The Glass Arrow

by Kristen Simmons

  “Then go knock off,” counters the third. “I’ll take your share of that reward Gray was talking about.”

  “Greer,” corrects Checkered Pants. “The mayor’s going to stretch his neck when he realizes his kid’s favorite toy went missing.”

  My heart trips in my chest. If I hadn’t been convinced they were searching for us before, I am now. And not just us. Me.

  My hand falters, but I lift it again, steadying my breath. The quiver is just over my shoulder, but I’ve already stuffed a dozen extra arrows into the waistband of these Driver pants. Kiran’s words echo through my head. I might be able to strike them all before they know what’s hit them, but I’m safer hiding if they don’t know I’m here.

  The vision of the Watcher, the blood draining from his neck, fills my mind, and the sweat rolls down my forehead and burns my eyes. I’m not sure I can do it again.

  “What’s that?” says one of the men in gray.

  “A dog,” answers Checkered Pants. “Kill it before its pack comes.”

  Brax. I bite down hard enough for my teeth to crack.

  One of the Trackers pulls a black gun from his waistband and aims it into the brush. I can’t see Brax. I nearly fall out of my hiding place trying to follow the man’s sight line. In the silence, I hear a low growl and know they’ve found my friend.

  I draw back the arrow and the string stretches with a morbid creak.

  The Tracker fires one shot. Two. I nearly drop the bow right onto the man below me. My lungs collapse. I can’t find the air.

  “Get it?” asks Checkered Pants.

  My shaking hands restring the bow, preparing to avenge him even as I’m refusing to believe he’s dead.

  “Scrammed,” says one of the others. “Scared him off. He won’t bother us no more.”

  “We’ll pick up the last set of hoofprints and start again,” says Checkered Pants. “I want to catch her before the weather turns and we lose our trail.”

  A few seconds later they disappear, riding at an urgent trot towards the south.

  I want more than anything to get down from this tree; I need to warn Kiran that they’re on his tail, I need to find Brax and make sure he’s all right. Right now the tree feels just as much of a prison as the solitary pen at the Garden did. But I can’t get down. Not yet. I have to wait a little longer. Just a little longer, until I’m sure they aren’t coming back.

  Until I’m sure this isn’t a trap.

  I count to one hundred and am just about to climb down when I see Brax.

  He’s come to the bottom of the trunk, panting. He’s not injured. There’s no sign of blood on him. My stomach feels as though I’ve just fallen from this very tree I’m hiding in. He paws the trunk, crystal blue eyes trained on mine.

  He’s telling me the way is clear.

  I swing down, feeling the sting from a dozen cuts I gained on my hasty climb up. I grab him by the scruff of the neck.

  “Next time hide, you idiot.”

  He licks my face. His breath stinks worse than ever.

  That’s when I hear the scream.

  I recognize the voice; I heard it just yesterday in the solitary yard.

  Daphne.

  I’m running before I can think to stop. I try my hardest to focus on the origin of that cry—how loud it was, exactly where I turned when I heard it—because Daphne doesn’t make another sound.

  I should have killed the Trackers when I’d had the chance.

  “Brax, find Kiran,” I say. “Come on, boy.”

  He spins on his hindquarters and runs. I follow, racing after him, forgetting my need to stay silent. Kiran saved my life. He’s out here because of what I did. I can’t let anything happen to him.

  And Daphne. Crazy as she makes me, I can’t leave her now.

  Brax runs though the brush, opposite the direction of the Trackers, away from where Kiran and Daphne rode off. Either they switched course, or we’re going the wrong way.

  We do not search long.

  The woods open to a clearing facing a steep shale cliff. Daphne and the horse are pressed against it, held in place by a large black bear.

  He roars, bouncing from all four paws to his hind legs as he lumbers towards them. Tufts of fur, shed in preparation for the warm season, shake from his thick coat. Standing, he’s as big as a Watcher. I cannot see Kiran.

  He’s not with them. I creep behind the bear, knowing I’m downwind because otherwise he would have charged me by now. He’s young and small, only three times my size, but he’ll have claws as long as my fingers and teeth strong enough to rip me apart.

  Daphne’s trying to hide herself behind Dell, who is stomping her hooves and snorting. I can see the whites of the mare’s eyes from here. If Daphne isn’t careful, the horse is going to trample her.

  I move closer. Now I’m just fifteen paces away and I can hear the rumbling growl coming from the bear’s chest. The fear coming off Daphne and the horse is drawing him in. I can almost taste it from here.

  There is something on the ground between them. A lump in the fallen leaves.

  A body.

  “No!” I slap a hand over my mouth.

  It’s Kiran. He’s lying motionless. My mind races to try to figure out what happened. Has he been shot by the Trackers? Has the bear already attacked him? Was he thrown from Dell?

  There’s danger in making too much noise—I can easily bring the Trackers back our way. But the best way to fend off a bear is to be a bigger bear, and so to save Kiran, I have to do it.

  “Get ready to run,” I tell Brax, and fit an arrow to the bow.

  I take the deepest breath I can, and roar. I catch the bear off guard, and he spins from Daphne, from the crumpled form of Kiran, towards me. He rises up to his full height and his chest is so broad he blocks my view of the horse behind him. Black lips pull back over sharp white teeth. The muscles in his neck ripple beneath the skin.

  The air locks in my throat, and my great roar ends in a whimper.

  It’s not working. He won’t move. I raise the bow.

  If he doesn’t change his mind soon, I’ll have no choice but to shoot him, and I know where that road will lead. The first arrow would just be an irritating prick into his thick hide. I don’t know if I’d have the chance to fire again before he’d be on me.

  Finally, the bear drops down to his front feet and ambles away.

  With the blood still hammering through my ears, I run to Kiran, praying that the Trackers are so far away they haven’t heard me. I search for a bullet wound for evidence of a bear’s swiping paw. When I pull back his coat, I suck in a sharp breath. The wire wound has gone straight through the cloth, straight through his coat. It’s left a dark, wet stain all the way down to his hip.

  Daphne’s weeping.

  “He started bleeding a lot,” Daphne says, and when she holds out her hands, I see they’re smeared with red. “He didn’t say a word, he just fell. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  CHAPTER 18

  KIRAN IS NOT DEAD. He can’t be. He was just talking to me as if nothing was wrong.

  I put my hand on his brow. His skin feels like he’s slept too close to the fire. Dead people aren’t feverish. And he’s still sweating. Dead people definitely do not sweat.

  My eyes blink out of focus, and suddenly I am looking down at my hand atop my ma’s forehead. Her curly black hair sticks to her brow and her breathing is much too shallow. Even all these years later I can perfectly recount the last moments before her death.

  I banish the thought from my mind. I will not let Kiran die.

  “Wake up.” I slap Kiran hard across the jaw. His eyes flutter open, whites with no golden iris. My stomach lurches, and then sinks. Brax has begun to growl again, and Dell’s ears have pinned back to her head.

  The Trackers are coming.

  “Not now, Kiran,” I say. “Just hold out a little longer.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Leave him, we need to run!” shouts Daphne.

  “Qu
iet!” I nearly slap her, too. Kiran is the only reason she is still alive. Without him, the Trackers would have found her and who knows what they would have done with her.

  The thoughts scream in my head, one clawing over them all: We need to hide.

  “Water,” I say. “A stream—did you see one near here?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know!”

  “Think!” I grab her shirt and pull her down close to me. “Think, Daphne,” I say more calmly. “Did you ride through water?”

  She closes her eyes tight, then nods. “Back that way.” She points down the shale cliff.

  “Help me move him.” I stuff my arms beneath Kiran’s shoulder, hook them under his armpits. He doesn’t make a sound. I tell myself that’s because of Driver habit, not how injured he is.

  “He’s dead!” Daphne backs away.

  “He’s not dead, you idiot. He’s sick.” Because of me. Because I was stupid enough to save Daphne.

  She approaches slowly, wiping her hands down the sides of her dress.

  “Help me get him over the back of the horse.”

  I stand with a groan, hoisting him up against my chest. Kiran may not be bulky, but he’s long, and his body is hard to maneuver. After a moment, Daphne grabs his waist and lifts from beneath, and somehow we manage to lay him facedown over the saddle.

  A hiss escapes through my teeth. I know it must be tearing at his wound, but we have no choice.

  Daphne takes Dell’s reins and leads her against the cliff through the brush. I hold Kiran’s legs, steadying him over the back of the horse.

  The hoofbeats pound in the distance. Head low, Brax slinks off. I don’t want him to go, but I can’t make him stay now.

  “Quick!” I whisper. Daphne begins to run, pulling Dell at a trot. Kiran is jostled all over, but I hold on tight, not letting him fall.

  Finally, the gurgle of water sifts through the trees. I direct everyone straight into the shallows and while they wait, backtrack fifty paces to cover our tracks. We’ve travelled mostly on shale, and there are few prints to hide. When I’m done we move upstream, downwind, so that our scent blows away from the Trackers and our path is swallowed by the current.

  The hoofbeats fade and then disappear.

  “There,” I say, pointing to the mouth of an old fox den just off the shore. We make our way over, and I’m relieved to find it empty. A roof of tangled roots hides us from above, and the water has worn away the entrance, making it wide enough for the three of us to squeeze in.

  Dell snorts and prances nervously while Daphne and I slide Kiran off her back and lay him down in the cave.

  “Water,” I say to Daphne. “Bring me the bottle.”

  While she retrieves my things from Dell’s saddlebags, I remove Kiran’s shirt. With the thin metal dagger, I saw through the felt wrapping, soaked with his blood.

  It’s the smell that hits me first. Sour enough to bring the bile up my throat. The skin has turned white around the wound, and though the worst of the bleeding is over, it doesn’t look good. The puckered lips tracing around his torso haven’t even closed. It’s infected.

  “No. Not now,” I whisper. The Trackers are near and my family is close and I’m finally, finally free, and now the one person I owe everything to is hurt. It’s the stupidest thing, but I’m so mad at him right now I could scream.

  Daphne brings me water from Kiran’s canteen, and I dribble some in Kiran’s mouth.

  “Swallow,” I order. He doesn’t listen. The water leaks down his chin.

  “Hey!” I give his shoulder a little shake. “Quit it, Kiran. This isn’t funny.” I don’t know why I say this; I know he isn’t playing. I’m just sick that he hasn’t woken yet.

  “I should have been sold.” Daphne’s sunk against the far wall. She’s filthy. Her arms are wrapped around her knees and she’s rocking like a child. “I’d be living in a nice house right now, with food and blankets and a warm bed, if not for that buyer.”

  “Shut up, Daphne.”

  “My father will take me back. I was the favorite of all his girl children. You have to bring me back to the city.”

  “Shut up!”

  “I shouldn’t be here.” Her voice cracks. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here.”

  I’m on my feet in a flash, and before she knows what’s hit her, I’ve tossed the rest of the water in her face. She sputters, her wide green eyes looking up at me like I’m crazy.

  “Go then! Get out of here!” I say. “I hope they catch you.”

  I fall back to my knees and begin digging through my supplies. Meal supplement pills. Bloodroot to make a sleeping draught. Purslane for a headache. The needle and thread I stole from the Pips—that’s helpful. I need horseradish to make an antiseptic. And I need it now.

  Daphne’s risen and is pacing, and I can see the struggle darkening her perfect, freckleless face. She wants to leave, but she’s too scared to chance it on her own.

  I tear out of the cave, keeping to the streambed. While filling the canteen, I scan the water’s edge for small white flowers. We’ve passed a hundred of the plants since entering the mountains, but when I need one, it’s nowhere to be found.

  A crackling of twigs behind me startles me, and I jump. It’s just Daphne. She’s following me like a little kid.

  “White flowers,” I tell her. “Small, about this size.” I make a tight circle with my thumb and first finger.

  We comb the water’s edge together. She pulls up all sorts of plants and weeds, but none of them are right. Finally, I spot the right one. I tear three green stalks from the ground, shake off the bugs, and run back to the cave. Outside, I grab two rocks: one flat, the size of my hand, and another oval shaped, then set to work, grinding the stalk of the plant into the rock until it creates a soft milky residue. When it’s done, I pour water over Kiran’s wounds, trying to clear out the bad blood. He shivers, and I cringe—the sun is beginning to fall, and soon it will be cold.

  “Look!” Daphne points down at his face from over my shoulder. “He’s trying to say something.”

  His lips are moving, just a bit. I tilt my ear over his mouth, but there’s no sound.

  “Fever dreams,” I say. Just like my ma had near the end.

  With the horseradish ready, I take a deep breath. I need to remove the infected skin, otherwise it’s going to spread. I saw my ma do this once when Bian cut his knee, but that was ten years ago or more.

  If ever I needed Mother Hawk it’s now.

  Even though there’s Trackers still out looking, I light a small fire on dry leaves. The blade is sharpened, cleaned. Time is going too fast. I wish it would slow down. I wish I didn’t have to do this.

  Daphne argues weakly before crawling away.

  I set my teeth, and carve into Kiran’s skin, removing the graying crevice of flesh. With a blanket from his bag, I wipe away the blood. He wakes up briefly, mouth open in a silent scream, and then falls unconscious. Beads of sweat mixed with tears drip into my work, and I wipe those away too. Thankfully, the infection is not everywhere, and I am rid of it quickly.

  I thread the needle with focused hands and sew the wound shut, leaving big spaces between each tiny X to ensure I have enough thread to go the entire length. Fresh blood blossoms over his pale skin. I slop the horseradish poultice over the entire area. Some honey would be a good sealant, but I don’t have any. Another quick trip to the stream, and I’ve cleaned the wrapping and wrung it out.

  I hesitate before turning back to our camp. My stomach twists. My skin crawls. The blood runs cold, numbing my fingers. I stuff the extra length of my shirtsleeve into my mouth and scream, and then fall to my knees and puke. My muscles bunch and quiver, wrenching too hard around the bones. I think of the Watcher and how we killed him. Kiran and Brax and me. And if Kiran dies, no one else will ever remember what his blackened eyes looked like the moment he realized he was done for. No one will hear that gurgle as his face plunged into the water. Hideous secrets I will be forced to bear
alone with my silent wolf friend.

  The only way I can move past the shakes is to remember that Watchers are no longer men. And Kiran’s not dead yet.

  I rinse my mouth out and return.

  Then I wait.

  * * *

  KIRAN BARELY MOVES AS the sun dips below the horizon. With nothing more I can do to help him, I search the surrounding area and find Brax already on the prowl. It seems we’ve escaped the Trackers for now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be back.

  I am torn in half. I will not leave Kiran to die, but I need to find my family. If something happens to them while I’m this close, I will never forgive myself. If Kiran dies, I will never forgive myself. I snatch a stick off the ground and break it over my knee. I break the halves, and then the halves, until my hands are blistered and my hair is damp with sweat and there is nothing more to break.

  When I return, Daphne’s curled in a ball against the wall, sniffling again.

  “You should try to get some sleep,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Daphne, it’s going to be okay. I’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this.”

  It’s not true—the last scrape I got in that was this bad, I ended up at the Garden.

  She rolls over and faces the opposite way.

  “You hungry?”

  Silence.

  I stare at the back of her head. Her red hair is a nest of sticks and mud and bits of leaves, but she doesn’t even bother to clean it up.

  “Want a meal pill?”

  “There’s only two left.” She sounds miserable. “We’re going to starve.”

  I’m relieved she’s talking at all.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” I say, more to myself as I blot the sweat from Kiran’s brow. “I’ve got the glass arrow.”

  It’s an echo of the past, something my ma used to tell us when we were little. I use the water to wipe the dirt off Kiran’s face. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him so clean and I feel a little bit like I’m looking at him without his clothes on. His skin is smooth, pale in the reflection off the water. He’s got light freckles on his cheekbones I never noticed until just now. His lips are parted just a little. I skim the edge of his mouth with my fingertip, gently, and then draw back quickly and make sure Daphne didn’t see.