Page 7

“Let’s go,” Scythe says lowly.

There is no remorse in his voice. No guilt or grief over the fact that he has just executed an entire company of men—for the second time in our short acquaintance.

I stare at him, swallowing down the lump of horror lodged in my throat. My thoughts feel far removed from reality. My words, when I manage to speak, ring hollow in the quietude of dawn.

“All those men…you killed them.”

“If I hadn’t, they would’ve killed us. Or worse.” There is a terse pause. “You think me callous?”

“I think a man who can take so many lives in trade for his own, easily as coin bartered at market, is no man at all but something else entirely.” I shake my head, unable to dispel the horrific images. “Something more akin to a monster.”

If he is offended by my brash assessment, he does not show it. He merely sheathes his sword and sighs heavily. “Better the monster than the quarry it devours.”

“We could’ve gotten away without…without…” I gesture to the chasm. “You did not have to kill them.”

“They would’ve hunted us into the mountains. Even now, with the bridge felled, we are not safe. Not for long. They will find another way across eventually.” His nostrils flare on a sharp exhale and his voice drops, almost as though he is speaking to himself. “Perhaps before, when they were chasing naught but whispers, they wouldn’t have bothered. They would have let us slip away, sought other bounty to fill their master’s bottomless cup. But now…now, they will never stop. Now that they have seen…” He looks at me sharply. “They will not stop until we have been captured. He will not let them.”

“ He? He who?”

Scythe narrows his eyes at me. “Can you truly be so sheltered?”

“Can you truly not give a straight answer to a single one of my questions?”

“You try my patience, girl.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any to try.”

“Trust me, ten minutes in your maddening presence would strain the stoicism of a druid.”

“Amusing, coming from the most vexing man I’ve ever met.”

“Save your amusement. Try some appreciation instead.”

“ Appreciation? For what, exactly? Kidnapping me? Making me party to not one, but two massacres? Leading me into a mountain range few men ever return from intact?”

“Would you rather I’d left you to die?”

“Perhaps!” I fire back. “For what kind of life is one lived with so much blood on one’s hands?”

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to listen to your twisted idealisms.”

In my fury, I forget to be afraid of him. I take two strides closer, my eyes fixed on his. “Those men were soldiers, acting on the commands of a king they likely never even met. They had lives outside of this endless killing. Crops to tend. Homes to protect. Wives to take into their arms. Children to…to…” Biting my lip, I blink back infuriating tears. Emotions will get me nowhere. Not with him. I could sooner move a stone wall than the heart inside this man by weeping.

“It’s curious,” he says flatly. His stare is cold as it lingers on the wetness of my cheeks. “You freely lament the fate of your enemy…and yet you walk for days on bloodied soles without shedding so much as a tear for your own misfortune. I cannot tell if that is a mark of self-discipline or childlike delusion.” His eyes narrow on mine. “The latter, surely. If you had even the loosest understanding of the dire nature of your situation, you would be wailing for your parents like a babe torn too soon from the breast.”

“The fact that you cannot fathom my resolve does not indicate its absence. Do not speak of things you know nothing about. My parentage, for instance.” I suck in a steadying breath as I glare at him across the thin divide between us. “And as for our situation, is it any wonder I cannot fully appreciate its shadowy nature when you have failed to offer even a single ray of illumination at every given opportunity?”

His scoff is nearly a snarl. “Did it never occur to you these past few days, as we rode at a breakneck gallop, that we might be doing so for a reason beyond enjoying the feel of the wind in our hair? Did you never once contemplate the possibility that we were sleeping in the wild instead of at inns, traversing fields rather than roads, for a purpose outside appreciating the solitudes of nature?”

I blink, startled.

Until this point, I assumed I was the root cause of Scythe’s outright hostility. Perhaps I’ve been mistaken. Perhaps his hostility is a symptom of something else. Something bigger. I still don’t know the full scope of what is going on here, but clearly, this is more than mere retribution for what he did to Burrows’s unit. More than the hunt for an escaped halfling.

I want to ask about the men in red—who they are, why they are so dogged in their pursuit—but, as usual, he doesn’t give me an opportunity.

“No. Of course not.” His jaw tightens. “You, with your useless, bleeding heart. Incapable of contempt. More concerned with crying for your enemy than coming to grips with the harsher realities of your circumstance.”

“It may come as a surprise to an emotionally stunted creature such as yourself to learn that evolved beings are more than capable of holding two contradictory beliefs at once. My useless, bleeding heart can feel both compassion and contempt for those men.” I jerk my chin up, a haughty move. “And, for the record, being raised with tenderness is not a fatal flaw.”

“Just because it hasn’t killed you yet does not mean it won’t in the future.” He sighs and shakes his head, exasperated. “Misplaced empathy will earn you no favors in this world. Any empathy, in fact. You would do well to harden yourself against it.”

“Why? So I can be more like you? No, thank you.” I scrub my tears away with the back of my sleeve. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand why I behave as I do. A man like you cannot feel anything—anything except cold-blooded calculation.”

“Don’t forget annoyance,” he mutters pointedly. “I’ve felt plenty of that these past few days. In fact, one could say I did those soldiers a favor by sending them over that cliff. Now they are forever absolved of the distinct frustration of your company.”

I reel backward. “How can you jest about such things? Have you no conscience at all?”

“You think me some unfeeling villain—that’s fine by me.” He shrugs, wincing when the arrow in his shoulder shifts. “I don’t care much about your opinion. I have one objective: to keep you alive until we reach the other side of these mountains.”

“And when we get there? What then?”

On that front, however, I will get no clarity. He has already turned from me, whistling for his horse. The stallion trots obediently from the shadows, seeming no worse for wear despite our rather dramatic crossing of the bridge.

“Onyx,” Scythe murmurs with surprising softness, stroking his hand along the stallion’s glossy flank. “My steady boy.”

I look away, not wanting to see him act thus. Not wanting to know he is capable of kindness, of connection—even if it is only with his horse. It is far easier to think him a definitive brute, with no nuanced shades of humanity creeping in at the edges.

Scythe removes something from one of the saddlebags, then walks over to a flat-topped boulder. A low groan of pain slips from his mouth as he sits down.

“Come here, girl.”

Unmoving, I cross my arms over my chest. When I fail to comply with his order, he looks up. “Are you deaf now? Come. ”

“I am not a hound.”

“Mmm. More like a rabid terrier, with the way you snap back.”

“Do you find insulting someone is your best strategy when preparing to ask for their assistance?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks as he attempts to lock down his temper. “I need…”

I know what he needs, but in this moment, I am petty enough to wait for the words it so chafes him to utter. “ Yes? ”

“The arrow.” He grimaces. “I can’t ride with it like this.”

“And?”

“I can’t pull it out myself, as you well know.” His expression darkens into a scowl. “I…I need your help.”

From the look on his face, admitting that aloud is more painful for him than the shaft embedded in his shoulder. My lips twist. “Were you not just lecturing me on the perils of empathy for one’s enemy?”

“I am not your enemy.”

I startle, surprised by the quiet conviction in his voice. “Well. What are you, then?”

“Are you going to help me or not?” he asks in lieu of a real answer. In the gathering daylight, his face looks quite drawn; the pain must be significant. I decide not to goad him further. With a resigned sigh, I take a few hesitant steps forward, my socks crunching on the snowy earth.

It’s strange. I called him a monster. I saw him do monstrous things. And yet, as I close the gap between us, I feel no fear that he will harm me. Somewhere along the way, I lost my wariness of him. It’s not trust, exactly—for who could ever trust such a man?—but rather a grudging realization that, for all his questionable methods, for whatever dark end awaits me in the Northlands…he will do whatever it takes to keep me alive. In that, I find a twisted semblance of solace—much like a pig, I suppose, fat and happy in the care of the same farmer who will eventually lead it to the slaughter.

Scythe holds a short dagger, its point lethally sharp, the handle etched with indecipherable glyphs. It glints in the pale dawn light.

“Are you certain it’s wise to arm me?” I ask, holding his stare. “As we have ascertained already, I’m not overly fond of you.”

“I find it amusing you believe you are any threat to me. Even with a blade in your hand.”

“If you want my assistance, I suggest you stop insulting me.”

Wordlessly, he extends the dagger in my direction, hilt first. I take it from him without comment and, after a beat of hesitation, bend to examine his wound. It is the closest I’ve ever been to him. His every exhale stirs the fine hair at my temples.

My mouth goes dry as a dizzying mix of apprehension and adrenaline sizzles through my veins. It’s the same sensation I experienced last autumn, when I came across a juvenile lynx tangled in one of my snares. I’d worked to set him free, all the while excruciatingly aware that the moment I succeeded, he might turn and rip out my throat in thanks.

In the end, the lynx had simply limped away to lick his wounds.

Scythe is far less predictable.

Though I focus all my attention on the blood-soaked arrowhead, it takes effort to ignore the details in my peripherals. Dark stubble growing along a sharp jawline. Serpentine silver over the bridge of a nose. The smell of sweat and horse and spice—the same heady scent I breathed from his tunic at the reflective pool three days past.

Was that only three days past?

It seems an eternity.

“You’ll have to saw through the shaft,” Scythe says, the low timbre of his voice vibrating in the air around me. “Keep your hands steady. Go slow. And try not to pass out. There will be blood—enough that you’ll need to apply pressure.”

“With what?”

“Your hand will do fine.”

“My hand will not do fine,” I say crossly. “Not unless you’d like to bleed out in the snow.”

“I should think that would make you happy.”

My eyes roll skyward. “Despite what you think of me, I’m not a fool. I know I would not last long alone in these mountains with avalanches and enemy soldiers and gods only know what else.”

I have not forgotten his earlier comment about the ice giants. Nor can I overlook the fact that, even if I do find my way south, I have no home to return to, no allies awaiting me. My life, for all intents and purposes, burned to ashes along with the Starlight Wood. There is no choice but to help Scythe now, in the hope that another opportunity to escape will arise later.

I clear my throat. “With the bridge down, I have no earthly idea how to get back to the Midlands. So, it appears I’m stuck here. Stuck with you.”

“No need to sound so overjoyed about it.”

The retort dies on my tongue as my eyes flicker up to meet his. They are startlingly close. For the first time, I notice their true color—a deep bronze, almost metallic shade, like embers of a dying fire. At the edges of each iris, lighter striations of reddish gold make a stark contrast. Strangest of all, his pupils are not perfectly round, but slightly elongated in a way that is…not entirely human.

Those eyes belong in the skull of a wolf, not a man , I think, dropping my gaze from his. Even focusing on the ground, I can feel the weight of his stare on my face. It burns like a hot brand—a feverish contrast to the pervasive chill that pulses from the center of my chest.

Gods, will my birthmark ever stop aching?

“Do you have a spare cloth?” I ask, my voice oddly thick. “Anything I can use to stanch the wound?”

“Check the saddlebags. There should be something.”

I stalk toward the stallion without another word, suddenly very eager for some breathing room. He dances a bit as I begin rooting through the leather compartments. Sparsely packed as they are, it does not take me long to inventory the contents: a store of wrinkled apples, two bars of coarse soap, a hatchet, a length of coiled rope. Nothing useful until, finally, I locate a large cotton handkerchief wrapped around some stale bannocks. It’s not exactly clean, but it’ll do in a pinch.

As I pull it free, my eye catches on something silver at the very bottom of the bag—a thin flask with a cork stopper. I sniff its contents, nose scrunching as the strong fumes of alcohol invade my senses. A potent brew. Recorking it, I carry the flask back to Scythe along with the handkerchief, the dagger, and the jar of salve I’ve been using on my wrists. It is nearly empty now.

His mouth tugs up at one side as he spots the spirits. “In need of a bit of liquid courage?”

“Not quite.” I tear a strip off the kerchief and douse it with a generous pour. Before he can question me further, I press the saturated fabric to the edge of his wound, where the arrow shaft protrudes from his skin.

“ Gods! ” A hiss of pain escapes his lips. “You might’ve warned me.”

“It may sting, but it will prevent infection.”

There is a marked pause. His voice, when he speaks next, holds a hint of surprise. “You know something of healing, then?”

“Enough to set a bone, mix a salve, steep a fever-reducing tea…” I meet his gaze again. “And enough to remove this arrow if you’ll stop distracting me.”

His brows are so high, they have disappeared beneath the rim of his helm. I am not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by his astonishment in learning I am not entirely without skills. Not that it matters. I don’t care what he thinks of me.

The dagger is lightweight. It fits well in the palm of my hand, not so different from the one I used back home to tend the garden Eli and I planted beside our cottage many seasons ago. Since I was old enough to memorize their names, my mentor had taught me about the different plants and their wide array of healing properties. I can tell goldenrod from ragwort in a deep forest, discern feverfew from chamomile beneath a canopy of branches, pick out allheal from nettle in a field of wildflowers. I know which mushroom caps will make you see daemons, which ones will taste particularly savory in a stew, and which ones will stop your heart cold in your chest. It is one of the skills that kept me alive, all those weeks alone in the woods.

I wish I had access to some of those herbs now, but even a cursory glance at our environment reveals it to be a bleak, barren place. The only things that grow with any sort of regularity are the piles of snow and ice weighing down the tree boughs.

I sigh.

No herbs. No boiling water. No fresh bandages. No brew of oak to temper the pain. No calming advice from Eli. If he were here, he’d fix me with those steadfast eyes and speak words of wisdom into my ear.

Breathe, Rhya. You have the skills you require; do not allow your nerves to overcome them.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I brace one hand on Scythe’s shoulder to hold him steady. His muscles are hard as granite beneath my fingertips.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn pointlessly. I know without asking that this man has withstood worse than an arrow through the shoulder in his lifetime.

“Just get it over with,” he says, teeth clenched.

I saw through the shaft as quickly as I can, doing my best to keep it from shifting. Thankfully, the dagger is quite sharp; after only a few short strokes back and forth, the arrowhead falls into the dirt, leaving behind a blunted wooden edge protruding from his chest.

“Halfway there,” I murmur.

Moving behind Scythe, I grab the back end of the arrow by its fletching. The red and black feathers are ticklish against my palm. Bracing my other hand around the margin of the wound, I chew my bottom lip.

“Ready?” I ask.

He grunts.

Taking that as confirmation, I yank the arrow straight back in one clean tug. It must hurt, but Scythe barely even flinches. Except for a sharp intake of air, he does not react at all. Dropping the shaft into the dirt, I apply pressure to the wound with a fresh strip of kerchief. When it is soaked through with blood, I toss the rag aside and exchange it for a new one. The bleeding is considerable, but not so much that his life is in danger. I’m relieved when, after a few moments, it slows to a trickle.

Slathering the puncture with the last bit of healing salve in the jar, I then wrap his shoulder as best I can—weaving a strip of fabric below his collarbone, knotting it tightly so it will not shift when he moves. He is a model patient, holding himself perfectly still. I don’t even think he’s breathing as my fingers skate across his shoulder, smoothing the fabric flat. Then again, I seem to be breathing rapidly enough for the both of us.

I struggle to keep my mind clear, relying on muscle memory to complete my task. He is no one of consequence , I tell myself as I bend close, my nose nearly brushing his neck, my pulse roaring between my ears. Just another patient in need of tending. You’d do the same for any sickly villager in Seahaven who called upon Eli for healing.

“You won’t have full use of your arm for a few days,” I inform the back side of his helmet when I am finished. The metal is dull gray in the faint light.

“I heal quickly,” is all he says in response.

Stepping away, I kneel to clean my hands in the snow. The blood leaves a glaring stain of red against the white mound. When I rise back to full height, I find Scythe on his feet with his hand held out in my direction.

“The dagger.”

Damn. I’d thought he missed my slipping it into the pocket of my gown. My chin jerks stubbornly. “I’m keeping it.”

“No.”

“Yes,” I snap, knowing full well he can easily take it from me—even with one arm incapacitated. “Consider it payment for my aid.”

He stares at me for a beat, then sighs and turns away, as though deciding it isn’t worth the energy to argue. “We should get moving. The sun doesn’t penetrate the mountain mist much beyond midday. It’ll be dark again in a few hours, and we have a lot of ground to cover.”

I follow him over to the horse. Despite my best efforts to conceal my surprise, I’m certain he sees the dumbfounded look on my face when instead of throwing me over the rump, his good arm hooks around my waist and he boosts me up onto the saddle. It is not designed for a gowned rider, but I plant myself as best I can with my legs draped over one side and my hands on the pommel.

Before I can question the sudden change in riding arrangements, Scythe swings up behind me. His chest presses flush against the planes of my back. His hands hang by my hips, effectively caging me in.

I suck in a sharp breath.

Perhaps being lashed to the back like cargo is preferable, after all.

“Take the reins,” he orders, his breath gusting warm on my nape. “Onyx knows the way.”

Leaving the fallen bridge behind, I ride into the mist-shrouded mountains—reins in my hand, enemy at my back, heart lodged firmly in my throat.