The Glass Arrow

by Kristen Simmons

I mix the drink with my finger and swallow it in one chug. It scalds my tongue and throat and tastes so bitter I nearly gag.

  “There,” I say. It’s begun. There’s no going back now. Kiran grunts and doesn’t look up. He hasn’t looked at me once since committing to this plan.

  He feeds the fire from a pile of dry pine needles, and a plume of white smoke rises into the afternoon sky. I stand, and then blink and grab onto Dell’s saddle while the forest spins around me.

  “You took enough, right? You won’t feel much?” Kiran asks. He’s tapping an arrow against his thigh.

  “I took twice as much as I gave you,” I say. My head feels very heavy. The fire is bright orange and draws my stare. It’s so beautiful. I shake my head to clear it.

  “Oh. That’s good, I guess,” Kiran says.

  “Too much is definitely not good.” Some part of me knows I shouldn’t keep on, but I can’t seem to stop myself now. Kiran doubles before me, and I reach out to try to figure out which one is real.

  He grabs my outstretched hand, and soon his arm is around my waist, holding me upright.

  “Oops,” I say. “We’re almost dancing.” I bump his hip with mine and smile, but he doesn’t seem to think it’s funny.

  “Why? Why isn’t it good?”

  “Well, we gave it to my ma when the fever hit. It helped her die.”

  “Are you joking?” He grips my waist tighter. It makes me giggle.

  “I’m not a very good joker,” I admit. He knows this. I don’t know why I have to tell him.

  Dell begins to prance, and Kiran turns away. In the distance, I can already hear the steady cracking of twigs and dead leaves on the forest floor.

  The Trackers are coming.

  “You’d better do it,” I say. “Wait a second. I want to close my eyes.”

  He’s staring at me, pain in his river-stone gaze. He doesn’t want to do this anymore, and like something from a different life, I remember how it felt the night I asked him to help me earn a Virulent mark in the solitary yard.

  “Gimme the arrow,” I say. He’d better hurry up with it, because I might just accidently stick something important if we wait much longer.

  “I’ll do it,” he says.

  “Wait!” I say, almost having forgotten what I needed to tell him. He jerks forward, grasping my elbows for support.

  “You’ve got to make sure they made it. The twins. You’ll do that right?”

  His face falls. “I’ll do it. We both will.”

  “Even if I don’t make it. You’ll make sure, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Kiran?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t let them take me.” I don’t have much time left. I can barely see him through the darkness. But it’s only afternoon, it shouldn’t be dark yet.… Why does Kiran look so sad? I don’t like that look at all.

  “I won’t let them take you,” he says.

  “You know what to do, right? If they take me?”

  I can’t go back to the city again. I won’t make it out once they bring me to the mayor’s house. I take the arrow he’s notched in his bow and aim it towards my heart, showing him what I mean for him to do. The tea is so strong it makes my hands clumsy, and the metal arrow nicks my finger. I wince, and he swears and pulls back the bow.

  “I thought you said it wouldn’t hurt,” he says, more to himself than me.

  “Thank you,” I say. “For helping me out of the Garden. And for singing Brax’s soul. And for telling me about my father. If I die, I’ll remember you in my next life and all the lives after. I won’t ever forget you.”

  I’m not scared anymore. Not of anything. Not even of dying. A flush of relief fills me as I realize my ma might not have been afraid either. It makes the cold seeping over my body more bearable.

  Kiran’s finger brushes my scarred earlobe again, just as it did the night he returned. Time seems to pause. Though I’ve fought it all my life, maybe someone—Kiran—does own me. Pieces of me. Moments with me. Maybe I own him too, in those same scattered pieces. And maybe it’s only the buzzing in my head, but this suddenly doesn’t seem terrible at all.

  The Trackers are getting closer. The ground has begun to tremble beneath their hoofbeats.

  Kiran backs up, one step at a time, until he’s fifteen paces away. There are tears running down his face. I widen my stance to hold as steady as I can and pinch my eyes closed.

  “Goodbye,” I whisper, just in case.

  Nothing happens. I blink my eyes open again and there is Kiran, aiming the arrow at my chest, but unable to release the twine.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m not scared.”

  He lowers the bow and in a flash picks up a stone off the ground and heaves it with all his might into a tree behind him. I can hear the air release from his lungs in one hard whoosh.

  And then he spins back, lifts the bow, and fires.

  I feel the pressure first, like a dull branch prodding my right shoulder. It shoves so hard against me that I’m knocked off my feet and land on my back beside the fire. When I turn my head I see the narrow rod rising from my skin. It’s in that moment, between the shock and the fear, that I think of Deer in my ma’s old story and wonder if this was the last thing he saw before Mother Hawk took his soul.

  The pain comes a moment later, stabbing into my shoulder and sending bolts across my chest. It’s worse than the wire, worse than a Watcher beating. I can’t move. I’m pinned to the ground.

  I can’t even remember how I got here.

  I hear a crashing through the darkness above, beyond, surrounding me. Hooves striking the ground somewhere close. Someone’s here. Is it Kiran? Where is Kiran?

  “Found her!” someone yells. The gritty sound echoes in my head.

  “He won’t be happy,” groans another.

  I close my eyes and see my ma. Her long, dark hair hanging in tight ringlets to her hips. The mark on her cheek that warps when she smiles.

  “Aya.” She still sounds the same when she says my name, as though she’s never been gone. She sits on the ground beside me, cradles my head in her lap and sings my soul away. Her fingers are warm, skimming across my forehead. And Brax is here too. Licking my face. Snuggling into the crook in my arm. Here there is no blood, no fever, no grief. Here there is only peace.

  I’ve fought well, just like my ma taught me. Just like I was supposed to do. It finally feels all right to let go, and when I do, I can breathe. It feels like the first time in years that I’ve really breathed. Everything is okay now. Everyone is safe. I am free.

  I’ve got the glass arrow.

  It protrudes from my shoulder, wavering the slightest bit, and shining in the firelight. The blood of my life seeps from it, blossoming on my Driver shirt, soaking into the ground.

  My sacrifice will allow my family to live.

  I am filled with joy.

  CHAPTER 24

  I COME BACK BIT by bit. One bright dot appears, growing larger, eating up the darkness.

  At first, I’m only aware of the pieces—my frozen feet, my aching head, my arms crossed over my chest. There’s a pebble stuck under my hip. A rough wool pad under my head. My stomach is empty, and I’m starving.

  I’m so tired. I go away for a while, but when I come back there’s a noise breaking through the crackling of the flames. A voice I recognize. He has a funny way of talking. Kiran, that’s his name. Kiran.

  “… She always wanted to do whatever I did, and our mother stuck her with me, too. ‘Don’t you leave Kyna,’ she’d say. Every single time I left our house. I didn’t always mind. Well, maybe I did. But I was just a kid myself, you know.”

  Kyna. Behind my closed lids I can see her in the buckskin dress with the boards on her legs. Her hair shimmers in the sun. It’s golden. Just like Kiran’s. They resemble each other, now that I think of it. The same nose. The same lanky build.

  Kiran’s telling me stories. Like the stories I used to tell him in the city. In the Garden. I remem
ber now. Long nights, when I talked and talked, thinking he didn’t know what I was saying. I remember.

  “She was four and I was seven when I let her ride for the first time. My father wanted her to wait until she was bigger, but he was working in the city and my mother was cooking, so I took her out back and set her up on this old paint gelding we had. It seemed harmless enough. Kyna loved it. She was laughing.” He clears his throat. “Neither of us saw the snake on the ground until it was too late. It spooked the gelding, and she fell. He ran her over trying to get away.”

  Kiran says nothing for a while. I wish he would talk again. I wish I could do something to make him feel better but my shoulder’s begun to throb. I can’t remember why it hurts, though I feel like I should.

  “I carried her back to camp, to the doctor, but her legs were crushed. During the operation I thought of all the times I’d told her to stop following me and leave me alone, and I promised to take care of her from then on. I still try, though she doesn’t need me much these days. I wouldn’t have left home, but the city medicine helps her legs. I took that job at the rental barn in Glasscaster so I could get it.”

  He sighs.

  “I wish you’d wake up already, Aya.”

  My name. Aiyana. Aya. I was supposed to die, but I didn’t. I was sold, but I escaped.

  A moan whispers from my throat, but it takes too much work and grows quiet.

  “Aya?”

  A cool hand presses against my neck, searching for my pulse. It must take a long time for those fingers to find what they’re looking for because they linger through more than a dozen throbbing beats of my heart.

  “If you can hear me, they’re gone, Aya. The mayor’s brother and his men. You were right. And that’s the last time I’m going to ever say you were right about that, because you’re not talking me into shooting you ever again.”

  He moves the hair from my forehead, leaving a tingling sensation wherever his fingertips brush.

  “You’re safe now. It’s been discussed by the elders. You and your family, even Strawberry. We’re taking you all in. The outcast—your father, I mean—they’re still not sold on him, but the rest of you, you’re going to live with us now. If you want, I mean.”

  He waits a beat.

  “I hope that’s what you want.”

  In the quiet, the rest of my memories return, beginning with the past and catching up to the present. Kiran has followed the plan, and now we’re all safe. My family is free. Tam. Nina. Lorcan. Even Daphne. They’re waiting for me in the mountains. Or maybe they’re already at the Driver camp.

  We’re going to be safe.

  I think of Salma’s last words to me in the shop—that we are just women. As if that weren’t enough. It makes me sad—not angry, not bitter. She always wanted more and in the end settled for nothing.

  I see all of it then. Watchers, Pips and their beaters, the medical check. All the fights, all the running, every time I should have given up but didn’t. I see a gray wolf and a boy in the solitary yard with gold flecks in his eyes and a man with a scar on his throat who was there for me when it mattered.

  I see Daphne and am proud of the friend she’s become. I see us age—see our hair grow long and wild and our skin tan in the sun as the last of the treatments from the Garden fade away. We are strong and proud and beautiful and there are not enough stars in the night sky to measure our worth.

  I will honor my mother and take care of my family.

  Yes, I think. I am just a woman.

  I’m awake now. I could open my eyes and tell Kiran I’m back, but something in his tone tells me we have time, so I keep them closed.

  I think I’ll let him talk a little longer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I AM HONORED TO be able to thank the following people, because they have been absolutely awesome to work with:

  Melissa Frain, who is more or less the best editor/friend/comedian ever. (See what I did there? I used “more or less” right!) How she continues to put up with my rapidly firing anxious e-mails and my brilliantly executed (if I do say so myself) pranks, I’ll never know.

  My agent, Joanna MacKenzie, who always knows the right thing to say about pretty much anything—revisions, contracts, chocolate, you name it—and Danielle Egan Miller, who is fierce in the best way, and ever encouraging.

  Kathleen Doherty, the kick-ass publisher of Tor Teen, who took a chance on me with Article 5 and has quite literally made many of my dreams come true. Alexis Saarela, my wonderful publicist, who has been kind enough to help me schedule all things bookly around my son; Seth Lerner for all the beautiful covers he has made for my books, including this one; and Christopher Gibbs for lending his incredible talent to create the artwork. And of course, a huge thank-you to Amy Stapp, the best pranking accomplice ever, for all of her help.

  I am grateful for wonderful writerly friends, including Katie McGarry, who has pulled me out of more plot holes than you can imagine; and Kendare Blake for her encouragement and thoughtful reads. And for the people who dance with me at Jazzercise, and all the bloggers, readers, teachers, and librarians who have shared their enthusiasm.

  Every day I am thankful for my family. For my mom, who is as proud of me now as she was when I was writing stories about my hamster when I was seven; and my dad, a real genuine cowboy, who taught me responsibility by feeding horses and cleaning stalls and who was there to welcome a little chestnut filly, Dell, into the world when I was fourteen. For the support and unending love from the Simmons side, and for open arms and patient hearts of the Fairfields.

  And last but not least, I am grateful for my boys. Thank you, Jason, for giving me the best story of all: our story. And thank you, Ren, for filling the pages.

  BOOKS BY KRISTEN SIMMONS

  Article 5

  Breaking Point

  Three

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kristen Simmons has a master’s degree in social work and is an advocate for mental health. She lives with her family and their precious greyhound, Rudy, in Cincinnati, Ohio.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE GLASS ARROW

  Copyright © 2015 by Kristen Simmons

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Chris Gibbs

  A Tor Teen Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  978-0-7653-3661-3 (hardcover)

  978-1-4668-2878-0 (e-book)

  e-ISBN 9781466828780

  First Edition: February 2015