Page 19

“‘Light was born to kill the dark,’” quotes Vil, bitterly.

“And yet ‘without the darkness,’” Leifur counters, “‘there can never be rest.’”

“Leave it alone,” Vil commands.

Leifur squares his jaw and ducks his head. “I would have killed her,” he says bitterly. Helplessly.

Vil’s face goes tight. “She was a traitor, and you were following my order, and—you didn’t, in the end. She didn’t let you.”

“Your Highness—”

“Enough, Leifur,” says Vil quietly. “It’s over. And if there is any mercy at all in the way that ... it ended—” His eyes are wet. “At least none of us bears the guilt of her soul. If she even had one.” He jerks to his feet and strides into his tent, letting the flap fall shut behind him.

I ache to go after him, to fold myself into his chest, to share the grief that devours us both. But I don’t quite know how, and so I remain sitting there with Saga and Leifur, staring miserably into the fire.

“There was nothing else you could have done,” Saga tells Leifur gently. “You were obeying Vil, as is your duty. But like he said—in the end, you weren’t the one to take her life.”

“She didn’t deserve to die like that.” Leifur’s voice cracks. “Why would she—why would she choose that? I’m not sure—I’m not certain I could have even done it. I’m not certain I could have killed her. And if I’d refused—”

“Then Pala would have done it,” says Saga. “Or Vil. Or me.” She takes a ragged breath. “Her death was a mercy, Leifur. She could not have lived. We all know that. Skaandans are loyal to their people, to their gods. Indridi did not fit into that equation. She was the enemy.”

Leifur bows his head and weeps quietly.

I look away. I can’t bear it.

Saga fixes me with her shrewd eyes. “What do you really think, Brynja? You listen and listen, and you never say anything.”

I take a breath, try to quell the rising storm inside me. “I think she didn’t deserve to die. Not like that. Not at all, by her hand or ours.”

“And yet she did,” says Saga. “Would you have shown her mercy, Brynja? Would you have allowed her, a traitor, to live, let her go running off to the Prism Master to ruin us?”

There is an evil knot in my belly, so tight and sour I am utterly sick. There is no answer I can give her that would satisfy either of us. So I don’t reply, standing and turning away from the fire.

I pace toward Skógur City, alone. It begins to snow, and white flakes catch on the shoulders of my coat.

I step up to the city wall and place one hand against the stone. My breath catches in wonder: It’s smooth, warm, teeming with Iljaria magic. I close my eyes and let it wash through me, clean and fresh as water from a mountain spring.

A touch on my arm makes me jump and wheel, heart raging.

Vil stands there with a lantern dangling from one hand.

His head is uncovered, and snow clings to his close-cropped hair as if he’s been dusted with icing sugar.

His eyes are red. “I didn’t know where you’d gone,” he says, voice breaking.

“You shouldn’t have left camp—it isn’t safe out here all alone. ”

The magic pulses at my back, radiating like heat from the city wall. Snow swirls between us, eddying, white.

“Everything feels broken since Indridi,” he says. “ We feel broken. I want to fix it, Brynja. Help me fix it.” The grief in his face wrecks me.

I touch his cheek with my hand, brush flakes of snow from his skin.

He shudders and puts the lantern down, wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulls me tight against him.

His heart beats fast under my ear. He smells like fire and snow and the faint hint of his citrus shaving lotion.

For a while we cling to each other, snow collecting in our hair, the night around us frigid but the space between us fiercely warm.

“I can’t bear it,” he says. “I can’t bear that she chose to kill herself rather than appeal to my mercy. I can’t bear that I would not have given it to her, even if she had asked for it.” A sob wrenches out of him. “I can’t bear it, Brynja.”

Grief clogs my throat. “I can’t, either,” I whisper against his chest.

He takes a long breath. “I need you.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. Snow falls thicker, colder. Behind me the walls of the ancient Iljaria city pulse with power.

Vil pulls away enough to look down at me, a desperate, liquid wanting in his eyes. But my heart is dull and slow and Indridi is dead and Kallias is waiting in his mountain palace to devour me whole.

He takes a long, ragged breath. “When we get to Tenebris, nothing can compromise our mission. Not Indridi’s betrayal. Not our feelings. Mine for you or ... yours for me.”

Shame weighs heavy. I look away.

“We can’t have any hidden agendas or grudges,” he says. “We have to focus on what matters: seizing the mountain, eliminating Kallias, bringing peace.” His jaw works. “We have to trust each other completely. Do you trust me, Brynja? Will you trust me?”

“I trust you, Vil.” My whole body is trembling. It would be so easy to pull his mouth to mine, to melt into him like so much snow. But there is too much ahead, and too much behind, and too much uncertainty rattling around in the hollow of my heart.

Once more he touches my face, his fingertips searing my skin. “And I trust you, Brynja Sindri.” He smiles sideways at me and picks up the lantern. “Back to camp, then.”

We go together, trudging side by side in the fast-accumulating snow, away from the Iljaria city. He takes my hand, his warm fingers engulfing mine, and just for this moment I allow myself to rest in his safety.