Chapter 51
Alittle way away, Ruben is crouching next to one of the Rottings lying on the edge of the crumbled-in hule. My eyes bulge at the sight in front of me.
Stide was right. Leading them over the unstable ground stopped dozens of them from reaching us.
As I step a little further away from the burrows, Ruben turns the now-still body over with a grim gentleness, as if the dead might still feel the indignity.
‘He’s wearing a uniform,’ he says, voice low. ‘He was a soldier before he was … that.’
The words hit hard. A uniform is supposed to mean something. Order. Duty. Someone who belongs somewhere, to someone. It makes me think of Grenda and her sons.
Kyor doesn’t comment at first. He just stares down at the corpse, jaw tight, braced, as if he’s waiting for the soldier to sit up and accuse him of ordering him to his death.
‘He was,’ Kyor agrees finally, eyes tight.
‘One from Wrohelm,’ Ruben continues. ‘I bet he was from the Hirathean Pass. Do you think that means we’re getting close to the Issen?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply truthfully, my mind skipping back to what Ryne said about the conflict with the Torailians. Could this soldier have been here, not battling the Issen, but the Torailians? If so, his presence means we’re no closer to Issen lands.
Kyor looks away from the soldier’s body. He swallows. Hard. ‘I killed him,’ he admits. ‘One of my own men.’
‘Hey, you did the right thing,’ I tell him. I rest a hand on his good shoulder and feel the rigid line of him beneath my palm.
‘Did I?’ The question is quiet, but it slices through me all the same.
I don’t answer straight away.
Because this isn’t about right or wrong. Not really.
I look at the body again. At the uniform. At what he was and what he became. At the way Kyor’s jaw is locked tight, as if he loosens it even a fraction, something inside him will crack.
‘He stopped being a man the moment he became a Rotting,’ I say. ‘You had no choice.’
My mind goes back to the Myrkr. Would I have plunged the dagger into it, knowing what existed beyond the shadowy self? Knowing he was a priest once? I think so. I don’t see what choice I had.
Kyor’s gaze flicks to mine, sharp and wary.
‘You did the right thing,’ I continue, pushing my thoughts away and focusing on him.
His breath catches.
‘It was the right call,’ I repeat. And then I throw his own words back at him. ‘Fucking own it, Kyor.’
He shakes his head, eyes haunted. ‘They train you to make these decisions quickly,’ he says, voice stripped bare. ‘But they never teach you how to live with them.’
Kyor’s jaw works, tension rippling through him. His voice drops, and when he speaks his words are just a murmur. A confession. ‘There are men missing from my rolls who were never reported dead.’ He looks at the soldier’s Wrohelm uniform, face tight. ‘I guess this answers what happened to them.’
The prince stands abruptly, steps away from the circle, and swings up onto Elska’s back.
He sits with his jaw clenched and his gaze fixed forward. ‘We need to leave,’ he says abruptly. ‘Mount up, and let’s get the fuck out of here.’ He and Elska surge away, and I watch them go.
I know, with a cold certainty, that in his mind he’s already added another tally to his wall, and I hope no one else saw the way his hands shook before he mounted Elska. Or how he didn’t look back, not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much.
Fen’s ears flick back, tracking Kyor until he vanishes between the trees.
He carries ghosts with him, Fen says quietly.
I swallow.
So do I, I think, but I don’t say it. Or I try not to, but Fen may have heard the words all the same.
I’m grateful for Fen. His back is warm, and his presence is comforting. For once, I do not try to disentangle my mind from his at all. I crave his closeness, like a child clinging to their parent after they discover that monsters are real.
I killed a Myrkr. Mere months ago, I thought them nothing more than a folktale to scare naughty children into line, but now I know otherwise. They are more than myths. More than nightmares.
Thank you. That was what it said to me. Why would a monster thank me for its death, as if death were what it craved?
And what of those words it continued to say. The way it counted. Child of one. Of two?
What did it mean? The child of three makes sense. Me, Kay, William. And everyone is born of two parents, right? But a child of four? Of one? I chew my lip, anxiety curling in my gut. Do I have another sibling out there? One I don’t know of? A bastard of my father’s?
Surely my parents would have said something if they’d had another child together, stillborn or otherwise, but then again, my mother already hid one truth of herself, maintaining only enough knowledge of her Issen power to ensure her children took the tonic to keep them safe from it.
Who’s to say she didn’t hide more from us? Didn’t choose which parts of her past she wanted to hold on to and which she erased.
Silence engulfs the group as we travel on, each of us lost in our own tenebrous thoughts. If I had known what this journey would bring, I wonder if I would have started it or if I would have just hidden away for the rest of my life, a recluse forever in seclusion, like Jonas suggested.
A longing for that life back in the High Hold spurs within me, but I know it’s a dream. It isn’t just a case of me being a liability there. I need to get William help, although now more than ever, I’m glad I was firm with my decision to make him stay back.
As I consider the magic swimming within my veins, I remember what Benny said about children on the Isles being born with less and less of it. Will some lucky child, born right now, have all the power of the Myrkr within it, or will Mortidem split the power up and distribute it among many children?
It’s not like we even know if that’s possible; it’s not as if the Gods are forthcoming with their ways.
‘There’s a clearing just ahead,’ Kyor says as he and Elska reappear in front of us. ‘We can stop there for the night. Assuming it’s safe,’ he adds with a querying glance at the Sannings.
Stide nods. ‘It is as safe a place as any in this area. Let us make camp there.’
No one argues. We’re all tired. Broken in spirit if not also in body. Victory’s only euphoric if you don’t consider the losses on the other side. So despite the fact that there is easily another hour of daylight, we’re all happy to make camp now.
No words are needed as we fall into what has become a routine.
I grow a vine and then give Ruben the gift of extra magic so that he can start a fire from the wood Benny has collected.
When the fire is roaring, Ruben moves on to the horses, brushing them down and picking out their hooves to ensure no unexpected injuries.
Caz and Thessa start serving out dry rations, and I ready the beds with Stide, who vaguely attempts to help, but she requires every bed to be just so, and as such takes a million years just to sort one bed space.
Once again, I consider pressing her about the vendari, about what she knows, but Caz has the book and something tells me we are best learning what we can from that first before pushing the Sannings so hard they refuse to tell us anything at all.
While Kyor finds a spot to keep watch from, Loch walks in lazy circles.
Generally, his role in setting up the camp varies between minimal effort and absolutely no effort.
One night he stoked the fire, adding dried wood before helping Ruben brush down one of the mares, but mostly he just mutters to himself and paces, the way he is doing now.
This evening, freedom is his word of choice. ‘Nearly free. Nearly free.’ He says the words over and over, and while I hope he’s right, there’s a trepidation in his tone that causes me more than a little unease.
Sometimes I feel as if my unease comes from the unspoken words rather than the ones Loch mutters.
After all, it is clear that the silence that encumbers our group comes from more than just exhaustion. It’s caused by the fears swarming through our minds. The questions burning in our chests that we’re too afraid to ask, for what terrors the answers may unleash.
Ruben is the one who breaks the silence first, as if he can’t stand the pressure any longer.
‘That soldier must’ve come from somewhere.’
‘Ruben,’ Benny says at once, ‘you’re doing that thing where you poke the bruise and then act surprised when it hurts.’
Ruben shoots him a look. ‘I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I’m trying to understand what the hell is going on.’
Benny looks at Kyor, and then at me. He presses his lips together and says nothing.
‘I’m just saying,’ Ruben continues, ‘surely the prince should know where his own men are? You’re the commander of the army.’
Kyor’s shoulders are tense. ‘It’s not so straightforward,’ he replies through gritted teeth.
‘Why not? Make me understand,’ Ruben demands.
Kyor’s head turns just enough that the edge of his profile is visible. ‘Because the battles move.’
‘Fights move,’ Benny agrees. He can’t help but join in. ‘But the land doesn’t exactly get up and relocate to another county. We’re closer to Torailian territory here than Issen. What is a Wrohelm soldier doing here, west of Rowell? Rowell is at the edge of our domain.’
‘There’s no point trying to explain it to you,’ Kyor hisses.
‘You’re dodging,’ Benny says flatly. ‘You always do it when there’s something you don’t want us to see.’
My stomach drops. I can’t bear another argument tonight, not after seeing the way Kyor’s hands trembled.
‘Stop it, Benny,’ I snap. ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ I regret the words even as they whip out of me. I close my eyes for a moment and take a breath. ‘Please. Can we not do this right now?’
Benny’s gaze flicks to me, then away. He’s still simmering, but he swallows it down, for me. I wish it didn’t make me feel so guilty.
‘Today was tough on all of us,’ I add, forcing my voice to steady. ‘We need to come together as a team, not fracture.’
Benny exhales through his nose. ‘Fine. Fine. I’m done.’