Yes it is, the healer in Eiland retorted.
The rest of him wasn’t so sure.
Sierrach made breakfast and hovered in the doorway while Eiland ate. Mara’s footsteps went up and down the hall, pausing occasionally when Sierrach leaned out to speak to her. Eiland picked at his food until Sierrach took it away from him and wrapped it up in a cloth, adding it to a large pack of food that he was hastily putting together.
Voices and footsteps came down the hall and Eiland’s stomach clenched.
“—take him, you don’t have to,” Mara was saying. Her voice sounded strained.
“Of course I do,” Charon snapped, and the knot in Eiland’s stomach tightened. “I’m the one who took him, as Sierrach so accurately pointed out, so that means I’m the one who should take him back.”
Charon finished speaking just as he and Mara walked into the kitchen. Charon’s expression was blank and cold, and for a dizzy second Eiland felt like they were back in his father’s kitchen, as if the last two months hadn’t happened at all.
But they had, and he sat up straight, meeting Charon’s eye.
“Go get your things,” Charon told him. “We’re leaving in an hour.”
It was actually several hours before they left. Eiland half expected Charon to stand over him the entire time he was packing; instead, Charon went outside into the front garden with his pack and Mara, who pleaded with him in whispers. For what, Eiland didn’t know.
Sierrach followed him into the great room that Eiland and Charon had been sharing, and sat down on the edge of the bed with his shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry,” he said, watching Eiland fold his things.
Eiland didn’t look up from his work. “Why? You haven’t done anything to me.”
“I know.” Sierrach huffed a mirthless laugh. “But I can’t say that to Charon right now, and like as not Mara won’t want to hear it. And I did do something—or, well, I did nothing. I knew it from his face, that first day, what he’d done, but I wanted him to be happy. I still do, just not at the cost of your happiness.”
Eiland whispered, “I don’t know what would make me happy.”
Sierrach nodded. “You deserve the chance to figure that out for yourself, Eiland. We all do.”
He led Eiland out the front door. Charon and Mara stood in the garden, their heads bent close. Mara’s hands clasped Charon’s shoulders, and she looked close to tears as she spoke. Charon, though, saw Sierrach and Eiland emerge from the house and quickly straightened, turning his face to look away from the house toward the tree line.
Mara looked between Charon and Eiland and Sierrach before her mouth twisted and she threw her hands in the air. “Fine! Gods! Gods damn all of you.”
Stomping back up the grand front steps of the manor, she snapped at Sierrach, “Go say good-bye to your friend.”
Sierrach exhaled and sidled past her, careful not to touch her as he went. Eiland braced for his own tirade, but Mara said nothing to him at first, just turned to watch Sierrach gingerly approach Charon.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Eiland said stiffly.
For a long moment, Mara didn’t answer. Then she said, “It’s not as though they stop being people and become something else. Sierrach is the same person he always was before he got sick. So is Charon. There’s no ‘us’ and ‘them,’ Eiland, there’s only us.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” Mara didn’t wait for an answer. Turning on her heel, she went back into the manor.
Chapter Seventeen
Charon headed directly east from the manor, and Eiland followed.
They skirted Hador completely. Eiland didn’t know if that was to avoid the hostile priests or Eom and Alis; he thought that right now, cruelty or kindness would both sting Charon.
The journey out of the foothills tilted mostly downhill and passed much faster than their long hike upward, but then the endless plains stretched before them.
Gazing out over the golden fields, Charon said, “Keep an eye out for a merchant wagon. We’ll pay service to cross.”
Eiland looked at him in surprise. The entire journey to Sierrach and Mara’s home had been on back roads and empty, unbroken ground, yet now Charon actively steered them onto a trade route that snaked like a vein through the grass.
It took them two days to flag down a wagon willing to give them passage. When they did, it was a spice merchant with a small bit of space among his many strange-smelling barrels. The merchant looked first at Charon then at Eiland with quiet pity, as if he understood exactly what had led them here. Eiland wanted to yell at him, to shake the idea straight out of his head, but that pity secured them room in the wagon.
Besides, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Eiland just hated how the man assumed it without actually knowing anything about Charon.
The ride was bumpy and wearying. Whenever they stopped for the night Eiland and Charon slept beside the cart, listening to the merchant’s oxen tear at the grass around them. The merchant, a stocky bald man named Zachariah, stretched out on top of the barrels like a wolf guarding his kill.
Eiland half wondered if they would see the bandits again, but the crossing was uneventful, punctuated only by wagons and carts traveling in the opposite direction on the road.
After a few days of lonely silence, Zachariah began to strike up conversation with Eiland. He was a decent fellow, even if he still avoided Charon. Eiland tried to bring Charon into their conversations himself, but Charon had gone silent and pale. He rarely spoke at all, preferring instead to spend most of their journey with his cheek propped against the edge of the cart, staring out across the endless grass.
After a while Eiland stopped trying.
They crossed the plains in about a quarter of the time it had taken them to cross the first time. Zachariah deposited them in a crossroads village that teemed with merchants, tumbling in and out of the many inns and taverns. Shouts and laughter and distant singing filled the air.
They stood together in the center of the main road through town. Charon asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any other gold hidden away?”
“No.”
Charon pressed his lips together, his eyes running over the crowd around them.
Thinking back to the last time they’d run low on coin and what Charon had done to secure them supplies, Eiland reached out to grab his wrist. “Don’t.”
A bee sting couldn’t have made Charon flinch faster than the touch of Eiland’s fingers. For a long moment he stood with his mouth drawn in a tight thin line, and then without a word he strode quickly out of the village, not looking at any of the other merchants securing their wagons or the travelers binding up their horses’ saddles.
Eiland followed.
Even on foot, Charon stuck to the main roads. The tramped dirt paths proved a much easier form of travel than stumbling through the wilderness, but it made Eiland nervous. After so long an absence from populated areas, he found himself startling at every whinny and shout.
The travel wore even heavier on Charon: every night he dropped into an exhausted huddle, pale and wincing. Yet when morning came he pressed on as if in pursuit of something, or pursued.
It was like watching a bit of rope twist and fray under a weight that it could not bear.
By contrast Eiland wished the journey took longer, long enough to sort through the too-crowded teapot of feelings boiling over in his mind. There was relief, yes—he had never thought to see his home again, and just a glimpse of that familiar ridge in the distance made his heart quicken.
At the same time, though, he grew more anxious with every step that bore them in that direction. He felt as though he were approaching a deep ravine: if he jumped over, he’d land safe on the other side, but he would never be able to return.
The miles passed. The days waned into the end of summer, but they remained unseasonably warm. Eiland’s mother would call this a stumbling summer, uncommonly hot and humid even in the closing months of the season.
The fields around them turned golden-brown, the wheat ripening. With the autumn harvest fast approaching, many of the traveling clans made shift to find the best work, and their numbers filled the road. They were a rough, sullen, and dispossessed crowd; most had been cast out of their hometowns for committing some crime. Many could not afford a cart and bore their possessions on their backs.
The combined tramp of wheels, hooves, and feet created a cloud of hot dust that filled the air and the lungs. Ahead of Eiland, the line of Charon’s back began to shake with coughs.
The sight of the great river ahead of them was a welcome relief, bringing fresh water and cooler air. The port towns on both sides overflowed with travelers, though, and here Charon’s relentless pace finally faltered.
Eiland watched him eye the busy streets with trepidation. “We could try to find a different crossing?”
“There isn’t one,” Charon snapped. “Not for a hundred miles in both directions, and if you want to make the journey then you’re more than welcome. If not—shut your mouth and follow me.”
Clenching his jaw, Eiland let Charon guide them away from the busiest lanes of traffic.
Night had fallen and bonfires blazed at every major intersection, guarded by appointed townsfolk. Smoke mingled with the smells of sweat and animal waste, overripe meat, and too much alcohol. Those who couldn’t afford an inn slept in the streets, and it seemed that every nook and cranny of the town was already occupied with some other lean-faced traveler.
Even now the oppressive heat could not allow concealment, and as they passed several people glanced at Charon with narrow eyes. Eiland quickened his pace, staying close.
A small hill on the edge of town proved to be unoccupied. They heaved their way up the slope, footsore and sweating.
Only halfway up, Eiland raised his head in time to catch Charon wiping his face. The sight of blood on his fingers made Eiland dig his toes into the earth and he surged up to Charon’s side, catching his arm and dragging him to a halt.
The blood on Charon’s face looked almost black in the poor light. “Crickets. Why didn’t you say anything? Sit down.”
“No. This isn’t far enough.” Charon yanked at his arm. “Let go of me.”
“It’ll have to do.” Eiland swung his pack off his shoulders to the ground. “Come on now, pinch your nose and tilt your head back.”
“We’re not stopping,” Charon insisted, even as he swayed in place. “Pick your bag up. Now.”
Taking a deep, sharp breath, Eiland stepped closer, until they were eye to eye.
“Do not do that, Charon,” he said softly.
For a long moment they struggled with their gazes, disturbed only by light and distant voices from the town below. Charon lost, dropping his eyes to one side and swiping at his nose again. It did little to help.
Eiland reached for him and Charon flinched back hard enough to lose his fragile balance, his limbs wobbling under him. “Don’t,” he coughed. It sounded like he had blood in his throat. “I don’t want—I just want this to be over with, I want you gone—”
“You can hate me in your dreams,” Eiland told him, pushing Charon down then kneeling beside him. He pinched Charon’s bloody nose with one hand and eased the straps of his travel pack off his shoulders with the other.
Charon gave up struggling. His breath puffed against Eiland’s thumb. His eyes were glassy, going in and out of focus, but they stayed locked on Eiland’s face.
“You lied be,” he croaked.
Eiland took his hand away. The blood flow seemed to have stopped. “What?”
“In the orchard. You liked me, then. Why did you like me?”
Eiland stared at him. “I still like you,” he whispered.
Charon’s expression shifted to disbelief, but he was clearly too drained to argue. When Eiland pushed him down he folded easily to lie on his side in the grass, his eyes already fluttering shut.
Eiland sat watching him for a long moment. Once Charon’s breath had grown less labored and erratic, Eiland stretched out next to him, his head pillowed on one arm. He stirred only once to tear a rag from the corner of the blanket, which he wet and used to gently wipe the dried blood from Charon’s face.
When he woke the sky had only just started to lighten. In the early morning light, Charon’s skin looked almost translucent, except for the darkness growing like clouds around his eyes. He swayed to his feet, pulling on his pack.
Eiland sat up. “Charon. You have to rest.”
Charon’s hair hung over half of his face. He didn’t bother pushing it back. “I’m leaving, now, for the ferry,” he told Eiland without looking at him. “You can come with me, or you can find your own gods-damn way home.”
When they reached the ferry Charon exchanged a few harsh words with one of the waiting travelers, who hurriedly emptied his pockets. He had two children with him, who he pressed behind him as he backed away, his eyes wide.
Eiland felt sick.
The river was low, drained dry in the summer months, and sluggish. The water didn’t even reach the dock, and they had to wade in up to their ankles to climb on board the ferry. Several carts got stuck in the muddy water, and their owners bellowed as they whipped their straining mules.
Eiland heaved himself on board and turned to help Charon up. The ferry was already jam-packed, and he’d thought to be one of the last on board; but others pressed in behind them, hustling them to the center of the craft.
They waited, standing shoulder to shoulder under the sun. The ferry master and the King’s soldiers were arguing. The sun rose higher and the heat grew worse. Children cried around them, squalling for relief and rest. The miasma of sweaty, weary travelers began to mutter and shift.
Charon stood with his eyes closed and his head bowed. His lips were cracked. Eiland stood next to him, chewing at the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood.
Finally they pushed off from the shore. A few people give a faint, pointed cheer. The ferry moved slowly along its lines. In its center the river’s current still moved strong and the overloaded ferry inched through the water, wary of overbalancing.
They were almost halfway across when Eiland glanced sideways and started at the sight of livid red. “Crickets, Charon.”
Blood leaked from both Charon’s nostrils and he cupped a hand under his chin. It filled his palm, dripping between his fingers.
“It’s fine,” Charon croaked. “Leave me alone.”
“Let me see—”
“Don’t.” Charon shrugged Eiland away with one shoulder. Eiland rocked back, staggering into the people around him. A few protested irritably. “Don’t pretend you care.”
“I do.”
Red droplets had started to drip on the front of Charon’s shirt. He wasn’t even trying to stop them anymore. Eiland could see goose bumps rising on Charon’s skin and the way he’d started to shake; he could see, too, the awful, numb misery in Charon’s eyes.
A cold feeling of dread grew in Eiland’s belly.
“That’s so sweet of you,” Charon said, glaring at him. “That’s so kind. I’m sure you’ll sleep so much better once you’re back home with your wife and your own herd of brats.”
He broke off into a fresh wave of coughing, splattering blood in the air. Several heads had turned their way, and Eiland swallowed hard, stepping closer, but that just made Charon stumble back. His lips curled slightly, as though he wanted to bare his teeth but didn’t have the strength.
“What’ll you tell them all?” he demanded of Eiland. “Will you say the nasty Cursed boy threatened you and tied you up and scared you? That he made you kiss him?”
“Charon,” Eiland choked, but Charon spoke right over him, his voice rising.
“You will, you’ll go back to your life and pretend it never happened. Damn you, why’d you do that to me? Why’d you make me hope? I was f-fine, but now I d-don’t even want, I can’t, I just want it all to be o—”
The last frayed thread of the rope broke.
Charon’s eyes rolled back in his head and he tumbled to the deck of the ferry with the kind of choked scream that could only mean an Agony.
Sure enough, he began convulsing almost immediately. Eiland stood over him, taking thin breaths. Despite the heat, he felt cold all the way through.
A voice spoke behind him. “Best do him in, and quick.”
When he turned, he realized that they’d drawn quite the crowd.
“Are you sure he’s far enough gone?” A thin fellow eyed Charon nervously.
The tall, thick-necked man standing next to him stepped forward. Drawing back his boot, he drove it into Charon’s stomach.
Charon’s twitching body doubled up and he choked for breath. His eyes stayed closed, though.
“Aye, he’s gone,” the thick-necked man grunted then choked in pain, too, when Eiland kicked him in the groin as hard as he could.
“Get away from him,” Eiland spat as the man dropped to one knee, clutching himself.
All around the ferry more heads turned in their direction.
“What is he to you?” One of the merchants looked sharply at Eiland, his eyes hard and suspicious.
Before Eiland could answer, a woman spoke up. “Don’t shift muck, now, didn’t ye hear how he spoke to the lad?”
She pushed her way through the crowd, sending Eiland a tight-lipped smile that was not exactly friendly but not unkind. She was plump and soft-faced. “What’s ’e done, then? Taken yer lass? T’reatened yer kin?”
“No! I mean—yes, but he—he didn’t mean it. Or maybe he did but not—”
“Hush, hush, ai now. It’s what they do—it’s their way. But ’e can’t hurt ’em now, love, just stand aside and we’ll ’ave ’im.”
“Wait,” Eiland said. “Wait, what, you can’t—he hasn’t hurt you, he hasn’t done anything to you! Stop!”
The crowd ignored him—and there was a crowd now, farmers and merchants and soldiers moving to join in. They were all so calm, as if Charon was nothing more than a stone that needed to be rolled out of the road.
They caught Eiland’s arms and pulled him down to the deck of the ferry. A grandmother shushed him when he struggled and yelled, telling him that his friend was Cursed and did he know what that meant? Eiland hated her wizened, kindly face, hated the mother with the baby strapped to her back who pushed Charon onto his back with her foot, as if Charon never had a mother, had never been a baby, wasn’t even human.
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