Page 9

He says Dawsyn’s name and it is close enough that she hears it alongside a hundred other reverberated beckonings. A swarm of murmured human voices weaving through the dark to find their kin.

“Ryon,” she responds.

A hand touches hers, then moves to her waist. No visible arm attached. The outline of a face with no discerning features as it speaks, but unmistakably him. “There you are.”

It is said on an exhale – a quiet blessing. Then his forehead is pressed to hers. And though she cannot make out the finer details of him, she feels their breaths combine, she feels the flicker of his eyelashes on her skin. She can imagine his shoulders falling and rising with each exhalation. He takes her torch and extinguishes it.

She winds her fingers in his and they willingly grip hers in return. “Are you well?” he whispers quietly, grimly. His voice travels over her lips, vibrates against the shells of her ears.

She contemplates her answer, wonders if there is any benefit to lying. “No,” she murmurs back. “Are you?”

His hands tighten around hers. She feels his head shake.

Dawsyn wants more than anything to sink to the ground with him at that moment. She wants to allow her knees to buckle and give in to the crippling exhaustion in her muscles and rest in the reprieve of him, give him the reprieve of her.

“We cannot sleep yet,” she says quietly, wary of the listening ears.

He sighs. “I know.”

“How many are injured?”

“I stayed to the middle most of the way. I counted six, perhaps seven who fell. There were likely more toward the back, though I’m yet to find Tasheem or Rivdan to ask.”

Dawsyn nods woodenly. “Let us see if any of this magic is restored enough that I might be useful. I’ll try to heal who I can.”

“You’ve walked all day, Dawsyn. You’re exhausted. Today hardly granted conditions for you to replenish.”

“And still,” Dawsyn presses, “I’ll heal who I can.”

“The injuries I’ve found so far are superficial,” comes another whisper. Yennes. “I’ve done what little I can for the more concerning injuries, but I’m afraid I am still weakened.”

Dawsyn turns to the sound of the woman’s voice. “We all are,” she says. “But we cannot remain idle and wait to heal.”

“No,” Yennes replies, her outline shuffling uncomfortably. “Ryon? Is… is your back–?”

“I’ll survive.” There is something oddly sharp in his tone. “Do not spare me your healing if you have any left to give.”

“I disagree,” Dawsyn argues. “If you are healed, you can fly ahead to mark the path, warn us of anything that might lay ahead.”

Ryon sighs. “Then you might heal Tasheem first, or Rivdan. Either can do the very same.”

“I fear their injuries are more severe than your own,” Yennes says gravely. “We may not be able to do much for them yet.”

“All the more reason to focus your attentions on them.” Ryon slides his thumb over Dawsyn’s fingers. “Please. I’ll begin rationing.”

Dawsyn wishes she could see his face.

She feels the tendrils of dark iskra lurking in her core and brings them forward. She summons that light in her mind and lets the two collide in her palm.

“Igniss,”she says, and watches as a spluttering flame ignites in her hand. It threatens to flicker out but remains long enough that she can glimpse Ryon’s face, the glow reflected in his eyes.

For a second, their eyes meet, then the flame extinguishes. She sees his lips descend to hers before the light dims, and he kisses her hard. She relishes the feeling while she can, before he pulls away, disappearing once more into the blackness.

Yennes and Dawsyn take a torch each and light them, making their way around the resting bodies. At the other end of their camp, they find Tasheem and Rivdan in states of collapse. They pant, chests heaving. Tasheem’s face glistens with exertion when Dawsyn holds her torch closer. Her eyes remain shut as she speaks. “A good few already seem too weary to continue,” she says, the sound of her usually loud voice lost now. It seems an effort for Tasheem to speak at all. “I suspect they were already made weak by hunger before we took them off the Ledge.”

Dawsyn kneels before Tasheem, peering into her sallow face. A magnificent shade of purple blossoms from her jaw. Her leg is propped up atop a hessian sack and she winces at the slightest movement. How she managed a day of walking across ground so treacherous, Dawsyn can only guess at, and her bets lie with Rivdan. She suspects the male half-carried his friend this far.

Rivdan lies on his back, cradling his arm to his chest. He stares with deep concentration at something above and breathes through his nose, his body quivering. Yennes attends to him.