for you have found the honey of life—freedom.
—fromThe Odyssey of Goromount: A Play
Yassen watched Elena disappear out of view. He had half a mind to go after her, to watch her, but he had seen the look on her face. If she wanted to be alone, he would grant her that.
Sighing, he studied the map. The closest mine was ten miles from them, the farthest about fifteen. Even if they managed to hit the closer one, the other two mines would still be in production. The ore could still be extracted, although at a slower rate.
But Yassen remembered the pride in the handler’s voice, the excitement in the merchant’s. If the miners had truly extracted enough ore for Farin to celebrate, then Ravence and whatever leftover rebellion would not stand a chance. It was already crumbling. Jantar’s new weapons would be the final strike.
He didn’t blame Elena for her anguish. Their home was burning, and she could do nothing about it.
If the Arohassin had tasked him to destroy these mines, Yassen would have done a full recon. Scouted the terrain, studied the extraction sequences. But they didn’t have time for that. The soldiers would be on this mountain soon.
And the Arohassin, he thought, and that worried him more.
They would have caught on to his betrayal by now. Though Akaros did not know about this cabin, he would put it together eventually.
Samson had been able to shake off the Arohassin because he had joined the Jantari army. He sold secrets and tactical information for higher protection. He and Elena had no army, no protection. Even if they reached the Black Scales in one piece, Samson was not there to lead them.
Yassen sighed and closed the holo.
The mountains lay quiet, and for a brief moment, Yassen saw them for what they really were: giant, intimidating, and gentle. He saw the tall pines rake the pale morning sky. A mountain lark flitted between the canopies, calling.
He had always loved their songs as a boy. When he came to the cabin with his parents, the first thing he would do was run into the trees, armed with a seeing glass, and find a quiet spot. There, he’d watch the treetops for the telltale flutter of blue and listen for the bird’s two- or three-note song. Afterward, when he and his mother returned to Ravence and his father to the mines, Yassen would play the birdsong on the piano, relying on memory to find the right notes that captured their voices. No matter how hard he tried, it had never been quite the same.
As the mountain lark called again, he began to hum a song, a ghost of a melody. He could not remember the lyrics—or even the song’s name. He only remembered that the tune belonged to an old Sayonai ballad about lovers so morose they became the moons. A melancholy song, yet familiar and warm.
Yassen decided he would tidy up and then go find Elena. He had just gathered her empty teacup when his right arm seized. His muscles locked with such excruciating intensity that he stumbled.
He rested his head against the counter, breathing in deeply. Focusing on the cool touch of stone against his forehead.
One, two, three, four, five…
When the pain finally passed enough for him to lift his arm, Yassen pulled back the sleeve.
The sight frightened him. His right hand had entirely blackened, and the skin below his wrist was mottled with angry patches of red and orange.
Yassen rose slowly, swaying. The cabin was eerily quiet, and he stood there for a moment, taking in how sunlight slanted in through the windows and dusted the frayed Ravani rug.
When he felt steady enough to walk, he went to the closet in the hallway and pulled out his father’s surgical kit. Injuries were common in the mines.
Yassen pulled off his shirt in the bathroom, breathing in sharply as he took stock of the whole arm. The cuts on his upper arm had become infected and swollen. Dried dirt caked the raised grooves of his skin. Carefully, he drew a bath and began to wash. After drying and wrapping a towel around his waist, Yassen pulled a small towel off the rack and balled it into his mouth. Then, soaking a cloth with the whiskey his father stored beneath the bathroom sink, he began.
Every time he touched his bruised skin, Yassen wanted to scream. Tears pricked his eyes. His toes curled as he slowly washed away the grime. Drops of murky brown blood dripped into the sink. The towel in his mouth became sodden. Yassen spat it out, grabbed a clean one, and shoved it in. When he was done cleaning, he grabbed a needle and surgical thread. He poured whiskey over them and a particularly deep gash in his forearm before inserting the needle.
Yassen nearly fainted. His knees went weak, and he slumped forward.
Come on, he urged himself.Come on.
He blinked fiercely and carefully threaded the needle. His fingers trembled as he stitched, but whenever he got too dizzy, Yassen thought of the journey ahead of him, the work that had to be done, and he found the fortitude to continue.
He was trying to snip off the excess thread when the bathroom door opened. Elena stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. Her gaze first fell on the towel wrapped around his waist, then to the kit balanced on the counter.
“Whatare you doing?”
“Mhhm mm,” he said through the towel in his mouth.
“What?”
