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Over and over the Song came into the world, correcting errors, then disappearing. But always, always, the corruption returned.
I could not fix it, the Song whispered sadly, the images fading.
Clare laughed. The sound never left her lips, only reverberated inside her, for the Song’s ears alone.
Of course you could not fix it. You do not even see why, do you?
The Song was silent for a brief time, in which the winds around Clare almost completely died.
Are you telling me that you do?
It would seem, she told it, that even you have something to learn.
As if to prove her right, it howled, and the winds howled with it. Clare was amused enough in that moment that she might have shattered its prison and let it reclaim the world, just so it could spend a few eons of loneliness pondering why the world it created was part good, part bad, until lack of an answer drove it to recreate Clare just so she could tell it the answer.
But something fell to the ground below her, and she opened her eyes.
Numair.
She snapped the Song’s power back, shoving it into its cage as if it were water poured through a funnel. Pain split her skull as it fought her, but she had rattled it with her laughter, and she held on through the pain, through the blood that poured down her nose and out the corners of her eyes, until she slammed shut the doors of the Song’s prison.
With its departure she fell abruptly out of the air, landing awkwardly and collapsing onto all fours beside Numair. He didn’t speak, only found the gatestone and took them home.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Stay With Me
They returned, not to the library but to Numair’s bedchamber. She stood in the center of the room with her fists clenched, waiting for…what?
Judgment, she finally realized. He’d walked with her through Renault County, he’d sat with her through Simian’s death, and he’d stood with her on the cliff and watched her past burn, but she was still waiting for judgment. Waiting for him to realize, now that they were back here, that he shouldn’t have done any of those things.
His eyes searched her face. “Are you hurt?”
“I should be asking you that.”
“I think, of the two of us, you had the harder time.” He gave her a shaky smile. “I really don’t like that thing inside of you.”
She barked out a laugh. “It doesn’t much care for you, either.”
“Why?”
“Because I do.” The words fell heavily between them, a truth she’d never voiced. Given the tortured look he was giving her now, she wished she hadn’t. But the words had just fallen out, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t already know. It wasn’t as if she expected him to return the sentiment. But maybe he thought that was why she’d said it?
She scowled. This—everything—was confusing. Her gaze caught on his palms—scraped and torn—and she was grateful to have an excuse to change the direction of the conversation. “Give me your hands, you’re bleeding everywhere.”
He lifted them. “You don’t have to?—”
But she already was, taking his hands in hers, the Song reluctantly doing as she bid it. She used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe away the blood, verifying that his skin was once more whole beneath it. Her own skin was likewise bloodstained. It wasn’t her own, or his, but that of the person she’d killed almost as soon as she’d arrived in Renault County.
Something like regret washed over her and she felt unclean in a way that had nothing to do with dried blood or dirt, but she wanted both off her. “Can I use your washroom?” she asked abruptly.
“Of course. Are you…” He trailed off, and she was glad of it.
Because no, she was not okay, and she didn’t want to lie to him but she didn’t want to talk about it either. She dropped his hands and escaped to the washroom, shutting the door. This space, like Numair’s room, was a reflection of him. Black and gray stone tiles covered the floor and walls, brightened by plants that dripped from hanging pots and wall planters so it looked more like a jungle oasis than a washroom.
The tub sunk into the center was the size of a small pool, and she turned on all four of its taps. While it was filling she went to the sink, rinsing her mouth. First with water, then with a mouthful of the peppermint-heavy healer’s rinse from the jar on the vanity table. Only once the ashen film in her mouth was gone did she gulp down handfuls of cold water, soothing a throat that was rough from the power that had expressed itself through her voice. In the vanity mirror her eyes stared back at her, the weight of the Song flashing behind the green depths, bloody tear tracks down her face.
She turned away from her reflection and went to the tub, stripping out of her clothing and sinking into the scalding depths. It was a too-familiar process, scrubbing her skin clean of blood. She wondered if she should feel remorse—not for Simian, but for the girl in her old room, and the nameless person in the market square, both dead by her own hand. For the thousands of nameless others consumed by the licking flames of the Song’s rage.
