Page 13

I have often thought it strange that the three peoples who share this peninsula have such wildly different beliefs about the First Ones, the original twelve beings to inhabit the world.

The Iljaria, indeed, claim them as their ancestors, the beginnings of their power, and refer to them as Lords instead of gods.

They believe that if they are faithful to their traditions and their people, that if they nourish and grow their power, they themselves will become immortal after death and join the ranks of the First Ones.

If they are not, they will be reborn powerless. Damned. Skaandan.

The Daerosians don’t believe in the First Ones at all.

They believe in nothing, no one, and hold that the world knit itself together, and will one day likewise tear itself apart.

They scoff at the idea of life after death, resigned to their assertion that there is only emptiness. Darkness. Nonexistence.

But Skaandans revere the First Ones as gods.

We build temples and shrines and write books of truths and prayers.

We fight wars in the gods’ names, and we believe that if we are devout enough, they will reward us with eternal paradise after death.

If not, we are damned to dwell outside the gates of paradise, our backs bent with eternal labor, tormented and ashamed.

Not for the first time, I think that none of us have got it quite right.

Saga is the one who tells the story tonight, as we huddle close to the fire against the growing chill in the air.

Vil is, as usual, sitting opposite me, and I wish I were brave enough to go and join him, to let his warmth banish the cold and the dark together.

But I’m not brave enough. I stay where I am.

“For a time,” says Saga, “when Skaanda was first formed, there was peace. The Iljaria couldn’t be bothered to pursue us to our new home, or they did not like the idea of slaughtering adults as they had slaughtered children, their precious pacifism finally coming into play.”

Indridi frowns into the fire, her fingers making short work of repairing a tear in Vil’s cloak. Leifur sits closer to her than is strictly necessary, but Indridi has eyes only for her mending.

“They ruled from Tenebris, the mountain palace they carved from ice and rock. Some say they pulled the mountains themselves up from the earth and scattered the bones of the deep places in the glacier sea.” Saga is carving a design into the shaft of Pala’s spear, her knife quick and vicious, her eyes glittering as she talks.

“And then invaders came from over the sea, their eyes on our land, our resources. The Iljaria held to their damn pacifism. They abandoned Tenebris and retreated like cowards into the east, erecting their magical barrier and refusing to take part in the long wars between Skaanda and Daeros. And there they hide still, gifted with impossible power and using none of it to aid anyone but themselves.”

“The legends say they buried something in the heart of the mountain, before they left,” says Leifur unexpectedly.

For a heartbeat Indridi’s hands still over her work.

“What did they bury?” asks Saga, interested despite herself.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Vil, a little too quickly, but Saga waves him off.

“A weapon of impossible power,” Leifur answers.

His eyes are on Indridi, who is making the last few stitches into Vil’s cloak.

“They could have ended everything in a heartbeat, but that kind of power—it couldn’t be contained.

It would have destroyed all life, so the story goes.

So they hid it. They chose peace. That speaks to their sincerity, if nothing else, does it not? ”

“It’s just a story,” says Vil dismissively. “If such a weapon truly existed, only a fool would hide it.”

Indridi ties off her thread and snips the end. She hands the mended cloak to Vil, who takes it with a nod of thanks.

“Kallias believes it exists,” I offer.

Everyone’s eyes snap to my face.

Vil frowns. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve overheard him discussing it with his engineer. He’s been digging into the mountain, looking for it.”

A tension comes into Vil’s body, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “Why didn’t you say anything about it until now?” he demands.

I shrug, raising my eyebrows. “It’s just a story. I didn’t think it was important. And I’m telling you now. Is it important?”

For another moment he stares hard at me, but then he shrugs and gives a forced laugh. “Just a story, indeed. The dark must be addling Kallias’s brain. In any case, we’re going to do what the Iljaria did not. We’re going to drive those Daerosian bastards from our shores once and for all.”

Saga nods, a fierce light in her eyes. “Damn right we are.” She yelps as she slips with her knife and slices her finger.

Indridi curses softly and digs for a bandage in her sewing kit. She binds Saga’s finger while Vil paces over to me. He grabs my hand and tugs me a little away from the others. My heart races, my lips remembering our moonlit kiss weeks ago.

Clouds knot over the stars, and the wind is bitter.

“What is it?” I ask him, warring with myself over whether to pull my hand away, or pull him closer.

His eyes fix on me, sharp and clear, and my stomach clenches. “I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he says. “After our talk last night. After we ran into the Iljaria today. You’ve been ... quiet.”

I find myself staring at his mouth.

“The Iljaria’s presence doesn’t change anything. We continue on as before.” He lets go of my hand and puts both of his on my shoulders. There is precious little space between us now. “You have nothing to fear, from Iljaria or Daeros, either. You know that, right? I’m going to keep you safe.”

My throat catches and my eyes fill. “I know.”

Vil takes a breath, lifting one hand to smooth his thumb against my cheek. I shut my eyes and lean into him, tucking my head under his chin. He holds me like that for a little while. His heart beats out a mad rhythm beneath my ear.

Before I’m quite ready, Vil pulls away, pressing a brief kiss on my brow before heading toward his tent.

I take my jumble of emotions to the tent I share with the other women.

I tug a comb through my curls, change into my sleeping shift, and crawl into my bedroll.

I stare up at the ceiling of the tent. Sleep feels far away.

Saga comes in a little while later, Indridi conspicuously absent. I wonder if she’s lingering by the fire, hoping for the chance to speak with Vil. Nausea churns in my gut.

I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep, but Saga isn’t fooled.

She pokes me until I sigh and sit up, looking at her in the light of her lantern.

My fingers go unconsciously to my ears. They’ve healed well, due in part, I’m sure, to Saga making me clean them with alcohol every night for the first six weeks.

Saga presses a cup of tea into my hands. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Vil?”

I fight down a surge of annoyance that Saga feels entitled to this information. I sip the tea. “Nothing’s going on, Saga.”

She presses her lips together and fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “You and I both know that isn’t true. My brother has feelings for you. Do you return them or not?”

I shove down the urge to curse at her. “What do you want me to do, Saga?”

She folds her arms across her chest. “I want you to figure out how you feel about him, so you can either claim him or cut him loose so he can find a way to heal his broken heart.”

I sag. “I don’t—I don’t know how I feel, Saga. How am I supposed to feel about anything? How am I supposed to feel , at all?”

“That didn’t keep you from kissing that bastard son of Kallias in the tunnels,” she says viciously.

I grind my jaw, tears pricking hot. “That was different.”

“Why?”

I blink and see sparks of blue and silver; I taste magic, enough to light the dark. I don’t want to parcel out my feelings, lay them on a tray like Saga’s earrings, pick out the ones I want to keep. I don’t even know how.

“Ballast was my friend,” I say quietly. I have no other excuse to offer.

Her anger is palpable, and tears shine on her cheeks. “He killed Hilf, Brynja. Murdered him. I don’t understand why that doesn’t matter to you.”

I duck my head, knotting my fingers in my blanket. “It does. It haunts me. But you know that wasn’t his fault.”

“Now you’re defending him?”

I take a breath. Try to steady myself. “He was trapped in Kallias’s control. Just like the rest of us.”

“He was nothing like the rest of us. Hilf is gone. Hilf is gone . Because of him .” She collapses, sobbing, and I put the tea down and scoot over to her, pulling her tight against me, holding her as she shakes and cries.

“I’m sorry, Saga,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m so very sorry. If I could bring him back to you, I would. You know I would.”

I hold her until she grows still, my heart cracked in two.

She blows out the lantern, and we both crawl into our bedrolls, Indridi still not joining us.

Saga’s breathing evens out. I think she’s asleep, but then she says: “I’m so scared to go back to the mountain, Brynja. So scared Kallias will put me back in my cage. Slit my throat. Throw my corpse into the Sea of Bones.”

My throat works as I fight to breathe. I find her hand in the dark, and I squeeze it tight. “I’m afraid of that, too.”

“I know.” She takes a shaky breath. “We’re both of us just learning to be normal again. Maybe this was a mistake.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But we can’t let him go unchecked any longer. Someone has to stand up to him. Someone has to stop him doing to anyone else what he did to us.”

“You’re right,” says Saga. “Of course you’re right.”

Silence flows between us and I stare into the dark, trying to understand something, anything . “I kissed Vil,” I confess at last.

Saga squawks. “When were you going to tell me this ?”

“It was weeks ago. After the river crossing. But I don’t know how I feel. And it wouldn’t be fair to him to promise him my heart when I don’t understand it.”

She’s quiet a moment. “You need to figure it out, Bryn.”

I count the beats of my heart. “I know.”

She falls asleep after that, but I’m still awake hours later when Pala bursts into the shelter, lantern swinging from one hand.

“Brynja!” she says, “Saga! Your Highness!”

I’m on my feet in an instant and Saga the next. We stare at Pala in the lantern light.

“What is it?” Saga asks, voice rough with sleep.

Pala’s face is all hard lines. “Indridi is gone, Your Highness.”

Saga blinks at her. “What?”

“She’s fled. Taken a horse and gone in the night.”

Saga rubs her forehead, confused. “Why would she do that? Where is she going?”

“East, Your Highness. Toward Iljaria.”

My stomach twists. I’m going to be sick.

“But why ?” says Saga, voice high and frantic.

Pala looks grim. “Because she’s an Iljaria spy.”