I stare at him, then glance down. Sure enough, my shirt sleeve has been ripped to the shoulder, the wound on my forearm thickly bandaged. Several pots and tinctures are neatly arranged on the carpet of moss, each labelled in lazy, looping handwriting.
Of course. I remember now.
Cleaver. Slaver. Hunter.Healer.
Fox watches me, his expression unreadable. It’s strange seeing him dressed like the Fidra and not in Terrathian green. Yet even in a pale fawn-coloured shirt and ragged trousers, he is still utterly,irritatinglybeautiful. His sun-gold skin is a shade deeper, his dark hair slightly longer and just as untidy as ever, and his eyes, fringed by thick lashes, manage to make the bright hue of the leaves overhead appear dull. He still wears that little hoop earring, though I’m not surprised to see that his signet rings – one engraved with the Castellion raven, the other with the Calloway falcon – are absent. Too conspicuous.
‘But – but what are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘How did you even find me?’ Taking a deep breath, I try to piece it all together, retracing my steps back through the Ridge tunnels. I recall a rubble-strewn chamber, a smouldering beast, a burst of flame …
My stomach plummets.
‘Flint,’ I breathe. ‘Flint. He’s still in there. He saved me. We have to go back.Now. He could be hurt, he could –’
But Fox holds up a hand, silencing me. ‘Your brother’s alive.’
‘What? Is he here?’ I look around frantically, as if half expecting to find Flint curled up like a cat beside the bag of medical supplies.
‘No,’ Fox says, snuffing out my brief spark of hope. ‘But he’s not dead. I promise.’
‘What are youtalkingabout?’ I almost yell. ‘How can youpossiblypromise that?’ Confusion turns to rage. I grit my teeth, hauling myself to my feet once more. ‘Actually, Idon’t have time for your games. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to find my brother.’
Fox rolls his eyes. ‘Storm Weaver.’
I ignore him, drawing back the curtain of branches.
‘Storm Weaver.’
I hesitate for a moment, then turn back. Fox watches, with an undeniable air of satisfaction, as my face floods with shock.
He grins, letting the Eye of the Past swing back and forth on its chain. ‘You didn’t really think I let my uncle take the real one, did you?’
11
Flint
If this is what dying feels like, then I wish death would stop being such a tease. Come and get me already. Come and take me somewhere safe and quiet. A lush green meadow. A comfortable room. Perhaps my mother will be there, waiting with Aunt Yvainne. Maybe Blaze is there too, sitting cross-legged in an armchair, her nose buried in a book.
Strange. It’s almost as if I can hear voices speaking softly. If my mouth weren’t all dried up, I’d call out to them.
More time passes and I wait patiently, letting my life drift away slowly, like smoke.
A light breeze flutters gently across my face. There’s a strange scraping sound, followed by a grunt. This must be it – the end.
‘Mother?’ I whisper.
‘Hmm,’ says a familiar voice. ‘You know I like it when you call mebaby, but I thinkMothermight be a step too far.’
I open my eye. ‘Spinner?’
‘Hello, lover.’
I stare at her, stunned. I blink once, twice, three times, and yet she’s still there, grinning down at me, her pretty, pointed face illuminated by the nightlight.
‘I’ve always liked how you look when you’re sleepy. Wouldn’t you agree, Sheen?’
My chaperone steps out from behind her. His white-blonde hair looks even paler against his smooth russet skin. His violet eyes are fixed on me, unblinking. My stomach tumbles at the sight of him. Both of them wear modest travel clothes and thick boots. There’s not a scrap of gold in sight.
‘What’re youdoinghere?’ My voice is a rough croak.
