Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Kjartan escorts me and his men back to camp. He’s quiet, like we all are. I glance at the tents. Everyone’s exhausted. They’re at their end, and there’s no pearl heart left. They crawl towards their mats to sleep. Hopefully they at least can dream away their reality.
I halt abruptly at a chilling thought. It feels like an icy fist clenching around my stomach.
Nicostratus.
What if he’s looked into my things?
What if he entered the dromveske?
What if . . .
I peel off from our group and run. When I get to Quin’s tent, I almost smack into him caning his way out of it in fresh clothes. “Where are you going? You need to sleep. You—”
“I need to meditate,” he says quietly and continues past me. “Come.”
I follow him to the back of camp, to the hill where I’d come yesterday. It’s a crisper evening and the sky stretches forever over us, twinkling with a million stars. Could they really be the souls of the dead? Could the soldiers from today already be there? How can something so painful be so beautiful?
Quin seats himself crossed-legged at the top of the hill where breezes whip at his hair. “You’re pacing,” he murmurs. There’s a question behind it. Why? How can I help?
My stomach lurches and I open my mouth. Say it. Tell him. But no words come out. I slam my mouth shut again. I shouldn’t say it now. Quin needs to meditate, needs to regain his spiritual energy. I can’t interfere with this. He must concentrate.
I force myself to stop pacing and settle beside him, my own hair flickering in the wind along with his. Below us stretches abandoned Portael and the large inky river running through it, and further in the distance are the larger hills of Ragn . . .
I dig my hand into the grass.
“You’re breathing is uneven,” Quin murmurs.
I let go of my breath and forcefully steady it. “Meditate.”
His brow pinches, but he inclines his head. “Rest. This will take a while.”
With heavy spirits, I lie down and curl onto my side, bracketing him. For two hours I come in and out of sleep, each time feeling sicker as I glance over Portael and see it quiet. No movement. No soldiers marching to join us.
After the third hour, Quin uncrosses his legs. I should sit up now, tell him . . . But I’m curled on my side, rigidly still.
Quin feels it. He shifts to rest a hand on the back of my head. “Caelus?”
My heart bangs, and his gentle fingers slide out of my hair.
As he moves to stroke again, I push up quickly, avoiding the touch. His expression flickers and he drops his hand. “Talk.”
“I . . .” The words are gummed up, too sickening to speak. I gesture towards camp. “How would we win this war if these men were all we had?”
“We’ll have more—”
“If.”
Quin observes the camp and does his quick calculation, ending with a grimace.
I shiver.
He takes off his cloak but I stop him from giving it to me, hand balled into the soft fabric. Could there be another way? To stop them dying? My gaze rises sharply from his cloak to him. “The rocks. Break them. Block the pass.”
“If they see my magic—”
“Then don’t be seen!”
“You were so brave today. Why are you afraid now?”
“It’s war. Of course I’m afraid.”
“This is something more.”
“I just think, while you wait for backup, let the men and the healers rest.”
Quin searches my eyes, and I avert them.
“What if,” I hurry on, “while they’re busy digging, we could get into their camp and . . . and . . . destroy their food? So they’d have to retreat to get more? There are dead Wyrds amongst the bodies in the pits. We could take their clothing, we could—”
“We could nothing!” Quin bites out. “Today, I was afraid if a single Wyrd passed me, you’d be killed. I won’t let you be surrounded by them.”
“It’s my punishment.”
“I will not let anything happen to you. We will win,” Quin says more softly. “Nicostratus—”
The words finally fall out of me in a whisper, “Is not coming.”
Quin pauses, and carries on, “When he comes—”
I cover his mouth with my hand, shaking harder. “He has my dromveske. He’s seen it. He’s heartbroken. He’s angry.” I look at the horror entering his eyes. “He’s not coming.”
I can’t remove my hand. My voice comes out strangled. “He asked me to stay away. He warned me about coming between you. You knew it too; you asked me too. And I couldn’t stay away. I kept justifying why this time it didn’t count. You’re captured and I’m only saving you. It’s just one last moment. It’s the eve of war. You’re wounded . . . But I can’t keep justifying it. Look at the consequences. Look.”