I test them, heart in my throat. There's a bit of movement—not much, but enough to reach my hair and grab the knife, when the moment is right.
If I'm fast enough.
"The ritual must be completed," Torim says, producing oil.
He anoints the chains, speaking words in old dragon tongue. The other elders join in, their voices rising in eerie harmony.
The chanting builds, then stops abruptly.
Silence.
Torim looks down at me. For the first time since I've known him, he looks almost sad.
"May you find peace, Kess of Thornhaven."
"May the Beast King choke on my blood," I reply.
He flinches. Then turns to the other elders. "Time to go, before he arrives."
They start filing out.
"Wait," Yaern says. She's been standing at the clearing's edge, watching with wide eyes, frozen. "Give me a moment."
Torim hesitates for a moment, then, seeming to find no reason to object, nods. "Only for a moment, enough to say goodbye. The grove is not safe after dark."
That's an understatement. But the elders file out just enough to give us the semblance of privacy.
Yaern approaches the altar slowly, her face pale as she looks at me. I try to give her a smile, put on a brave face, but we both know better than to pretend like everything is okay. When she reaches me, she grabs my chained hands, her hands cold and her fingers trembling just slightly—until I squeeze them, and she stills.
"You have the knife," she says. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Good." Her eyes are fierce now, and though unshed tears shine in them, she doesn't cry. We already said goodbye—this is different. "Then make it count. Don't hesitate. Don't think. Just strike."
"I will."
"I know." She squeezes my hands. "I'll be waiting for you when you come back."
When. Not if.
She believes what she's saying, somehow, like the religious do about the gods. Against all logic, all evidence, all history—she believes that I'll survive this. There's nothing like a best friend to make a girl feel invincible.
I wish I could believe it too.
She leans down and kisses my forehead with soft, warm lips. I hold onto the sensation, memorize the smell of her hair, thesound of her breathing, the warmth of her hands in mine. Then she's gone, slipping away and disappearing into the forest with the elders.
I'm alone.
-
The forest holds its breath, waiting. It knows what happens here. Has seen many predators kill their prey and is no doubt unfazed by yet another hunt underway.
I look down at myself—white dress torn and stained, iron chains locked around my wrists and ankles, my bare feet damp from the moss, my hair loose and wild around me. My aunt's ring on my finger. Yaern's red string bracelet on my wrist.
And hidden in my hair, where my hands can just barely reach: Yaern's knife. Her brother's knife. The blade meant for the killing stroke.
I practice the motion: reach up slowly, fingers parting thick dark strands, until I find the wood of the knife's the handle.
