“And if she can?”
Surprisingly, this challenge came from Dorothy, who again gave Rye another more forceful shake, almost as if she hoped to rattle something loose inside him or pop some part of his soul back into place.
“If she can,” said Rye as he stepped away from Dorothy, moving toward me and Nick, though his gaze remained locked with that of his fellow sovereign, “we organize a rendezvous.”
Rye walked on. As he brushed by, my stomach bottomed out. My blood froze in my veins, and my lips parted in shock.
Nick pivoted after him. “We need to speak,” he said. “In private.”
“Your study,” said Rye, as if he’d already been headed there with the same thought in mind. “Now.”
Then he was gone, vanished around the corner just ahead. Nick started to turn to go after him, but Dorothy called to him.
“Nick.”
Metal steps halted, and Nick turned back, the muted expression of his metal mask providing no insight into his emotions.
“What…happened to him?” Dorothy asked, her voice smaller than before, her fingers tangled up with themselves.
“Oz,” said Nick.
Then he, too, passed on, heading off to heed the command of the restored King of Oz, a man whose station and current concerns apparently superseded—and perhaps even negated—a happy reunion with his friends.
Including Dorothy.
Including me.