The highlander woman dogged him all the way back to camp. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know what you’re promising them.”
Venick ignored her. He was stiff, he was sore. There was a burn on his forearm that had come from he didn’t know where, but it had begun to ache. He flexed his fingers, trying to work some feeling back into the limb.
Harmon said, “The Elder doesn’t make allies.”
“I know that.”
“He’ll order you dead.”
“I know that too.”
“So you’re a fool.”
Venick’s eyes snapped to her. Wrong, to be called a fool by this woman. Strange, to hear those words from anyone except…
“You saw what happened here,” Venick bit out. “And this was just one attack by a handful of elves. What happens when they return with their full army? Do you think you’re safe because the highlands are tucked away to the north?” Venick started walking again. “What happened here—it’s going to happeneverywhere.”
They reached the camp. Venick found Eywen’s saddlebag and rummaged through it, looking for something to dress his burn. His movements were short. Rough. His fingers found a roll of gauze and gripped tight. “Do you know why every lowland man becomes a soldier? We need the numbers. The lowlands are half the size of the plains, a quarter of the size of the highlands—and still the elflands dwarf us all.” He stood. “Our people need each other.”
Harmon gazed at him, then down at his forearm, huffing a sigh. “Here.” She pulled the salve he’d given her—the one meant for burns—from her pocket. “Give me that.” She took the gauze from his hands and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. He resisted, but she pulled harder until he allowed the limb to come away from his body. She examined the burn. “You’ve burned the outer layer of skin but no deep tissue. I’d suggest a compress, though something tells me you won’t bother with that. Either way, this will help.” She unstoppered the salve.
Venick peered at her. “Are you a healer?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
She began dabbing ointment over the burn. It stung, but Venick made himself hold still. When she spoke next, it was quietly, with the air of someone who was speaking against their will. “There is another reason why you won’t convince the Elder.”
“Which is?”
“We know of you.”
Venick frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You are Venick, son of General Atlas. You killed your father and were exiled.”
Venick shook his head. “Why would you have any reason to know that?” Harmon threw him a short look, as if he’d asked the wrong question. He tried again. “I’ve been absolved of that crime.”
“In the highlands there is no absolution for murder.”
“We’re not highlanders.”
Harmon exhaled through her nose. “Don’t say that to the Elder. He won’t care that your rules are different. No—” she cut him off. “Don’t make excuses. This is important. When you speak with him, you must own up to what you’ve done.”
“I thought you just said I won’t be speaking with him,” Venick muttered.
“You will,” Harmon said, and looked at him full-on, in a way she hadn’t yet. As if she was really seeing him. Making sure he saw her. “I’m going to take you.”
???
The day before their departure, when their soldiers were packed and ready and waiting outside their ruined city, Venick did the thing he hadn’t wanted to do. He went alone. He took nothing, save the one thing.
Lorana’s hut sat on the eastern edge of the city. He could imagine, from a distance, that it looked exactly as he’d left it four years ago. But when he came closer he saw the truth. The door was smashed in, hanging on broken hinges. The paint was peeling. The flowerbed, left to its own devices, spilled with weeds.
Inside it was worse. The place had been ransacked, stripped of everything but a few pieces of furniture. The air was stale and reeked of mold. A mouse scurried from her corner.
Venick’s lungs blazed. He threw open a window.
The fresh air cleared his head. He found an old bucket. A broom. A crumbling bar of soap. He filled the bucket with water, worked up a lather, and began to clean.
