Page 8

The path is steep—a narrow switchback of icy stone, nearly vertical in pitch. A thick cover of clouds clings to the mountains like cologne on a courtier’s neck. Ascending into it, I can see no more than ten paces ahead of us. Though I suppose any view at all is an improvement on that afforded by my previous riding position.

I hold the reins but I do not steer, for Scythe did not exaggerate—Onyx knows the way. His hooves never falter as he navigates around boulders and fallen tree limbs, over snowbanks and ice sheets, an ever-upward march. Far below, the ravine is a constant presence, growing all the more bottomless as we climb. It runs the length of the range, a dark vein of demarcation dividing civilization from barbarity.

The Northlands.

Of all the places I thought my path would lead, it was not here. Not to this hellscape. Sure as I know my own name, I am certain I’ll meet my end in these mountains. As good a place to perish as any, I suppose. If my bones bleach beneath the cold Cimmerian sun for all eternity…Well, there is no one left to mourn me anyway.

The air in my lungs is thin, each breath tinged with the scent of pinesap. I pull in shallow gulps, trying not to shiver as the wind whips at my face. Feeling my poorly subdued shakes, Scythe presses closer to my back and adjusts his cloak more firmly around both of us. I can feel the hard planes of his chest even through the fabric of my dress, so warm it’s a bit like leaning against the wall of a furnace. The leather straps of his bandolier are a pointed reminder of the peril that chases us up the mountain.

“I’m f-f-fine,” I say through chattering teeth.

“Stubborn is what you are.” I can practically hear his scowl. “Rather freeze to death than admit weakness.”

“Honestly, of all the ways I thought I’d d-d-die these past f-f-few days, freezing to d-d-death sounds almost pleasant.”

He does not dignify my snide remark with a response. And I cease my protests, for, though it pains me to admit it, the journey is undeniably more tolerable riding thus. Pressed close to Scythe’s chest as I am, a slow heat begins to radiate through my body, starting at my spine and ebbing outward until I can once again wiggle my frozen fingers. After a few moments, my shivers slow, then stop altogether.

For a while, we ride onward in silence, the horse plucking a careful track on the slippery slope. Questions gnaw at me. I tell myself not to put words to them, but eventually I am overpowered by my own insufferable curiosity.

“Have you traveled this way many times before?”

“Enough to know the way.” Succinct as ever.

“Which makes you—what, exactly? A spy, sent down to the Midlands by some northern king pondering invasion?”

“I’m not certain why you suddenly feel entitled to ask.”

“Of course.” I drop my voice to imitate his low rasp. “ Prisoners are not privy to information. ”

This, he ignores outright.

I sigh heavily. “What difference does telling me a few measly details make? I’m going to find out where your allegiance lies as soon as we arrive at our destination. I’ll learn the name of the liege whose boots you lick when you throw me at his feet.”

Still, Scythe remains stubbornly silent.

Gods, the man is insufferable.

With one hand, I tighten my grip on the reins, wishing I could as easily rein in my temper. With the other, I finger the slim blade buried deep in the pocket of my gown. For both our sakes, I hope we haven’t much farther to go before journey’s end. Any more time spent at each other’s throats might result in one of them getting slit open.

Several hours later, it is a vast relief when the switchback path veers away from the summit and into a natural valley between two adjoining peaks. As the endless climb flattens to a solid plane of earth, I summon the energy to open my eyes. My lids feel stiff. As for the rest of me, I’ve long since gone numb. A girl carved from ice, chilled to the very bone. Even my captor’s furnace-like heat isn’t enough to stave off the relentless cold at this altitude.

At some point during the ascent, my stubborn nature faltered in the battle against arctic air. I now find myself slumped fully against Scythe, as much for warmth as to keep from losing my seat on the precarious incline. He is irritatingly warm. Warmer than he has any right to be, frankly, when I’m teetering on the edge of frostbite. The indignity of it— needing him —leeches through me like poison. Forcing my frozen limbs into motion, I grab the pommel and straighten in the saddle to create a bit of space between us.

Regret blasts through me instantly. Parted from his body heat, I feel the frigid air bite with hungry teeth. I do my best to suppress the shivers racking my body, but it’s a futile effort. My very bones are rattling.

If Scythe notices my sudden repositioning, he does not remark upon it. As that would require his voluntarily speaking to me, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by that fact.

Overhead, a weak winter sun burns, dissipating the thick mountain mist as it rises higher in the sky. Beams of light refract off the peaks, a blinding white. I squint, trying to make out our surroundings. Before us lies an expanse of snow that seems to stretch on forever. Save for a few green trees, the landscape is entirely colorless. Wind stirs the drifts into vortexes that dance across the valley’s surface.

Onyx draws to a halt without warning, his chain mail tackle chiming. Behind me, Scythe shifts in the saddle, grunting lowly in discomfort as he lifts his wounded arm. With his fingers at his lips, he looses a sharp, birdlike whistle.

The sound itself should not surprise me—I’ve heard it before, back at the bridge. Yet, in the chaotic aftermath of the attack, I somehow forgot to ask him about it. I’ve also failed to inquire who, exactly, sent the answering whistle that echoed at us from the other side of the canyon.

Not that he’ll tell me.

This time, when it comes, the returning signal sounds much closer. Whoever awaits us is not far away. I can’t help wondering where they were earlier, when we were under enemy fire. With a cluck of his tongue, my captor spurs Onyx to a canter. I’m thankful my hands already grip the pommel; it is all I can do to hold on as we race along in a thunder of hooves, snow kicking up in a cloud.

Our pounding pace does not break until we reach the other side of the valley. There, the unending tract of white earth cracks open astride a formation of fallen rock from some long-ago avalanche. As we near, I see a gap of shadow amid the boulders. The mouth of a cave—one tall enough that we do not even need to dismount as Onyx carries us under the stony canopy. I hold my breath as we pass beneath icicles long as my legs, their spear-like points spelling instant death should they break free at the wrong moment.

My eyes strain to acclimate to the sudden shift from blinding white to pitch black as earth encompasses us from all sides. The space is dim but cavernous. Shadows loom large on every side. Onyx’s slowing hoofbeats clatter far out of earshot, deep underground. I am so grateful to be shielded from the wind, I do not notice the figure stepping forward to greet us until a voice shatters the darkness.

“ Oi! ”

I start violently at the sound, nearly losing my seat in the process. Scythe steadies me instantly with a steely grip on my side. His touch does not linger a second longer than strictly necessary.

“About time you showed up,” the same wry voice calls, stepping forward as Onyx draws to a halt. “Been waiting all day. My bollocks are nearly frozen off.”

“Brothel bells across the land will ring, rejoicing at the news,” Scythe fires back without missing a beat.

The man laughs—a boisterous sound that fills the cavern, rebounding off the walls in a chorus. My eyes, slowly adjusting to the dark, widen in surprise. Until this moment, I had not known my captor capable of humor. I sit frozen, stunned at the revelation, as he swings down from the saddle. The men clasp arms with a familiarity that speaks of long acquaintance.

“What are you doing here, Jac? Last time I saw you, you were drunk off your ass in a Coldcross tavern, freshly released from your last campaign. Claimed to anyone who’d listen you were done with soldiering and planned to marry a wench named Beatrice.”

“I’d say I remember that conversation, but that would be a lie based on the amount of pints I consumed that night.” The stranger pauses. “Turns out, Beatrice wasn’t half as handsome in the sober light of day. Signed up for another stint as soon as the ale was out of my system. I figured another tour was better than waiting around for you to return home with proper marching orders, twiddling my thumbs. Though if I’d known Yale was going to stick me with the Cimmerian Division, I might’ve stayed with Beatrice, monobrow and all. Would’ve been preferable to ten months patrolling mountain passes and driving off bloody frost-fiends, praying my manhood doesn’t turn to ice.”

“Might be for the best, given the state of your love life.”

“There’s that sense of empathy I’ve missed so much.” Jac snorts. “Anyway, thanks to my glorious new position, I happened to be nearby when one of my scouts heard your signal at the pass. Figured it might be you.”

“Figured right.”

“You weren’t due back for two months. Run into trouble?”

Scythe grunts. “You could say that.”

“I see you brought some excess baggage back with you.”

Both men turn to look at me. Even in the dim light, I can make out identical expressions of solemn contemplation.

“She the one, then?”

Another grunt from Scythe.

“Must be, if you were willing to leave ahead of schedule. Not like you to deviate from a plan.”

“No other choice,” Scythe admits lowly. “Extracting her was…complicated.”

Jac looses a low oath. “Is your cover blown, then?”

“Assuming the Eastwood generals have heard one of their commanders took out an entire company of men, I’d say so.”

“You never were one for subtlety.” Jac elbows Scythe, jostling his wound. His only indication of pain is a sharp breath, but it does not go unnoticed. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bloody bandage says otherwise.”

“It’s nothing. Arrow caught me in the shoulder. Half-healed already.”

“Courtesy of Eld’s troops?” Jac asks. His question is met with a long beat of silence. In it, he seems to read unspoken answers, for his voice adopts a shade of stunned disbelief. “Not Efnysien’s men?”

Efnysien?

The strange name tugs at my psyche, somehow familiar though I’m certain I’ve never heard it before. Is he the one to whom Scythe referred earlier? The mysterious “he” who will not stop until we are captured?

Scythe grunts a confirmation.

“This far north?” Jac’s mouth gapes. “What in the skies are they doing all the way up here?”

Scythe again says nothing, but his gaze seems to sharpen on me. In the dark, his eyes glow like embers.

“ Her? ”

If I had any real concept of what they’re talking about, I might take offense at the sheer disbelief saturating Jac’s tone. As it is, I can only stare back at Scythe, trapped by his gaze of dark fire. Questions race through my mind, unchecked.

Me?

Why would anyone be looking for me?

I’m no one.

“We’ll discuss it later,” Scythe tells his companion.

Of course. He’d never discuss anything meaningful in front of a paltry prisoner. I nearly roll my eyes at the predictability of it all. Instead, I force my gaze to break from his and dismount with a thud that jars my bones. The mountain earth is frozen solid. Even here in the shelter of the cave, each breath fogs the air in front of my face.

When I turn to face the men, both are watching me carefully—Scythe with his typical unreadable mask, Jac with a broad grin of welcome so unexpected, it makes me stagger back a step. My shoulder blades slam into Onyx, who whinnies softly in response.

The newcomer watches my retreat, brows high on his handsome face. He wears simple but well-made mountain garb designed to blend in with the snow—thick gray fabric with a leather vest layered over the top and sturdy boots to the knee. A wolf pelt lines his cloak collar. No banners or insignias anywhere to declare his loyalties, no easily identifiable sovereign colors on display. Whoever he is, whatever business he concerns himself with, he conducts in stealth.

There are dual sheaths strapped to his back—one holding a sword, the other a double-headed battle-axe with an ornate wooden handle and wickedly sharp blades. He has a crop of dark blond hair that falls nearly to his shoulders and a rangy, athletic form that makes him seem more youthful than his twenty-odd years. His ears are rounded—human, not halfling.

“You expect me to believe,” he says, head tilting sideways as he examines me in turn, a small smile still playing at his lips, “this half-starved slip of a thing is the answer to all our prayers?”

More questions spring to life, crowding my already cluttered mind.

Me?

An answer to prayers?

Absurd.

“Jac,” Scythe warns.

“Perhaps you’ve been praying to the wrong gods, if I’m the answer you’ve received.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “I assure you, I’m not…whoever it is you think I am.”

“No?” Jac asks, smile widening farther.

I nod.

“Who are you, then?”

“No one of importance,” I say instantly. “Just an ordinary girl from an ordinary househo—”

“She bears a Remnant mark.” Scythe’s blunt comment cuts through the cave like…well, like a scythe.

My mouth snaps shut.

Remnant?

I’ve never heard the term before. But clearly Jac has—his head swivels to examine his friend, all playfulness extinguished. “Are you certain?”

“Would I have risked my position with Eld’s men otherwise?”

“You’re certain,” Jac mutters.

“The Eastwood captain who captured her said it damn near seared off one of his men’s hands when he tried to…” Scythe’s own hands clench into fists. “Tried to touch her.”

“Gods.” Jac looks at me again. “ No one of importance , my ass.”

“Listen,” I interject, attempting to sound placating. In truth, I am beginning to panic. It is bad enough to find myself here, a prisoner in the Northlands of all places, at the mercy of the scariest man I’ve ever laid eyes on and his slightly less scary, but nonetheless worrisome, compatriot. To then hear those men discussing me like I am some sort of strange, mythical creature about to be placed in a menagerie against my will—or worse, stuffed and mounted upon a wall—is more than I can stomach.

“Whatever you think you know about me, whoever you think I am…you are grossly mistaken. Remnant? I don’t even know what that is. I certainly don’t possess one.” I laugh, but the sound is laced with panic. “You’re mad if you’ve dragged me all the way up here because of a simple birthmark…”

The men trade a glance.

“ Simple birthmark ,” Scythe mutters. “Skies above.”

“Could she truly be ignorant of it?” Jac sounds baffled.

“The Midlands kingdoms were forged on blood and ignorance.” Scythe shrugs. “It’s possible she was so sheltered, she never had occasion to put it to use until now.”

Jac’s brow furrows in thought. “Perhaps someone sheltered her on purpose. To keep her safe. Undetected. Dangerous times to be a halfling with a madman like Eld on the throne.”

Both of them are staring at me again. Unconsciously, I reach up and lay a hand over the fabric of my bodice, where the triangle of inky whorls is etched between my breasts. It’s begun to tingle, a cold pricking of the skin. As if it knows they are discussing it. As if it truly is imbued with some dormant ability.

The thought makes me itchy with discomfort. My fingers press harder, wishing to quell its icy ache. Unwilling to be soothed, the mark seems to press back at me, pushing upward, the slightly raised surface pulsing with the unsettling energy I’ve spent a lifetime trying to ignore. Something deeper than the cold. Something older. Something…alive.

Awake , it seems to whisper. Finally awake.

I shiver, unnerved. I do not particularly enjoy the idea that there is something sentient lurking there, under my skin. My body invaded by something I cannot control.

For all my life, the mark has been a source of secret shame. Never to be discussed openly. Not even with Eli. Some of my earliest memories in life are of my mentor, eyes grave as his tone, tasking me to keep it covered at all times. No exceptions.

Why is it so dangerous if they see? I’d asked him once, when I was eight years old and wanted more than anything to go swimming with the other children from our village. It was rare enough that they’d invited me—the friendless halfling runt—to play; it was unfathomable that I would not accept such an offer. And yet, he’d shaken his head, an unequivocal no .

There’d been no stopping the flow of tears. Am I cursed, Eli? Am I…bad?

No, Rhya. Not bad. Just…different , he’d explained in that solemn way of his. Humankind fears the unfamiliar above all else. You must always remember—the things that make you unique are the first weapons they will use against you. Best not give them the advantage. Best blend in, whenever you can. You cannot hide your ears, but you must hide your birthmark. Understand?

I had nodded. But truthfully, I had not understood that day, sitting in my favorite tree on the riverbank, watching the human children splash and frolic in the waves, their laughter a painful underscore to my loneliness.

I understand now.

Different is dangerous.

The way Jac and Scythe are looking at me…I feel as though I am about to be flayed open, my insides examined for some proof of mutation. I want to reject everything they are saying, insist that I am just as Eli always assured me I was: a normal girl—despite all evidence to the contrary. But even as I stand there, my mind flashes back to the Red Chasm, the moment I was captured.

The soldier tears open my dress…He’s reaching for me with ill intent…And I feel it—an outward lash of power. A snake of self-defense, uncoiling from deep within me, striking out before I can be harmed…

Not something I controlled, not something I conjured. Something instinctual. Inherent. Natural as breathing. Unconscious as blinking.

Awake.

Alive.

I wish, with a fierce rush of longing, that I could talk to Eli about all this. He would know exactly what to say. He would launch into action, poring over old texts from his collection until he found some reference to the term Remnant , some confirmation of these strange claims…

Belatedly, I realize both Scythe and Jac are staring at my hand as it presses against my bodice, as though if they look hard enough they might see through the fabric to the strange symbol beneath. I quickly drop my arm back to my side.

“She’s not from Eastwood.”

I jolt at Scythe’s frank assessment.

“She’s not?” Jac asks, brows arching. “I thought…”

“I found her there. But look at her clothes. The fabric—it’s thin. Made for warmer climes.”

Jac’s eyes scan me head to toe. Aware of my disheveled, dirty state, it is all I can do to keep my shoulders from caving inward in diffidence.

“You’re right,” he agrees, nodding. “She’s not wearing that gods-awful high-necked fashion they’ve adopted in recent years down there.”

“Who are you, girl?” Scythe asks bluntly, ignoring his friend. He phrases it like a question, but his unyielding tone informs me I have no choice but to answer.

My chin jerks higher. “I told you already. I’m nobody. You made a mistake in bringing me here.”

“Where are you from?”

“The Midlands.”

“The Midlands are vast,” he notes, eyes glittering. “Specify.”

I grind my teeth together. I do not want to tell him a godsdamned thing. Certainly not about where I come from. Whom I come from. Eli may have returned to the skies, but I will not betray his memory by divulging a single detail about him to an unknown enemy. I will not put Seahaven—whatever remains of it, after the invasion—into the sights of any more hunters.

“My patience is dwindling,” Scythe informs me.

“Westlake,” I lie, picking the sprawling forested kingdom to the south of Seahaven, neighbor to King Eld’s territory. I’ve never been there, have only ever seen it on maps. I rack my brain for a random town name, trying to recall the words stamped across fading parchment in my memory. With time running short I blurt, “A village near Narbeth.”

Scythe stares at me, then echoes, “Narbeth.”

“Yes. It’s a trade-post town on the border of Westlake and Eastwood.” At least, I think it is.

“And how does a girl from Narbeth end up in the hands of someone like Burrows?”

My mind rushes to conjure details that will flesh out my skeletal fabrications. I am not a good liar. I decide to weave in threads from a story I already know—one I heard firsthand from a refugee girl Eli and I treated last spring. Her family had arrived in Seahaven sick and starving, like so many others who fled the Midlands, desperately seeking a reprieve from war and blight and famine.

We’d tried our best…but there is only so much damage even the best medicines can reverse. A few days after her arrival, the girl died in my arms, her frail lungs full of fluid. Her parents quickly followed suit, one after the other. We burned all three together in a driftwood pyre on the beach, then scattered their ashes in the sea.

Wherever the girl is now, I hope she does not mind my borrowing fragments of her story.

“My father is a farmer. My mother makes soaps and balms to sell in the market once a month—half a day’s journey from the farm in our cart.” I swallow hard, trying to sound like I’m not lying through my teeth. “My mother fell ill a fortnight past, so I went to market without her to sell our wares. We needed the money, and it’s always been safe in the past. I thought it worth the risk. Even people who don’t strictly approve of halflings trading are at least tolerant, assuming we stay mostly out of their way and keep our heads down. But this time…things were different.”

Scythe waits, impassive.

I stitch fear into my voice. “There were soldiers there, Eldian ones, posted throughout the market. And culling priests, preaching on the dangers of blood mixing, warning of repercussions for anyone caught harboring halflings. They must’ve spotted me. Or maybe someone reported me. I don’t know. All I do know is, when I tried to get away, the guards chased me. My cart overturned. My horse bolted. I ran for three days, trying to get home. But I didn’t make it. I was captured by Burrows and his men.” I pause. “You…well, you know the rest.”

There is a long silence.

I hope my lies are enough to convince him. I keep my face clear and my eyes wide, trying for an innocent, trustworthy expression.

“A farm girl,” Scythe says eventually, eyes scanning me up and down. “From Narbeth.”

I swallow again. “That’s right.”

He takes a sudden step forward, closing some of the distance between us, and I feel my heart trip over itself. He is dangerous enough at five paces; at four, he is lethal. I press back against Onyx’s flank, wishing I had more room to retreat—somewhere far, far away from those burning-ember eyes fixed so intently on my face.

“Firstly,” he murmurs, voice soft as a blade sliding between two ribs. “Farm girls do not use phrases like grossly mistaken or cold-blooded calculation or evidently . They certainly do not lecture on the merits of morality after witnessing a massacre. Not when they spend their days routinely butchering animals.”

My temper flares. “I suppose you’ve met many farm girls?”

“Enough to know you aren’t one. Next time you pretend to spend your days churning soap from tallow and lye, make sure you’ve got the calluses to back it up. You’ve the hands of a healer, not those of a washerwoman.”

I stiffen. “That’s not—”

“Secondly.” He takes another step, bringing him so close I can almost feel the heat radiating off his body. So close, it makes my breath catch and my airway close up, like a noose has once again been looped around it. “Narbeth is no border town. It’s nowhere near Eastwood, nor is it anywhere close to the woods where you were discovered.”

I press my eyes closed at this news. Maybe the girl had said Naxton, not Narbeth…

“And lastly,” Scythe says, taking one last step, delivering the death stroke as his body stops just short of mine. “You’d been on the run for quite some time when Burrows and his men found you. Not three days. A full month, I’d guess, judging by the state of your dress.”

“Burrows didn’t exactly pour me a hot bath and allow for pampering.” Anger rises sharply within me. “Seeing as he planned to execute me, it didn’t much matter how I looked.”

“I wasn’t talking about the stench. You’re skin and bones. That dress hangs off your frame, no match for the body beneath it.”

“Times are tough,” I retort haughtily, clinging to my rapidly fraying lies.

“No shoes, no proper cloak.” His eyes flicker down my form. “You ran, and you did it quickly. Without warning.”

I clench my teeth to keep silent.

“What were you running from?”

Flashes of that terrible night—torches and flames, the Starlight Wood burning. The baker, the cobbler, the tailor, incinerated inside their shops before they could flee. My favorite meadow reduced to ash. Children calling out for mothers who could not save them, their pleas piercing a smoke-hazed sky.

I bite my tongue to keep the memories locked within.

“You will tell me.” A declaration. A vow. His words as unshakable as his gaze. “Today, tomorrow. Perhaps in a week. You will tell me your story, girl. All of it.”

“I won’t tell you a godsdamned thing,” I hiss.

Behind us, Jac laughs softly.

Scythe does not. “Stubborn. So stubborn. No wonder you managed to evade them for so long.” He shakes his head, frustration written plainly on his face. “A trained contingent of soldiers, some of King Eld’s best men. Gods.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there is a note of grudging respect buried somewhere beneath all his exasperation.

“You were trained,” he says decidedly. “Someone taught you survival skills. How to move through the woods in silence, how to stay alive in the elements.” He pauses. “Not to mention, how to slow the bleeding of an arrow puncture and wrap a wound with quick efficiency.”

I keep silent, focused on breathing steadily. Quite a feat, given his proximity.

“You are no ordinary halfling, Remnant aside. And you are certainly no farmer’s daughter from Westlake. So, I’ll ask you one last time…” Scythe leans a handspan closer and the world around us seems to still, the howling wind outside the mouth of the cave cutting off abruptly, leaving behind a pervasive silence. “Who the hell are you?”