Fuck. She’s not going to make this easy. “You know I never meant for that to happen, right?”
“I know.” She walks around the horse, hand running along its backside, then starts on the other tie.
“But you still can’t forgive me.”
“It’s not a matter of forgiveness. I just…” She closes her eyes and takes a breath. “I gave you my trust, and you lied and manipulated me. And maybe Duje wasn’t your fault, but you still probably gotLeodin killed. He was a bastard, but he was Max’s father, and he didn’t deserve that.”
Should I tell her how I spoke out of anger? Would it make a difference if she knew the truth, that Leodin was the mark all along, and that’s why he was roomed right below the queen? Or would it just sound like a bullshit excuse?
She stops what she’s doing and rests her hand on the horses flank. “Just, answer one thing for me?” she asks, eyes on the ground.
“Anything.”
“Did you do it for the king or yourself?”
“Both,” I answer truthfully. “Troi wanted her out so he could take the throne, and I wanted her dead.”
“For killing your family?”
“Yes.”
She nods and goes back to tending the horse.
I realize I’m bouncing on my toes like a scared kid. I still my feet and stuff my hands in my pockets. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You want to know why I saved you?”
“Yes.”
She gives the tie a final tug and looks at me. “You saved my life and I saved yours. Now we’re even.”
“But…” I stop short. I have no idea what to say. She doesn’t want to hear me tell her I love her again. She doesn’t want me down on my knees and begging—though I’d do it in an instant if thought it would help. She just wants me gone. The least I can do is respect that. “I’ll miss you,” I say, voice cracking like a prepubescent boy.
She simply nods, then fits her foot into the stirrup, pushes up and throws her leg over the mare. Circling the horse aroundso we’re face-to-face, she says, “Goodbye, Aemon.” Then she pulls the strip of cloth over her nose and mouth, leaving only her eyes visible, maneuvers the animal back around and trots out of the barn. I follow her out and watch as she rides off beneath the dawning sky, a shining white beacon in a sea of purple and pink and gold.
A new day, a new her; the same old Aemon.
I rub tired eyes, then turn back to the clinic. Guess I’d better pack up my things too.
I’ve got a king to kill.
The young soldier comes to with a start, eyes squinting against the midday sun. He’s being jostled about, multiple hands holding him steady while others grapple with the rope he used to tie himself to the horse. Muffled voices speak all at once, but he can’t make out what they’re saying over the constant ringing in his ears. Suddenly, he’s pulled from the horse’s back and white-hot pain tears through his abdomen from where the bullet is still lodged inside of him.
Screaming.
He’s screaming, and crying, and begging for them to set him down and just let him die in peace, but they either don’t understand or don’t care. More pain, like a hot poker, runs through his belly as he’s lowered onto a stretcher. Black creeps in at the edges of his vision, and he prays for the oblivion of unconsciousness.
But the gods aren’t listening.
Trees tops piercing a blue sky whiz by as he’s rushed across a field and into a white tent. There, he’s set down on a table or counter of some kind, the cool top shocking against his heated skin. A male dressed all in white leans over him. His lips move, but the soldier shakes his head. Can’t they see he doesn’t understand? The pain in his side has diminished somewhat, but now there’s a cold, tingling sensation building in his fingers and toes.
The soldier isn’t delusional. He knows he’s dying, grateful even. Death means no more pain, no more guilt, no more nightmares filled with the scent of smoke and burning flesh, the sound of fists pounding on chained doors, of children’s screams as they died.
He knew burning Duje was wrong, and yet he did it anyway. He helped set fire to the dom and watched as innocent people burned to death inside. All because he was too much of a coward to stand against it. He deserves to die for that. They all did.
Except, he didn’t die, not yet at least. He escaped so he could warn the others, but his mind is too fuzzy, the memories a jumbled mess of images: the scouts running into camp shouting that escaped magi had returned to Duje, his troop outside the decimated building demanding that the magi come out with their “hands up.” There was a lady in white. She was angry. She told them to burn and...
The soldier grabs the medic’s lapel and jerks him close. “She… burned,” he says, his dry throat cracking on the words.
