Relinquish: Book II of the Rising Trilogy

by Miles, Amy

  “Glad you did. I couldn’t sleep a wink with Bodhi sawing logs all day.” He scratches at his chin and I can hear the beginnings of a new day’s growth under his nails.

  It’s still weird to me that Carleon can shave. He has changed so much in the past year. When I first met him, he looked like a boy, although his eyes betrayed wisdom that only comes with age. I liked him instantly, reminding him that war doesn’t care how old you are. But now, looking at him as he rummages through his pack, I realize he isn’t the only one who has changed.

  We all have. I guess that comes naturally with age, but I can’t remember there ever being a harder fought year. My childhood was spent hunting and scavenging for food to feed our people. There was never enough and most nights I went to bed with a hole still in my stomach, but even then, life had been easy in comparison.

  I turn and drop to a knee as I begin tearing down my tent, lost in thought. I do that a lot these days, reminisce. Aminah tells me it’s my way of avoiding the present, but I think it’s actually just the opposite. I’m trying to make sure I remember the past so when my future arrives, I won’t forget everything.

  Kyan and I have spoken in length about my destiny. It isn’t pretty.

  Someday soon, I’ll be brought before King Aloysius. It’s unclear if this will be by choice or not, but I’m sorta leaning toward the latter because I’m not exactly keen on the idea of just turning myself over. Aloysius is a man of great power. He controls minds, bending people’s wills to his own. Drakon possesses similar abilities, but not quite on the same level of grandeur.

  When I first heard of Aloysius’s desire to claim me as his own, I felt numb first and angered later. That anger hasn’t helped convince me that submitting myself to the king’s mind games is the best plan. Kyan says it is my destiny. Marry Aloysius, assume the throne, and then overthrow his rule. The only kicker is that he doesn’t have an accurate timeline on when all of that is supposed to happen.

  As I reach for the final peg holding my tent down, I shudder at the thought of that vile man touching me. I’ll no longer be in control of my actions, a mere puppet to be played with at will. How can anyone accept such a fate?

  “You all right?

  I look up to see Carleon hovering anxiously over me. His pack is made and I’m shocked to see that he has a plate of steaming venison held out to me. “You’ve been zoned out for a while. Everyone is almost ready to go and you’re still messing with your tent.”

  Normally I would laugh at his chiding tone, but I’m still in a bit of a daze. How did I lose so much time?

  “Here, I’ll finish up while you eat.” He glances back over his shoulder at Eamon deep in conversation with two men. One of them is Arlo, a dark-skinned, rigid man with eyes the color of a fierce sunset. The other is Kohen. Although his is a bit stouter than Arlo, he is no less fearsome. A vine of crosses rest across the back of his hand, weaving up into the sleeve of his shirt. He collects one for every enemy he kills. As morbid as this may be, I have to admire the man’s death count. He’s the sort of guy you want on your side in battle.

  “What are they talking about?” Carleon’s shoulders rise in a shrug. After a pointed glance my way, I sink my teeth into the meat, closing my eyes to savor the robust flavor. My stomach growls obnoxiously. “You slept through dinner so I gave you the biggest piece. I thought Nixon was going to lop off my hand when I reached for it, but Eamon insisted.”

  “Of course he did,” I mutter as the venison turns bland in my mouth. I gnaw on the bite but vow not to touch the rest. I don’t want to give the men the satisfaction of thinking me weaker than them. “Do you know where we’re heading?”

  “South.”

  “I know that.” I chuck my plate at him and he ducks as it whizzes past and clatters against a tree. Eamon looks up, frowning with disapproval at our laughter.

  “What’s got him all fired up today?” Carleon asks, yanking the ropes tightly over my disassembled tent. If there is one thing my friend excels at it’s getting a job done with speed and efficiency. I’ve often wondered if that was a trait ingrained in him growing up as an only child.

  He never really talks about his family and I don’t push. All of us that survived the invasion were left as orphans. It wasn’t until we met Kyan that we discovered that each of us had parents waiting for us on Calisted. I wonder if anyone waits for Carleon. “Me, I think. He doesn’t want me here.”

  His brow knits with confusion. “But aren’t you the key to all of this?”

  “Yep.” I grunt as I shove my arms through my pack and stand up. I bite back my groan as the familiar weight settles onto my abused muscles. Despite the full day of sleep, my body is no less weary than the night before. “He doesn’t see it that way.”

  I lift my shirt and gingerly run my fingers over my abdomen. A black smear of bruises and raw skin line my waist where the straps rubbed the night before. I’ve never been forced to rough it quite like this. Usually we move in large groups, camping within only a few miles of our next target. As I lower my shirt, hoping no one saw the damage, I can’t help but wonder just how far this march will take us. “Well, he should.”

  I clip myself into my pack, biting my lip to still the cry of pain that rises in my throat. “Nice to know someone has faith in me.”

  “Always.”

  Seven

  I welcome the frigid air as our nighttime hike brings us down into the foothills where the ground feels oddly flat. The burning in my ankles from the uneven terrain lessens as we pause for a brief rest. I sink onto a rock, my head drooping low as I suck in great gulps of air.

  “How much longer are you going to ignore it?” a voice calls.

  I look up, squinting to see a form emerging from the shadows. Most of the men went off in search of a tree to relieve themselves on. I hadn’t realized anyone had returned.

  “Ignore what, Kohen?”

  I don’t like this man. His beak-like nose and sharp piercing eyes unnerve me. He has the hands of a hunter, steady and calloused from years spent killing. He moves with the grace and ease of a mountain lion. “You are wounded. I can tell by the way you walk.”

  “You don’t deny it,” he says as he perches himself on a partially rotten log that looks like it was felled after a lightning strike.

  “Nope. Not really in the mood to talk about it either,” I say pointedly as more shadows emerge from the woods.

  “Talk about what?” Eamon asks.

  I clench my eyes shut, silently damning Kohen for opening his mouth. “He has a rash. Probably didn’t want you guys to know about it.

  Kohen scowls at me and thrusts up to his feet. I almost think he’s going to pass Eamon by in a huff, but he stops and turns back. “She’s wounded.”

  I toss my canteen at him, but it falls short. “Typical,” I mutter as I lean my head back against the tree behind me. Its bark is surprisingly smooth against the bare skin of my neck.

  “Is this true?” Eamon asks. I can hear twigs snapping underfoot as he approaches.

  “So what if it is? You going to play nurse?” I open my eyes to glare up at him but instantly regret it when I see softness has washed away the hard lines of his face. “Sorry.”

  He nods and kneels down before me, his gaze searching. “Where does it hurt?”

  I debate whether or not to show him. A part of me wants to tell him to shove off, that I can easily tough it out, but another wants to believe that Eamon’s concern runs deeper than just the impact this might have on the mission. I reach down and slowly lift my shirt, pausing with it just above my bellybutton. Eamon hisses as he stares at the angry redness that now sweeps across my entire waist and around the back. “You should’ve told me.”

  “I’m fine.”

  His gaze hardens and the ice begins to reform in his glance. “Clearly you are not.”

  Carleon and Arlo emerge from the tree line. Their conversation instantly stalls as they spy Eamon and me. I drop my shirt. “What’s going on?”

  “
Did you know about this, Carleon?”

  “Know about what?” He steps forward into the moonlight and I can see his concern pinching the corners of his lips. He looks to me and I shake my head. Eamon sighs heavily and reaches down to yank my shirt up, exposing my abdomen to both of them. A hiss passes Carleon’s teeth while Arlo whistles a long, mournful sound. “Looks nasty, boss. What are we going to do with her?”

  I bristle. “I’m not an animal that you can just put down.”

  “Wasn’t implying that you were.” As he turns to walk away, I can tell that none of us really believe that.

  Eamon releases my shirt and rises. “Can you manage her pack, Carleon?”

  His furious glare cuts off my protest as my friend nods. “‘Course I can. It’s not so heavy.”

  “All the same, I think we need to take it in shifts. An hour each should do it.” Eamon lifts his face to the sky. “We only have a few more hours of night left. We need to pick up the pace.”

  He leaves without a backward glance. As I watch him go, I feel torn by confusion. A huge part of me would love to take the roll of bandages Carleon hands me and stuff it up Eamon’s nose, and the other can’t stop thinking of the tenderness he’d let slip though for the briefest of moments. I know Eamon still loves me, but sometimes I wonder if it is enough.

  I wake to screams, high in pitch and filled with terror. At first I think it’s a dream, but shouts begin to rise from around camp and I know I’m awake. Drawing back the flaps of my tent, the biting chill hits me. Eamon, Nixon, and Bodhi are already on the move, lasers charged and in position as they disappear into the woods.

  The scream doesn’t come again. Carleon comes to stand at my side, his shoulder against mine as I lean into him. “Who was it?”

  “Arlo, I think. I didn’t see him leave.” My lips press into a thin line. Arlo may have been a pain, but he was a good soldier. He didn’t deserve this. “What do you think got him? Wolves? Mountain lion?”

  We’ve seen fresh tracks, heard the howls in the distance. From time to time, we see scat piles as we walk with our guns trained on the forest floor, but so far none have come close to camp. They prefer to hunt at night when we are most active.

  I glance to the sky and see the sun has already begun to slip beyond the horizon. Night will fall soon. My stomach growls. Carleon glances over at me, but I shake my head. I won’t be able to eat until they find Arlo.

  We wait together, perched upon a small log just outside the fire ring to keep warm. The winds have begun to pick up again, bringing a chill that sinks deep into my bones. The clouds overhead are thick and hanging low. It won’t surprise me if we hike through snow tonight.

  Nearly an hour after dark falls, I see movement in the woods. I rise, finger over the trigger of my gun as Eamon emerges. His face is expressionless, but his eyes tell me all that I need to know. “How’d it happen?” I ask.

  Eamon stands before the fire, warming his hands. “Slipped on a ridge. Looks like he decided to do some hunting and lost his footing.”

  Carleon blows out a breath and I look over at him. “What?”

  “At least it wasn’t a wolf. I hate those things.”

  Eamon’s jaw clenches as he stares at the flames dancing before him within the circle of rocks. “They’ll still come. They’re drawn to the scent of death.”

  Carleon looks to me and I nod. “He’s right. Once they catch the scent, they’ll head this way.”

  “So we just need to pack up and move on before they get here, right?”

  I pat him on the arm. “Trouble is we don’t know which direction they’re coming from. We might walk right into them.”

  A clanging of pans captures my attention. I turn to see Bodhi shoving the cooking pots back into his bag. “We don’t have time to eat?” Carleon questions, absently rubbing his empty stomach.

  I know he must be hungry. He’s been sneaking me extra portions along the way, knowing our rations are slim.

  Eamon steps back from the fire and meets my gaze head on. “There’s no food left. Arlo had it in his pack when he fell. The climb is too steep and treacherous for us to make with the ice clinging to the rocks.”

  “So what, we’re just going to starve?” Carleon snaps.

  Eamon starts to speak, but I cut him off, knowing how much he would love to use this accident as a reason to turn right around and head back to Thalar. “No. I have a little bit of meat left in my pack.”

  “And I have a few root vegetables in mine,” Eamon says. “We can make do for a couple of days.”

  “But will we reach our destination before we run out of food?” Carleon protests. I can feel the concern in his gaze as he looks toward me.

  “No,” Eamon says.

  I step forward and place a hand on Eamon’s arm. He flinches but doesn’t pull back. “Then we hunt, just like we used to.”

  I press my fingers against my coat, grimacing at the hunger pangs gnawing through my stomach. I haven’t eaten anything in two days. None of us have. Arlo’s death has left us with few supplies. Eamon considered turning back several times, most likely would have if I hadn’t been able to remind him that this is who we are.

  Winter in the mountains brings snow and along with it wolves. These beasts used to be just as much of a threat to our existence as the Caldonians. One took over our planet; the other stole our food source. Starvation, disease, infection—those were our daily enemies before we moved to Thalar.

  “Illyria.” Eamon’s whisper pulls me from my thoughts. His chin juts toward a clump of bushes less than ten feet away. A dirt-encrusted finger hovers over his lips, silencing me. I nod and wait, ignoring the needle pricks spreading along my calves.

  I pull a tattered scarf over my mouth to hide the puff of moisture as the temperature continues to plummet. The day’s melted snow has already begun to freeze over. Our trek back to the camp will be a treacherous one.

  Movement catches my eye. A swatch of brown shifts behind the brambles. A hoof paws nervously at the frozen earth. The young doe senses our presence. Come on. Just a little farther, I plead silently.

  Eamon raises his hand-whittled spear, no bigger than the length of his arm, a remnant from our past. It was always his favorite, probably because I made it for him. I hadn’t realized he still had it.

  A piece of glass, bound by fraying bits of twine, juts from the end. Flecks of dried blood remain from a previous kill. He rocks up onto the balls of his feet, biceps coiling as he prepares.

  The doe skitters forward, nose to the ground in search of frozen blackberries among the densely arched stems. Its hide stretches taut over its emaciated frame. Tufts of hair have fallen away, giving it a mangy look. There is barely enough meat on it to feed our group, but it’ll have to do.

  My stomach growls. I bite down on my lip to still its trembling.

  I watch Eamon, stunned by his patience. His gaze is steady, riveted on his target. I blink and nearly miss his attack. The spear careens through the air, impaling an inch from the deer’s heart. It screams, legs buckling under. A dark stain spreads out into the snow around it. Eamon rises fluidly, without any hint of the agony that assaults my limbs. His lip curls with disgust as he yanks the spear free before landing the lethal blow.

  “Well done.” I toss him a lopsided grin before staggering to my feet. I wasn’t really sure if he still remembered how to do this. City life has softened all of us in ways that I’m not entirely sure are to our benefit. “I’m impressed.”

  With a scowl that distorts his handsome features, Eamon wrenches the lance from the fallen doe’s chest. “It suffered.”

  My smile fades at the sight of his remorse. I reach out and pull his face away from the cooling carcass. It feels weird to touch him, even as innocently as this, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You can’t always be perfect.”

  “If I’m not, we don’t eat,” he grinds out. The struggles of the past year have drawn away the mischievous glint that used to reside in his eyes. His smile is a rarity now,
like far too many of us. With each day that passes, I watch the weight of Eamon’s burdens press upon his shoulders, and I know if I were able, I would still try to take it from him.

  He pulls away from me as I hand him my knife and stoops low to remove the organs so the meat doesn’t spoil. Blood clings to his hands as he tosses them aside, shiny in the moonlight. Maybe that will keep the wolves off our trail for a while. Already I can hear their howls in the distance. It won’t take long before they catch our scent.

  Eamon hoists the young deer onto his shoulders, indifferent to the blood that streaks his jacket. Without another word, he stomps away.

  Guess we are back to the not speaking to each other phase. Snatching up the forgotten spear and wiping the blood clean from my knife, I fall into step behind him, weaving through the trees. Our path is marked by nature, carved from the earth long before the Caldonians arrived.

  One of the first things I learned while living in the wilderness was to use landmarks to plot my way. Today we used a frozen stream we discovered running through a deep crevice. I try not to think of the one we found Arlo lying in the bottom of, neck snapped and legs twisted so far around they were touching his head.

  Eamon had tried to shield me from it, but I stared down at his lifeless body and felt numb. His death was senseless and careless. He wasn’t meant to be in the woods any more than I belong in a city.

  I am a hunter. It runs in my veins. This is my domain, not streets of concrete and glass. “Wait up,” I call as Eamon attacks a snowy ridge, leaving me to flounder on my own. It’s not like him to be so callous. Distant, yes, but not like this. Something is bothering him. Something more than me.

  The soles of his boots punch through a thin layer of ice. The muscles of his back contract as he shifts the weight of his kill. Eamon has always been lean and strong, his body adapted to a rugged life, but now there is a confidence about him that he lacked before. Toren has evolved much like Eamon.