When he pulled away, it was to consider me for several long breaths.
“Since you’re so determined to blame yourself alongside me,” he finally said, “let us choose to either use it to produce good, or ignore it altogether for now. Self-pity doesn’t produce solutions.”
“I think that is a wise plan.” I reached up to hold the hand at my jaw. “Though it’s easier said than done,” I admitted.
“It’s easier to feel like poor, helpless souls, because that absolves us of doing the hard things that come next.” His fingers fell away and he stood. A long, slow inhale lifted his shoulders. An exhale settled them with determination. He extended a hand to me. “Let us find the strength we already have.”
He was right. It was far easier to wallow in shame than to rise above it.
I placed my hand in his, sealing a promise I hoped I could keep.
* * *
While our passage through Sixth had been quiet, ironically, it was our entrance into Fifth Territory that brought the mosttrouble.
It began when Harthon abruptly declared, “We’re going to see Josenne.”
I’d been half-asleep in my saddle, the sleepless nights wearing on me, when his statement jolted me into awareness.
Regarding him, I chose my next words carefully. “All I have is the knowledge of the path,” I said quietly.
With a stony expression, his eyes flicked between mine. “Yet your eyes look like themagvis’.”
They always have,I thought. And it’s never meant anything beyond bringing us into the Domus.
I didn’t argue, though. From his tone, he’d made his decision, and I could withstand the discomfort of Josenne’s presence if it meant satisfying his curiosity.
We stopped at the next village so Harthon could send a letter ahead to Ellan, informing him we would be stopping at his periphery city of Botton, near Josenne’s home, and requesting a meeting. Ellan would need to strengthen his defenses in preparation for Sixth Territory’s retaliation, and Domus knew he couldn’t figure that out on his own.
As Harthon sent the letter by bird, we camouflaged ourselves, not wanting to deal with soldiers or curious villagers. Perhaps that camouflage was why a band of looters descended on the village while we were there.
They came in screaming, clearly not appreciating the value of stealth. There were twenty or so, and while they held their clubs and swords with an apparent lack of skill, the villagers chose to flee rather than fight—as one did when the world’s cruelty had drained the fight out of them.
It wound up being us against them.
They fought much like the looters in First: with sloppy, jerky movements and wild swings. With Harthon fighting beside me, I dispatched three of them, reveling in how my muscles burnedand mind emptied in focus. It only took minutes for the village’s communal center to become a bloody graveyard, but the looters’ bodies littering the ground weren’t the only ones dripping crimson. Stefano had been struck, a simple gash in his arm that ran deep.
Harthon was surprised. “You let one of them get you?”
Stefano just grinned as Joris wrapped the wound with a scrap of fabric. “There were six at once, and they just flail so unpredictably.”
Two days later, as we neared the city of Botton, Stefano was no longer smiling. For probably the hundredth time that morning, I glanced at him from atop my horse. His face was white and dotted with perspiration, body tipping to one side as his injured arm hung limp by his side.
The stubborn kid had hidden the infection from us all day yesterday, refusing to allow anyone else to change his bandage. We only realized something was wrong in the early hours of this morning when he struggled to hoist himself onto his saddle. Removing the blood-soaked fabric had revealed angry red swelling around a still-oozing wound, and his condition had only worsened since then.
He shouldn’t have been riding, but it was the quickest way to get us to Botton andhimto a healer.
His eyes suddenly bugged as his chest convulsed. I yanked my horse to a stop as he clumsily dropped from the saddle, braced himself on his good arm, and heaved up the contents of his stomach. He thumped tiredly to the ground when he was done, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “Just need a minute,” he panted.
Joris frowned deeply as he felt Stefano’s forehead. “No. You need a healer.”
Concern drew lines across Harthon’s face as he crouched beside them. “You’re riding with me.”
Stefano shook his head. “Ellan likes his welcoming parties. I’m not entering his city draped across your horse like I’m dying.” The fact that he spoke so brazenly against Harthon indicated just how unwell he was.
Harthon didn’t take offense, perhaps because he’d be just as stubborn. “You’ll topple off your own horse.”
“And if I ride on yours, vomiting all over, it won’t look good. If we’re coming up on a war, it’s more important than ever to show our strength,” Stefano argued weakly.
