Page 64 of The Darkening (The Darkening)

Chapter 14

Ma squeezes my hand. Her hair billows out behind her, and her jaw is set tight. She looks down at me once, and she’s beautiful in the sun-kissed, glowing way of a memory that’s been worn soft by repeat viewings.

She’s half dragging me, though I try to keep up. But my legs are so small, and she’s too determined, too intent on her destination.

The stormwall rises before us, black clouds pressing against the boundary like smoke under glass. I try to speak, to ask Ma where we’re going, but the wind steals the words from my throat.

She doesn’t slow, doesn’t veer away from the stormwall, and I understand. The clouds of the Storm part for us into a tunnel, and something glows within the dark: a sapling with a braided stem, rapidly growing. I won’t go. I yank my hand free, but she catches it, gripping tighter than before. I dig my feet into the ground and pry her clawlike fingers from my wrist. Ma turns to me with terror in her eyes and tears on her cheeks, just as I free myself.

She falls toward the Storm with her face frozen in a scream, and I reach for her, just as her chest splits in two and a dozen-armed stormbeast climbs out, and the thing that was Ma collapses into black cloud. The tunnel begins to close, and I try to step forward, but somethingpulls me back. Arms around my waist pull me high into the air, away from the Storm, the tunnel, and the glowing, twisted tree deep within.

The clouds of the Storm fall like a curtain, sealing away the tree and Ma. I twist to see who carries me and meet Dalca’s eyes. A thousand emotions war in them—shades of misery, of fury, frustration, desire. A certainty works its way up my spine, filling me with a single truth: Dalca is going to let me go, and I will fall.

A shout jolts me awake. I blink up at a pale sandstone ceiling carved to look like clouds. This had better not be the afterlife. I push myself up. Pale curtains hang on all sides of the bed, and muffled voices come from behind them. Where am I?

My body aches, but it’s the ache of days-old bruises, not the ache I expect. Someone’s put a blanket on me, and I toss it aside. Goose bumps rise on my legs at the brush of cold air, and I touch the ikon-inscribed bandage that wraps around my thigh. It barely hurts.

What am I wearing? The dress is cut from a soft, pale fabric that wraps around my waist, but it stops high on my thighs. I flush. Who changed my clothes? Ma’s locket brushes against my chest, and I grip it tight, thankful it’s still there. Folded across the footboard are a pair of black pants and a long shirt. Wardana-issue. I tug them on, surprised at how familiar they already feel.

The sounds of an argument come through the curtains.

“Please, let me just—”

“I’m fine.” A polite, commanding voice. Dalca. “Please, move aside.”

I push the curtains to one side. It’s an infirmary, and from theglimpses I get of the other inhabitants through open curtains, a Wardana infirmary.

Dalca strides toward the exit, pulling on a knee-length embroidered jacket over pants and a shirt similar to mine.

“Wait!” a tired-looking healer calls, holding Dalca’s thousand-and-one-feather cloak.

“I’ll take it to him.” I pluck it out of her hands.

She shoots me a quick look—just a glint of warmth in her eyes, one that doesn’t trickle down to her mouth—before she hurries to the next bed.

I step out into a hallway with the hallmark striated sandstone walls of the Ven.

Dalca’s already a good fifty paces away.

“Dalca!”

He startles, whipping around. “Vesper?”

He waits for me, but his gaze keeps slipping to the floor, as if he can’t quite stand to keep looking at me.You frighten me.My neck warms. “I—I have your cloak.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He takes it from me and, in a single fluid motion, slings it over his shoulders and hooks the clasp. “I must go.”

But he doesn’t move. What do I say? What do I want from him? I search his eyes. They look just as conflicted as I feel. He opens and closes his hands, and my dream comes back to me. “I found a mark that Casvian’s been looking for. A proto-ikon.”

Dalca blinks, and his expression sharpens into that of a hunter. So this proto-ikon is something he’s after, too—but does it have to do with Pa? “Was it in one of his books?”

“No.” I bite my lip, and his eyes flick down to my mouth. A dark thrill courses through me. I have power here.

He steps closer, eyes glinting, voice soft. “Then where?”

“Will you tell me why you’re looking for it?”

“Why do you want to know?” Dalca tilts his head, a shutter falling over his eyes.