“She's wrong by every rule I know,” he growled. “Every part of her.”
Thessia grinned. “And yet you’re worried about her.”
“Following orders,” he snapped. Too fast.
She didn’t call him on it, but she thought it anyway:That little moonbeam has you wrapped around her finger, and you don’t even see it.
She leaned on her glaive. “You’re both smitten. Different flavors, same sickness.”
Zarrek grunted. “Speak for yourself. You’ve been sniffing around her, too. Letting her ride that oversized cat of yours.”
He glanced upward at the dark sky, where red clouds pressed down. “Hope she makes it to morning. Never seen him like this. Don’t care to see what happens if she fades.”
Thessia murmured a prayer to the Riven, braid twisting in her fingers, ribbon catching the moonlight.
“Come on, Bloodletter,” she said at last. “Let’s find a drink. If we’ve got any left.”
18
Lingering Chill
The Kelvasari pressed on. They couldn’t afford not to. With every passing day, the Cycle of Dark drew closer. The weather was shifting. The sun wasn’t as bright as before, and the Moores took on a grayish pallor even in the light.
Several days after the varkhound attack, the company came across a group of traveling merchants. They came with their wagons rattling and hopeful eyes, twenty souls asking to march beneath the Kelvasari’s protection. Just far enough. Just to Stonewake, at least. From there, they could make the rest of the journey to Maradryn.
Resh heard them out, then cut their pleas with steel. The Kelvasari’s supplies were already thin, the road perilous enough with rift anomalies, Cycle Drift, and varkhounds on the hunt. The company was no caravan, but a fortress in motion—pushing at a relentless pace—and no fortress opened its gates to strangers on the eve of Dark.
Zarrek inclined his head in agreement, his voice low. “The risk outweighs the gain.”
Thessia bristled. “What are a few more? They have coin, trade.”
Resh turned his gaze on her, unyielding. “Coin won’t shield against the Dark. I cannot waste my men’s lives on mouths that cannot fight. When the night falls, we will need every blade, every spell, every shield to protect those already within these ranks.”
Her mouth curved in defiance. “And yet you took me in.”
“Yes,” Resh said, voice even as iron. “Because every one of your warriors can carry their weight. That is the only bargain I make.”
Zarrek grunted. “Got enough to deal with. Bad weather, rotting supplies, and now these rift anomalies. Wardens can’t predict anything anymore. Last thing any of us need is more bodies to dig graves for.”
Thessia couldn’t argue, and so the Kelvasari and the Riven Blades pressed on, marching through the Moores toward the Wette, their horses and boots flattening the rain-soaked grasslands beneath their number.
Their Riftwardens remained on high alert, testing the air with magic, using their dowsing rods to try to predict a coming tear. But even Wardens could only do so much. Most rifts appeared without warning, spewing forth monsters and other things from the bowels of Elendria. Even with constant patrols, runes, wards, and shields, the company was vulnerable. Especially now that Auryn was settled in one of the wagons while the horses pulled carts of supplies behind them.
The arrangement slowed them down, but it was the safest way to transport her. The smaller cartwheels weren’t meant for the mud found in the Moores, and when it rained, the wheels hardly turned and slipped into the smallest ditch. Every time they had to stop to rip the wood and steel from muck, they lost hours.
Still, they pushed. The Kelvasari did not complain—most prayed for Auryn’s recovery, others out of deference to their Commander’s orders. Those that prayed did so with zeal. Resh kept finding small tributes tucked away in parts of the wagon during stops. Broken coins, feathers, rare beads, and even food. Gifts for the one they calledSokâr.
Resh didn’t know how to stop this foolishness. It had started as a single thread, unwinding when Auryn had stopped the river. But after she’d closed the rift with nothing but her shining light and her bare hands, thethread had turned into a tangled mass of cords—impossible to untangle. He didn’t know where to start. Wasn’t certain if heshould.
His Kelvasari carried hope with their prayers and tributes. It bolstered them—a thing much needed in a journey this harsh and unforgiving. But such worship was dangerous. Risky. Auryn was attracting far too much attention for all the wrong reasons. She was not the Sokâr. Not the prophet spoken of in Doctrine.
She was starlight. A treasure to be protected,nota symbol to be claimed.
And she was so fragile. More so than any of these soldiers could imagine. Every time he looked at her pale face and heard her unsteady breathing, he quaked inside for how close he’d come to losing her.
He sat with her as often as he could. During the day, he, Thessia, and Zarrek took turns checking on her in the wagon. Then, at night when travel stopped and the companies rested, Resh allowed himself to be with her in the Commander’s tent. On those nights, he kept his worry at bay with journaling, reports, and inventories. Planning the route, checking bestiaries to remind himself of the threats ahead.
When—inevitably—he found himself wandering to her side to watch her sleep, he allowed himself to stroke her hair. He told her stories of the Gliders, of those who had grown wings and taken to the sky. Of all those on the Surface, their culture tugged at him the most. He hoped to one day return to those cliffs and skies. Hoped to ride the winds as the Skycleaver once again.
