His mouth tightens. “And I was merely the cost of that.”
He goes silent for a while. I do, too. Then at last he breaks the strained tension between us, pushing off the rampart and landing on the grass below. His eyes are a fountain of ice as he backs away from me.
“You hate me, don’t you?” I say, my voice cracking.
He flinches, like my words are a strike to his face. “Hatred is not what I feel for you. But it’s difficult to stand here and realize that if things had happened differently, you would have destroyed me for him.”
I shake my head, even as guilt twists in my chest.
“And worse,” he says, quieter. “You said you wouldn’t do it now, but your thoughts are still with him.”
I swallow.
“I don’t know what I am to you,” he says. “And I’m not going to stand here and pretend it doesn’t matter.”
He turns, then vanishes into the ruins’ shadows. I grip the side of the rampart, my chest aching painfully. Deep breaths in, long breaths out. I try to calm the tremors going through me, but it feels like I just opened up my chest, tore out my own heart, and tossed it to the wolves.
Why? I barely know him. He’snothingto me.
Except that’s not true, is it?
He is more than just an exiled stranger whose power should frighten and disgust me. We are linked in ways I don’t understand, and knowing I can’t remember makes the raw feeling in my chest so much worse. Ithurtsto not know why I hurt. It makes me want to scream and rage at the sky. Instead, I just pull my knees to my chest and cry.
Once the tears dry up, I spend the next few hours huddled on that broken wall while the cold wind swirls around me. The warmth of the firebird barely registers. Someone’s voice calling for me hardly does, too. All I see, and all I feel, is the deep black horizon before me, swallowing everything.
I fall into a routine over the next few days. At dawn, I wake, eat my porridge by the fire with Arianell, who tells me stories of the screaming dead she’s encountered over the years. Afterward, I quietly tend to whatever chore needs doing. Yesterday, I scrubbed every dish until my hands ached. Today, I spent the morning mending clothes. Now, as evening fades into the night, I make my rounds along the perimeter, gathering kindling for the fire.
Gethin walks with me. Whenever there’s an opportunity to escape the main tent, he takes it. He never says why, but I understand.
I’ve seen Taliesin, of course, but he feels as distant as the stars. He’s brought Bryn into the camp now. I suppose he must have decided it was safe.
With a bundle of kindling in my arms, I turn at the final corner and head back toward the fire burning in the distance. Smoke dances in the wind.
As we walk, Gethin gently touches my arm. “I hate what I’m about to say, but I need to ask you for something.”
My steps falter—only for a heartbeat. It’s over too quickly for anyone to notice but me. I’ve been expecting this, even if I thought it would be Rhian or Gwenydd who brought it up. The captured prisoner has given up no information, just like I expected. As little as words mean these days, they always come back to haunt me.
“Anything you need, Gethin,” I say.
“Brioc’s been with the prisoner this evening, tryingagainto get information from him,” he says quietly. “Scouts arrived earlier. The king’s army is still in the forest, but Gwenydd overheard a soldier say something about heading to the coast soon. We need to know if he’s coming here, Angharad. And we need to know now.” He sighs heavily. “Rhian’s told Taliesin to come to the tent tonight. Will you help him?”
I swallow hard. “I thought you were opposed to all that.”
“I am.” A flicker of pain goes through his eyes. “But if we don’t get the soldier to talk, this place could be gone tomorrow.”
His voice is rough, and I hear something else beneath his words. Not could be.Willbe. If the king’s army comes here, this place won’t survive.
“And the Order’s plan?” I ask. “I assume you’ll want that, too.”
He hesitates. “Of course that matters. But I care more about the people here. If the king’s army has found us, we need to run.”
My grip tightens around the kindling. “I’ll do my best. But you must know the prisoner might still refuse to give you what you want.”
“I’m hoping the ice might convince him otherwise,” he says grimly.
An uneasy feeling sinks between my ribs. The ice might not. But something else would.
We drop the kindling by the fire before heading into the tents. Taliesin is already inside with Rhian and Gwenydd. The back flap is open, the ends tied back to reveal the adjoining space. Inside, a burly figure slumps against a chair, rope wound tight around his torso. His head hangs to his chest, and his long, sweat-soaked hair hides his face. A spray of blood stains the ground beneath him.
