Page 7 of The Mortal Trials

I breathe her in and do my best not to cry.

“Callalie, I love you,” she says into my neck, holding me tighter. Her tears soak into my skin and make my chin wobble.

When I left for Morrigan’s army the first time, she didn’t shed a tear in front of me. She told me how strong I was and that I’d come home soon enough. She smiled, helped me pack, and gave me a good luck charm to take with me for protection. A quetzal feather I kept with me through every war, until my final battle, even when it was tattered and soaked with sweat and blood.

The healers stripped off my uniform when they saved my life. They burned my ruined clothes and with them, the feather in the pocket of my trousers.

She doesn’t smile now. Doesn’t lie and tell me I’ll be fine. I’m not the same girl who left the first time, and there’s little hope if this war is anything like the last.

I manage to tell her, “I love you, too.”

Cillian joins our embrace, wrapping his long arms around us both. He kisses my head because he’s as tall as a tree when I’m no taller than a sapling.

I pull away while I still can, extricating from their embrace when it’s the last thing I want to do. My duffle is crammed beneath my armoire. Leaving one to change into, I tear the rest of my uniforms off their hangers and fold what I can, stuffing my duty and fear into the small bag, focusing on one tiny task at a time. If I think beyond that, I’ll fall apart.

When my uniforms are packed, all that remains is my only pair of extra shoes, which I won’t need where I’m going. Once my armoire is clear, I move to my dresser and empty the drawers of all I own. I think of how full my sister Carina’s room still is, and how little will be left if I don’t come home and this room becomes my mausoleum.

“I need to change,” I tell Abuela and Cillian.

Cillian steps out of the room. Abuela follows and pulls the door closed behind her.

When I’m ready, my boots tightly laced, I tell them I’m decent. The door swings open and my family steps in. Cillian holds the feather the quetzal left for us this morning. He brings it to me. “Take this. The last one brought you home.”

My tears cascade down my cheeks as I place the feather on top of my things before zipping it out of sight.

The duffle is heavy on my back. Despite months of working to strengthen it, my body is still weaker than it was. The extra weight adds more strain to my rusted joint. Each step I take is louder now.

“Get the oil,” Abuela asks of Cillian, shooing him toward the kitchen.

He runs and grabs what she’s saved for me, which is no more than a cap full. I lift my pant leg and let him work the thin liquid into the hinge.

The oil is not a cure, but it does help. My knee no longer threatens to lock up as I step into the hallway, turn and hug my family one more time, and walk out into the courtyard surrounding our house.

Niall unlatches the gate built into the adobe wall and holds it open for me. I look back over my shoulder and wave at Abuela and Cillian where they linger on the landing.

They would come with me if they could.

Cillian would report for me if Morrigan would agree, but I would never allow it. The gods can take one child per family, and I was called from ours to fight for her. If I die fighting, so be it.

One day, when my baby brother finishes honing his craft, he’ll be able to raise his family in peace. I want him to find happiness.

My feet carry me away from the only place I want to be, as I walk beside the last person I want to be with.

At first, Niall is quiet as we make our way down the rust-colored road past homes formed from hand-shaped, hardened red earth, like Abuela’s. We pass cacti and agave, banana trees and jacaranda. Two carefree children excavate rocks they call ‘treasure’ while a trio in the next yard chases one another, squealing and laughing.

It wasn’t so long ago that we were their size and hadn’t yet felt the weight of viciousness and hatred.

The houses and plants thin the farther we walk beneath the already sweltering mid-morning sun, until only we, the creosote, and prickly pears adorn the worn path. Our boots crunch along the bone-dry ground. I focus on the sound, trying to make it stomp away every fear and worry boiling through my head.

“How have you been?” he finally tries.

I hate that Morrigan sent him instead of a messenger. I hate the sound of his voice. And worst of all, I hate that once upon a time, I loved it.

“Come on, Callalie,” he laments. “I’m trying to be civil here.”

“Who said I craved civility?”

Niall gives up, like Niall often does, and we continue our trek in blessed silence.