—he could survive this.
You won’t.
But he must. Hemust. Fear entered him at the thought of his own death, of dying before he had the chance to tell Ellina everything. That he was sorry. That he wasn’t angry, not like before. After the stateroom, Venick had been furious with Ellina. He’d wanted to accuse her of everything she had done for him, to accuse her of lying to defend him when she shouldn’t have, of taking the whip for him and lying to save him and then lying about her reasons. He thought of those reasons. The shock of discovering Lorana’s identity. His renewed grief. A spill of memories, like water tipped from a cup.
The truth had hurt at first. Gods, how it hurt. The revelation of Lorana’s lies and Ellina’s lies split him open.
But then the pain had eased. He thought the pain of the truth was like the cut on his chest in Kenath. The sharp bite of the sword, the fear to look. Later, touching the cut tenderly. Relief when the wound turned out to be not so bad. Not so deep.
Before, Venick hadn’t known if he could forgive Lorana for her lies. If he could forgive Ellina for hers. But as Venick collapsed onto the stairs, rough stone digging into his legs and back, poison pounding through him, he found that forgiveness came easily. And what was there to forgive, really? A promise between sisters? The desire for a better life? Venick understood promises. He understood wanting something better, somethingmore.
His thoughts came slowly now, with the ragged waywardness of a mind almost asleep. He had kissed Ellina. He’d done it because he wanted her, wanted to feel her skin under his hands, and because he thought she wanted it, too.
Now he didn’t know what she wanted, and as he blinked up at the dizzy spiral of stairs above, he realized he never would.
The thought seemed to shake him. He wouldn’t die, not here, not like this. He fought to stand. Reeking gods, he wouldmakehis legs move.
But he couldn’t. His boots scraped uselessly against the stone. His fingers sought purchase and were left wanting. He was losing blood. He had nothing to stanch the flow.
His mind was dimming again. And still, he begged the silence, the gods, himself:please, not here. Not like this.
He could hear the ocean now. The sound of it filled his ears. He saw Irek and its slow, sturdy people. He saw the market, the river where he had once roamed, his house by the water. He saw his mother, heard her voice.
You will always be my son, Venick.
My precious child.
I love you still.
Venick closed his eyes. Felt cool sand under his cheek. Sun on his skin. Saltwater and safety and a homeland there for him, waiting.
???
Please.
A frantic voice broke through the darkness. A low throb of sound, a choked interval.
Please, Venick. Wake up.
Fingers fanned his face, his chest, his leg. They slid over his skin and his body responded, which made him think this must be real, even as he wondered how it possibly could be.
Do not die. You cannot.
Venick.
Someone was pulling at his arm, but it felt distant. Dreamlike. Was he dying? It was hard to know.
Please.
His thoughts were splintered. Stiff and painful. He remembered a dim room. The smell of blood. Someone was wounded. Him?
If you die…
Yes, him. He had been wounded. It explained that broken voice, which was cursing him now. Angry.
An anger, he knew, that was meant to hide her worry.
He wanted to tell her not to worry. He wouldn’t die. He was a born fighter. He had survived battles, the tundra, exile. He was strong. He could be strong.
