Page 22 of Embers of Ruin

When we ride out of Lycar and the village begins to disappear behind us, I feel the loss of it more sharply than I should. Maybe it’s because the Lycarians showed me the type of kindness that I’ve always wanted to feel back home. Maybe it was being seen as a person, rather than a plague that people are forced to tolerate due to proximity. Either way, I’m not up for conversation which seems to suit Onyx. I chance a glance at him, and he’s wearing the same stoic expression that he’s worn since I met him—no shocker there.

The road north climbs steadily, winding past large mountains covered with frost and stretches of dark earth. The rot. I’m not surprised that it stretches this far north, because the continent is cursed but the air feels different the closer we get to wherever it is we are going. I don’t bother asking Onyx, because I know I won’t get a reply worth anything. He’s being awfully quiet, and that raises my suspicions—he isn’t the most talkative person I’ve ever met, but the absence of a smart remark or unsolicited commentary in general is throwing me off.

The air is growing colder, the kind that carries a bite—so I tighten my hands around the reins and try not to think too much about warm kitchens, hot porridge or the fact that Otto’s honey cakes are sitting in my satchel when I could be eating one now. As if my stomach heard my thoughts, it chooses that exact moment to let out a low growl. I sneak another glance at Onyx, but he seems preoccupied with his own thoughts. I wonder if he’s conflicted about escorting me halfway across the continent? Maybe he’s irritated that he has to do it in the first place? Honestly, I don’t care. He could have left me to fend for myself that night instead of dragging me to the one man I hate more than the rot, more than Elvora—more than anything.

Now and then we pass a wagon or a pair of traveling merchants wrapped in thick wool tunics, looking half frozen. They aren’t nearly as polite as the people in Lycar were, but they have the decency to nod as they pass.

We travel farther into the mountains and I let out a sigh that feels like it’s coming from my very soul. I’m ready to get the trip over with, and I’m sure Onyx has to feel the same way.

“Are we almost there?” I yawn, patting Bromir on the hind to slow his pace.

“Nearly.” He doesn’t slow his pace, despite noticing that I’ve slowed mine. “Pick up your pace, Tarethyn, we’re almost there.”

That was it. No explanation, no directions, just hurry up. By now I can tell that something is off with Onyx, and I clear my throat before attempting to make conversation again.

“You know, since I’m technically being kidnapped⁠—”

“Escorted.” He cuts me off, slowing his horse. “You are being escorted to Andell to see his majesty. There is a distinction, would you like me to tell you what that is?”

“So he speaks?” I squeal as my eyebrows shoot up, feigning mock surprise.

“Only when he is forced to by a silver-haired nuisance who feels the need to fill every moment with conversation.”

I ignore that, because I finally have him talking. I do a double take when I notice the corner of his mouth tug slightly, almost as if he’s holding in a grin. I feel a spark of satisfaction at how far we’ve come since I became his unwilling guest.

Smirking, I tilt my head to the side.

“There,” I say, throwing my arms out, and I’m sure I look ridiculous. I hope he hates this as much as I enjoy it. “You nearly smiled.”

“I did not. I don’t smile.”

“You do, and you did! I saw it. It was more like a painful grimace that wanted to be a smile, but I saw it!”

“You imagine many things. You should eat something, I heard your stomach growling for all the world to hear back there. You might start hallucinating next.”

I let out a laugh so loud that I have to catch myself, almost falling off of Bromir. That would have been extremely embarrassing, and I’m sure Onyx would not have let me live it down.

“Unfortunately for me, I don’t think those hallucinations would involve me waking up in my bed in Elvora and discovering this entire journey was a nightmarish fever dream.”

At that, he glances over. His face looks more relaxed than a few moments ago, and I’m not sure why that makes me relax a little.

“If it were a fever dream, I doubt Otto’s food would taste as good.”

I hate agreeing with him, but he does have a point. Otto’s food was amazing. We carry on with the banter that has become somewhat normal for us, at least helping the time pass. Then, mile by mile, the landscape begins to change. At first I think my eyes are playing tricks on me. Exhaustion has a way of doing that to a person. But as the paved road narrows, I notice pale flowers growing along patches of dry, brittle grass. They are small and star-shaped, almost translucent, their petals not white but silver in a way I have never seen in anything living. Except—I have. My hair is almost the exact shade as the flowers.

Now I’m immediately alert, because I know that I can make flowers grow with my magic, but I haven’t seen a single instance of a naturally growing plant or flower aside from those that I create. Naturally we have grains, oats, lentils and the like but Elvora gets those resources from outside trade.

More of the strange flowers appear the farther we ride. They gather in clusters at the bases of stones, then spill across whole stretches of the mountains, so that the dark land is veiled in something that looks like moonlight made solid. I’m momentarily stunned—my brain is trying to rationalize how the rot has not affected this part of land.

“Are these… real?” I slow my pace to peer down at the flowers more closely.

“As real as you or I.” That’s Onyx’s only reply. He sure can be useful at times. I roll my eyes, urging Bromir forward.

For years I have imagined Solaris as a continent consumed with rot brought on by the curse. But there is beauty here too, and that genuinely surprises the hell out of me.

By now it’s midday and the road trails farther into the mountains. The earth grows rockier, forcing Bromir and Onyx’s horse, Zael, to slow their steady trot uphill. I notice the skeletal trees clinging to the slopes in scattered clusters, and when we ride close enough, I realize they are not skeletal at all. Their bark is dark as charcoal, yes, but blue veins run through the trunks in narrow branching lines, as though light has somehow found its way beneath the surface and frozen there. The branches arch overhead in twisted shapes resembling the temples of the high priests.

The farther north we ride, the cleaner the air becomes in some ways—sharper, almost—but threaded through with something metallic and cold that settles uneasily at the back of my throat. It tastes metallic, almost like blood, with a sharp hint of iron. I’m beginning to suspect Solaris is determined to make me question every certainty I have ever possessed.