The river take me, those were not the words I meant to say. But they’re out now, can’t take them back. Nerves buzzing, I watch the brief light fade from his face, hard edges regaining their hold.
Weslyn looks down at his book. “It’s complicated.”
“How?” I press. It’s complicated—the same excuse he used for keeping us politically in the dark. But this time, my prodding doesn’t work. Weslyn cloaks himself in silence, unpersuaded, immovable as stone.
You don’t know him, Finley had said, and he was right. But I was right when I said that everything about him is harder. A few tentative steps toward breaking the wall between us, and already, it’s rebuilding. I cast about for something else to say, reluctant to leave it there now that we’ve begun, and when there’s still so much road ahead. “I think a lot of Finley,” I settle on, since he seems the safer topic, “but I get the sense he doesn’t care what people think one way or another.”
It works—Weslyn nods, back on stable ground. “He has always known how to ignore the voices around him. A fault, perhaps. Or a talent.” His breath huffs out, an amused sound, as his fingers toy with the sticks reserved for feeding a fire. “It drives Violet a bit mad, but I think my father pities him. Training for a life of diplomatic functions, standing in at ceremonies, perhaps marrying for political advantage.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“My sister was born to rule. Fin couldn’t care less.” He says it with a touch of humor, which hints at his own feelings on the matter, I think. Then he drops the sticks. Regretting his openness, perhaps, or remembering his brother’s future looks different now.
Finley’s easy laughter rings in my ears. The way his distractable gaze gleams like topaz in the sunshine, always moving, always searching. The times he hid with the horses or shadowed the gardeners, stablehands, and kennelmasters working the grounds, determined to be out of doors and out of sight of the court. “He told me he wants to go to university.”
Weslyn’s chin tilts upward, as if he’s surprised his brother would entrust me with this scrap of information. “He does.”
And something about the way he says it, the way he’s at his books every night, makes me ask, “Do you?”
He drops his eyes and looks away, out to where the trembling leaves catch the light of the sun. “I did.”
It seems we have fallen back into personal territory, the kind that shuts him down. But as he’s just interrogated me, I feel it’s only fair. “That’s why you read so much.”
He shrugs and turns his head away. Only a little, but still I catch it, and now I’m the one who’s left surprised. He rarely acts uncomfortable in front of me.
“Why didn’t you?”
Weslyn doesn’t answer straightaway, just continues to stare into the distance. Certain I’ve blown it again, I wait a few moments before searching for the object of his scrutiny.
“In light of the mounting tension with Eradain, my father has spent the last three years strengthening our army.” His voice has dropped quieter. Softer. “Increased recruiting efforts, more tax and treasury funds delegated to weaponry, food supplies, training. Alemara’s three realms have never warred internally since their foundation, you know. But to me, war seems inevitable now.”
Unfortunately, I’m inclined to agree. It’s like a flower blooming in reverse, the way the realms are folding in on themselves. The petals curl inward and down.
“One of us had to serve,” he continues, “and it wasn’t going to be Violet. Not as the crown heir.”
I say nothing when our eyes connect again, but I don’t bother hiding my surprise.
His mouth twists into a half smile. “I gave my father plenty of reasons why I should accompany you. Presented a case he wouldn’t be able to ignore, and I figured it could be useful, anyway—there’s only so much you can learn in a castle. But I would have come regardless.” The smile vanishes. “I would do anything for Fin.”
I’m staring at him long after he’s looked away again.
From the way Finley admires him, and the times I’ve watched Weslyn soften toward Fin, I suppose I knew the two of them were close. But I’ve never understood it. They’re too different—the light and the dark, showy and solemn, playful and reserved. Fin is a wandering soul, the spinning needle on a compass, while Weslyn is the fixed point north—grounded, unyielding. But the pieces before me now are hinting at a different picture, one that doesn’t match up with the arrogant, entitled person I have always thought him to be. “Why are you telling me all this?”
His brow furrows a little. “I don’t know.” And there it is again, that strange quirk of the mouth, almost like a genuine smile. Again. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I blink a couple of times before tracing a tiny tear in my pants. The black dye is fading, the fabric wearing thin on the knees and thighs. Some ridiculous part of me feels like I owe him more than an answer in light of his honesty. Like an assertion that I would do anything for my brother, too. Like a confession that I once left him to die instead. I can’t bring myself to admit either.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I murmur at last. “No.”
By the time Helos returns—with the herbs, two freshly caught rabbits, and another bundle of sticks, fortune’s sake—the sky is growing dark. He smiles a little when he reaches me, but there’s a shadow lurking beneath the gesture. He’s tired.
“Cat’s tongue,” he says by way of explanation, waving the stalks of small, rounded pink leaves in his hand. “It doesn’t grow east of the river. Chew a small amount into a pulp and apply that to the wound. It will help with the pain.”
I take the proffered herbs and thank him as he walks away and drops the rabbits near Weslyn, who’s reading the black book once more. Weslyn starts a little when the bodies hit the ground beside him.
“Let me do that,” I say, pushing to my feet, as my brother starts rebuilding the fire. He shakes his head. “Come on. You’ve been out walking and hunting while we’ve sat and done nothing. I want to do it.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, a bit too sharply to be believable.
“Helos—”
“Make your salve, Rora.”
Frustrated, I sink down opposite him and place a couple of leaves in my mouth, probably chewing with more force than necessary. Helos grabs a few bits of tinder and pulls the trowel, flint, and knife from his pack. I track his weary movements relentlessly, pausing only to press the mushy leaves onto the cut.
I’m tempted to ask if he, too, has thought of Finley. During the long, silent treks, I’ve reflected often on our exchange in the Old Forest, his confession to a fight but nothing more. My mind has cycled through recent memories searching for clues—a prolonged glance between them here, a touch on the shoulder there, whispered words, and the kind of laughter that emerges only when the other is around. Finley’s guilt, Helos’s quiet sadness. The answer is no.
The picture they come together to suggest does not surprise me. Helos and Finley, two sides of the same leaf. Always. It’s my own stupidity that’s exasperating, my inability to see what was right there before my eyes.
It’s that Finley said no.
But even though I have watched my brother for any signs of heartbreak or conflict within, up until crossing the river, his step was as lively as ever. It’s maddening. I can probably count the number of things my brother has ever hidden from me on one hand, yet this is one truth he refuses to entrust to me.
No, if he does suffer any uncertainty or sorrow, if he, too, is having a resurgence of nightmares—nightmares that haven’t surfaced for quite some time—he seems determined to bury them.
Helos lays out bark and leaves, but he has barely started assembling when Weslyn walks over and squats in front of us. Despite the delicate peace we seem to have struck, I eye him warily.
“Show me,” he says. “Please.”
Helos looks at him, then at the tinder, then back at him. “What, how to make a fire?”
Weslyn nods.
>
My brother studies him a moment longer, then hands him the trowel. “We start by digging.”
Weslyn drops his knees to the dirt and digs until Helos tells him to stop.
* * *
The cat’s tongue goes to work quickly. The sharp stabbing pains recede to a dull ache, and my mind begins to dim when remnants of the drug hit my bloodstream. I spread my wool cloak across the cold stone shelf beneath me, which helps reduce the chill seeping into my legs, even if it doesn’t much soften the seating. We’ve each claimed a spot in the cave, me on a low-hanging rock shelf, Helos and Weslyn on opposite ends of the floor. A small fire crackles near the water basin—more practice for Weslyn.
Though afternoon light still filters into the cave, the cat’s tongue and the smell of the fire are lulling me toward sleep. When something cracks outside, my ears only snatch at the tendrils of sound with fading resolve. I drift in and out of consciousness, chin drooping, limbs sinking into heaviness.
The cavern begins to tremble.
I snap awake. My gaze connects with Weslyn’s, then falls to Helos.
“Out!” my brother says, right as the wood supporting the fire collapses. We snatch our things and hasten toward the entrance, but the ground outside has begun to rise.
“Wait!” I cry, grabbing their shirts from behind as sharp-peaked stones tear through the dirt just beyond the cave mouth. The boulders soar upward faster than the raven flies, scraping against the cave’s outer shell, cutting off our escape.
The jagged pillars crest the cave mouth, and the cavern plunges into darkness.
TWELVE
The rumbling subsides.
Our haggard breathing severs the quiet.
“We need to make a torch,” I manage, gesturing to the smoldering twigs scattered across the floor. The sparks won’t catch on stone, but the flames will soon go out.
At once, Helos stops pushing on the boulders and hurries to the stack of spare wood. Weslyn is still staring at the blocked entrance. Of course. This kind of thing is still new to him.
“Come on,” I tell him, wresting his gaze away from the stones. “We’ll have to find another way out.”
Not waiting for his reply, I reach up to scrape moss from the entrance walls. He watches me work a moment, then rummages through his pack and offers me a stretch of cloth.
“Use this.”
“Tear it into strips,” I instruct, relieved to see he isn’t panicking. “We’ll need fuel. And something to bind it with.”
“I don’t suppose you have wire in that bottomless pack of yours,” Helos grumbles.
Weslyn crouches at Helos’s side shortly after. He has wire.
“The sap,” I say, remembering abruptly. “There’s sap on the walls farther back.”
“In a cave?” Weslyn’s skeptical.
“Don’t ask me to explain it.” I head for the back, then have to catch myself against a rock shelf when my vision teeters. The cursed drug is pulling at my consciousness. I slap the sides of my face.
“Drink some water,” Helos says, breezing past me to soak the cotton in sap. “It should dilute the effects.” He dips the torch in the dying embers, and the top flares to life.
With impatient hands, I find my waterskin and down several gulps, then kneel to examine the pool of clear liquid collected in the basin. It gives off a sharp scent. “Nobody drink this,” I warn, stomach sinking. “I don’t think it’s actually water.”
Weslyn’s forehead creases in the wavering light. “How much do you both have in your waterskins?”
He reports three-quarters full, while Helos’s nearly reaches the top. Mine is half empty.
A danger that has nothing to do with threats or injuries.
“Well, that dripping is coming from somewhere,” I reason, forcing myself to stay calm. “There might be water farther back.”
“What did you find when you searched there?” Weslyn asks.
Helos hesitates. “No water that I remember.”
“Then what exactly is making that sound?”
The rhythm plagues the heavy silence that follows. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Come on.” Helos quirks his head toward the cave’s narrowing. “I didn’t scout the whole place, just checked for other inhabitants. There might be a back door.” Torch in hand, he leads the way without waiting for a response.
Weslyn only gestures for me to follow, then falls into step behind.
There’s no easy path through the funnel-shaped passageway. Rock formations jut out of the ground like pointed teeth, their undulating sides reminiscent of hardened candle wax. We navigate around them, endeavoring to ignore the mirror image above our heads—dozens of triangles at varying lengths, most little wider than icicles.
“Step quietly,” I whisper. “While we pass. Just in case.” Since the fire’s glow stretches only a short way ahead, we can’t tell when the tunnel will end.
Please let the ground remain still.
Above and below, torchlight bounces off the rocky icicles, creating the impression that some of the points are twitching. The illusion disorients my already muddled mind. My eyelids keep drooping of their own accord, and my feet feel clumsy, weighted down. Knowing the danger of dulled reflexes, I take a few more sips of my precious water supply.
Fortunately, the tunnel has been widening around us. Soon the ceiling drops away, and the space broadens into an expansive cavern. My nose wrinkles against a metallic tang in the air, but Helos only leads us forward, bootsteps echoing. The dripping noise has faded away.
Near the center, upright stones the size of timber bears have collected in a loose ring. For reasons I can’t explain, the hair rises along the back of my neck as we step inside the strange circle, scouring for an exit. The massive obsidian blocks flicker eerily in the dancing torchlight—or maybe that’s just the drug.
“Up there.” I point to a gap near the cavern’s domed ceiling, trying to shake the dizziness away. Focus. “There’s a hole in the wall. It might be large enough to pass through.”
“We would have to get up there first,” Helos replies, circling the walls for another exit. The opening I spotted is a good two stories above our heads.
Acute awareness of my winged form teases my thoughts, but I push the selfish notion away. We need a route that works for all of us.
“We could climb,” Weslyn suggests quietly.
I follow his gaze to the rock shelves stepped along the sloping walls. My back tenses. Though there appear to be enough footholds to get us from here to the hole up top, many of them slant downward, and some are less substantial than others. One stretch scarcely juts out from the wall at all.
“It might work,” Helos concedes, sounding more confident about the hand-sized footholds than they merit. He glances at me sidelong. “How’s your head?”
“Getting better.” I sip on the water again. The drowsiness is finally starting to fade, thank fortune. But as clarity grows, so does the pain.
“We’ll wait a little longer. Don’t want you falling and cracking your skull.” He pauses, watching me carefully. “Or you could fly.”
“I’ll climb,” I say firmly. “But what about the light? It doesn’t stretch very far.”
Helos tugs at the short sleeves of his dark shirt, the coverage scant in the cave’s crisp air. Weslyn has already freed his from their usual roll above the forearm. “We’ll just have to go slowly,” my brother responds at last, sounding doubtful.
I rub the tender stretch of my stomach.
“Rora, fly up there,” he says, more insistent now. “It makes the most sense.”
“No.” I drop my hand, furious he noticed.
“There’s no point in all of us risking the climb if the opening is a dead end. You can tell us what you see.”
“I’m not leaving you down here!”
“The fire will light two sets of feet more easily than three.” Helos pushes his hair behind his ears. “Please, Rora. For me.”
In the shadow of the obsidi
an blocks, Weslyn watches us spar without comment.
Having an audience only makes the shame hit harder. I know my brother is right, and that my resistance must sound juvenile to an outsider like Weslyn. But he doesn’t understand how the situation feels too similar to that horrible day I swore never to repeat—the day I gained my goshawk form. The waves and the distant head sputtering for air, memories that set my body aching even now.
Common sense, I decide at last, shedding my bag and ignoring the tightness at the base of my throat. Not selfishness. There’s a difference between them.
Once I’ve stripped and repacked my clothes in the privacy of a stone, it takes little more than a moment to fly up and into the opening. Fluttering my wings for stability, I perch on the edge and peer inside.
“What do you see?” Helos calls.
After hopping farther in, I pull from the cramped air and shift to lynx to study the hole. My whiskers brush the sloping walls, but it should be wide enough. I shift back to human. “There’s a passageway,” I call down, the tear in my stomach stinging fiercely. The stone sets a sharp chill into my bare skin. “It’s very narrow, but I think we can use it. I saw a bit of light near the other end.”
“We’re coming up then,” Helos says. “Stay there.”
The boys begin to climb.
Helos maintains the lead, torch in hand, his worn boots sliding across the stone more than once. Each time they slip hits like a dagger through the heart. If he falls, smashing into one of those obsidian blocks could break his neck.
Since Helos carries the light, Weslyn has slung my pack across his own shoulder. The closeness makes me a bit uncomfortable, but all I can do is follow their progress from shelf to shelf, their bootsteps scraping in the quiet.
When they’re maybe three-quarters up the wall, they both pause.
It’s the tricky bit I spotted from below, not far now beneath my shadowed opening. I poke my head out farther, lips pressed tight. The ledge they have to cross is only five or six paces long, but it’s scarcely wider than two hands put together. The drop is a long way down.
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