Cason flushed as he looked around at the bodies littering the grasses at their feet. “Four hells,” he muttered.
Brela chuckled and patted his chest. “Okay, yes, them too.” She gripped his hand and guided it to the left, toward darkness. “I meant the zivox.”
As fire flickered along his fingertips to illuminate the space, beady eyes reflected the flames back. One set of eyes, two, five,more. Converging on the bodies. One of the men had already been dragged into the depths of the fog. Others were feasting proudly, not caring about him or Brela when they had an easy meal in front of them.
“Bit of a mood killer,” Brela whispered, tugging Cason toward their horses with careful steps. “I’m functional enough to ride for a few more hours.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it after the hellthorn?” He glanced toward her. “Not to mention the fight we just—“
He stopped abruptly at the grin plastered on her face. At his surprisingly empty hand.
At the throwing knife she now waved back and forth in front of her.
“How did you—“
“That is literally all I have left in me, Cason,” she said with a sigh, then stared up at her horse as her shoulders sagged. It was like her entire body deflated as she whined, “Did my mount get taller?”
46
Old and New Friends
They reached Qord early in the afternoon, with half a day to spare.
By then, Brela’s cheek had turned into a nasty blueish purple, throbbing with each blink and twitch of her lips. The cuts on her body had scabbed and itched like crazy, and she really did look and feel like hell.
At least the hellthorn had left her system.
They’d cleaned themselves in the Bodes River that morning, scrubbing away the worst of the caked blood and stench of their bodies. Nothing could really wipe away the reek of their supplies and the dampness that didn’t seem to dry, even in the days of sun that followed the rainy weather.
At least the stolen papers from the camp were protected in their tube. And the book she’d stolen hadn’t been damaged beyond a few damp edges.
She only wished the information inside had been more helpful.
The experiments on her people went nowhere productive. Just endless trials of new concoctions with ground obsidian from the wall. The best of them ended in a vulnerability to hellthorn. The worst?
For men and women like Fowke, death was a kindness.
Fowke… Brela’s heart hadn’t recovered. He had been with Tybost just a few months ago. Had fought with him around the same time her father had been killed.
She didn’t allow herself to consider the possibility Tybost had been captured or that he was alive somewhere, facing the same torture as Fowke had. But still the questions plagued her.
What was he looking for? Who had succeeded? What had they accomplished?
Daughter of what?
The gray bruise on her wrist had disappeared, but she could still feel it. Like a thrumming under her skin, swirling and flowing just like her connection to the shadows and her magic. That celvusa hadn’t made another appearance, but what the hells she was going to do about the shadow wolf was a mystery for another time.
Cason hadn’t said much as they led their horses to the stable, too busy studying the town, which was why she nearly jolted when he finally spoke.
“How did you possibly remember this place so perfectly? You were five.”
“I always had a fascination with drawing architecture and city layouts.” He raised his brow at her. “Yes, I know.Boring.”
“Not boring, it’s just… it’s been almost twenty years.”
Brela shrugged. “I remember everything about my time here. Not just because that’s what I was supposed to do as the heir, but because all of the books were slowly being destroyed. I just wanted to save what was left of my home. If not in a library, in my mind.”
She’d told him more stories on their trip. Had been able to clarify several more of the ones he’d already heard now that he knew about hellthorn. She’d even shown him the scar above her ear again, then laughed as she instructed his fumbling fingers on how to braid the cuffs back into her hair. After a few tries, he’d demanded she show him how to do it properly.
