The shift is so abrupt, I stammer over the answer, “Th-they rot?”
“And cucumbers, left too long on the vine?” Ro demands.
“Again, they rot. I don’t see what any of this has to do with—”
“And what must be done with rot?” Ro’s voice is as voice as sharp as the knife in her hand.
“You have to cut it out, before it spoils the entire crop.”
“I’m glad you understand,” she says with a sad smile.
Then she lunges at me.
Forty-Seven
My mind refuses to process what my eyes are seeing:
The glinting blade. Rowenna’s seething expression.
My sister would never hurt me.She wouldn’t!my heart screams, even as the knife arcs through the moonlight, slashing toward my chest.
I am frozen. Transfixed. Watching from outside my body.
Right before the blade tears through me, Alaric makes a horrific sound, and his feet jerk, kicking my legs out from under me. Saving me the same way I saved him from Soren.
Rowenna’s knife whizzes past my face—a blow meant to kill, not injure—and a long, low wail bleeds from my lips. The blade may have missed its mark, but the pain in my chest is just as excruciating. Maybe even more so. If the knife had ripped through me, the physical pain would have overwhelmed the bone-wrenching grief of knowing my sister wanted to kill me. The darkness would have pressed in, blurring the flash of the knife and her hateful expression.
But I’m forced to see it all.
Rowenna curses as her boots slide through the scree, thrown off-balance by the miss. Readjusting her grip on the dagger, she turns to face me, hot breath flaring from her nostrils like the bulls in Tashir before they charge.
This time, I don’t need Alaric to kick me into motion. I duck and roll beneath the knife, gripping a stone in each fist. Rocks wouldn’t have been my first choice of weapon, but they’re better than nothing. And in a strange way, it feels fitting to wield fragments of the mountain as I fight for Alaric and the Vanzadorians. Almost like they’re helping me in what little way they can.
“That’s the best you can do?” Rowenna asks with a cruel chuckle. “Throwing rocks like a child? Like one ofthem? I’m embarrassed foryou, little sister.”
I set my jaw and hurl the first stone—not directly at Rowenna, but higher, like the competitors in the stone-throwing courts. Rowenna laughs even louder, thinking I missed, until the stone lands squarely on her foot.
Her eyes flare, and she grits her teeth. “Why are you suddenly being so difficult? You’ve spent your entire life trailing me like a duckling, happy to be led along, untilnow, when it matters most.”
While she’s yelling, I pelt her again in the thigh.
“Stop this! We both know you’re never going to kill me throwing pebbles.”
“I don’twantto kill you!” I cry. “I want you to come to your senses. You’re better than this, Ro.”
She screams with frustration and slashes the knife.
A flat slab of shale catches my eye, and I raise it over my head as she brings the knife down. The force shatters the thin rock, and my ears ring as the pieces pelt me. While I try to get my bearings, Rowenna throws her weight into another attack—swinging with blind rage, like the Marauders. It’s ferocious and intimidating, but ultimately avoidable, because, like the Marauders, she always takes the obvious shot. Always swings with the most effort.
I, on the other hand, have spent my life fighting smaller, quieter battles in the planting beds—against enemies like locusts and root weevils that required patience and persistence to eradicate.
That’s how I fight my sister now. Not by meeting Rowenna in herstrength, but by settling into mine. I let her swing, rage, and run herself ragged, while I retreat across the narrow summit like a sure-footed rabbit, lobbing an occasional stone when I can.
“Stop this!” Rowenna shouts again, breathless and stumbling over divots that would never have tripped her up before.
I continue retreating, drawing her away from Alaric and closer to the cliffs—the place where Soren died, where I thoughtshedied. The place this journey for vengeance began. It seems fitting it should end here too. The future of two nations teetering on the precipice.
I peer over the edge, and the dizzying height grips my throat. It’s terrifying and breathtaking—almost too stunning to be real. Craggy craggy purple peaks jut into a velvet blue sky, embroidered with stars and swirling snow. Beauty so at odds with this moment.
