He sighs. “No. I’m not from the Ironwoods. I…was looking for someone.”
I wait for him to continue.
“If I tell you, will you untie me?”
“I’m not making any promises.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s measuring whether I’m serious. Evidently deciding I am, he frowns. “Fine. The truth is my father is a hunter, among many other things,” he finally says. “Ever since he was a boy, he dreamed about tracking down a…particularbeast. But he was never successful. My younger brother, Damien, just turned sixteen. In old Dornik families, it’s customary to get your portion of the inheritance at that age, and my parents are very traditional. Damien’s got thismassiveego, and he had these expectations stuck in his mind….”
He shakes his head, breaking off. “Anyway, my father didn’t give Damien what he thought he was going to get. And he was really royally pissed about it. So he made a big show of storming off to the mountains to find the beast and bring it back as a trophy. Y’know, to prove to my father that he’s a better man or whatever.”
I try to absorb this. I’m familiar with Dornak, though it’s not a pleasant association—it’s the coastal region where King Verdin originally ruled before the Long War. The Dornik are descendants of seafaring raiders, infamous for their bloodlust and skepticism toward magic. Considering their violent history, it tracks for Dornik traditions to involve violence. But Mother and I have only ever hunted because we were hungry. I can’t wrap my head around killing for sport, or worse, spite. “What was he hunting?”
“A fyrehound.”
Every muscle in my body stills. “A…fyrehound?” I repeat, feeling sick.
Fyrehounds are sacred to Elves. Our connection dates back thousands of years, to when warriors rode them in battle during the golden age of Evermore. It used to be customary for children to bond with a pup when they started training with a sword. But after the Long War, humans hunted the fyrehounds into extinction, a symbolic way of crushing Elven resistance. It’s almost too much to hope that there might still be some fyrehounds left—survivors, like Mother and me.
“Is that why you’re in the Ironwoods, then?” I ask, unable to keep the disdain out of my voice. “You’re trying to beat your brother to the punch?”
“I was trying to stop him from doing something I thought he’d regret. Clearly, that plan is going great.”
“Well,” I say, scowling, “maybe it’s the universe passing judgment.”
“You’re saying I deserved to be attacked?”
“I’m saying hunting for sport is immoral.”
He looks exasperated. “Listen, Damien is a menace, all right? He was either going to do something terrible or get himself hurt in the process. That’s what jackass little brothers do. I never wanted to be here. I thought he was way off base looking in the Ironwoods, anyway. Everything I’ve heard suggests the target was near Sulnik.”
I fold my arms, huffing. “I’d like to meet this brother.”
“Why? So you can tie him to your bed, too?”
“It’s notmybed.”
“Ah, yes. It’s yourmother’sbed. Much better.” He starts to chuckle, but the sound snags, and he starts hacking instead.
I rush forward, reaching for his chest. “Take it easy. You’re not out of the woods yet.” I edge closer. “Mind if I check your bandages?”
He coughs until his shoulders slump in surrender. “Go ahead.”
As I peel back his shirt to examine him, my hands tremble. Fortunately, he’s mending well. The gash through his chest still looks nasty, but the lung’s rebounded. His skull fracture has closed. As I re-dress his wounds, I scan surreptitiously underneath. My magic lets me perceive his pain, sampling it like dipping my toes into hot water. His innards feel like they’ve been carved out with spoons. His skull feels shrunken by two sizes.
At last, I pull away. He needs to sleep before I can use my Talent on him again. I can slip nocturn into his food, but he needs to trust me enough to eat it. So I take a deep breath and offer an olive branch. “My name is Lyria. What about you?”
“I’m Finn.” His eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I notice their color. It’s green with hints of gold, like an oak leaf held up against the sun. Something flutters in my chest as he smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Lyria.”
have a problem.
In the beginning, I took every precaution with Finn. His hands and feet stay tied to the bed. I allow him up only three times a day to attend to his needs. These trips are taken under supervision, and with a weapon at his back. He makes countless attempts at conversation, but I stonewall the camaraderie with a stoic and, hopefully, menacing persona.
My problem is that the whole stoic-and-menacing thing becomes increasingly difficult to maintain because Finn turns out to be charming.
Extremely,annoyinglycharming.
“I’m beginning to think you’ve got a streak of voyeurism,” he informs me one morning, three days after awakening. Finnwalks ahead on his way to the outhouse, limping slightly, and I follow with a crossbow. On this, ourninthtrip to the outhouse, I’m starting to question my resolve about the whole arrangement. “What do you mean?”
