The soldiers were entirely gone now. They had left the shore and gone back to tear down their camp, celebrate their victory, and return to their homes. Robin did not understand how it had been that easy, for Gareth to simply say that the Majis were no threat and the soldiers believed him.
She looked around her. Despite the cold, she could see a glimmer of hope returning to their blank faces and exhausted eyes. They spoke with each other, leaning toward the fires, and shared what little food had been offered.
Robin turned away. The sight of that hope was more painful than watching Ian under the fist of Gareth’s beast-man.
She had nothing to offer these people. Nothing to satisfy their hope.
Fletcher appeared at her side, holding a small stack of damp parchment.
“How many are unaccounted for?” she asked, following up on the task she had assigned to him.
“From what I can gather,” he said, looking down at the notes he had written. “Four.”
Robin pressed her lips together and nodded. Four Majis were gone, either lost to the sea or somehow still alive out there. Nearly sixty had made it to the shore. Sixty lives now in her hands.
“Not including those on the third ship, of course,” Fletcher continued. “Or Sol and Aizel.”
Robin pressed her good hand against the ache in her injured shoulder. The pain had lessened, though Robin suspected her body was not healing but had simply gone too numb to feel it. “Keep the list dry,” she said. “I am sure Ilida will appreciate it.”
Fletcher pulled a leather flask out from under a fold of his monk’s robes. “Sit down, Robin.” He forced the flask into her hands. “And let this warm you.”
Robin shook her head, pushing the flask back toward him. “They need this more than I—”
“You are just one woman,” Fletcher said, speaking louder to cut off her words. “You have stretched yourself past your limits, and you are done.” Fletcher placed a hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her away from the busyness around the small fires. “For once, just listen to your elders. Willa said Davin, Ezra, and Jules just arrived. You can help again after you have rested.”
Robin nodded. She knew he was right. But she did not want to sit down. If her body was still, her mind surely would not be.
Fletcher took the flask from her hands, unstopped the cork, and handed it back to her. “Go.” He crossed his arms, standinglike a physical barrier between her and the rest of the shore, his legs spread far apart under his tied-up robes.
Accepting defeat, Robin walked further north along the sand, finding a small divot in the cliff face that would protect her from the worst of the wind but still give her a vantage point of the activity on the beach.
She sat down, leaning back against the cold stone of the cliff, and took a long swig from Fletcher’s flask. The contents were a little stronger than Willa’s tea—not unexpectedly—and the liquid burned down her throat. The sensation brought tears to her eyes.
She blinked, scanning the beach for further signs of danger, unable and unwilling to relax. Her eyes, unbidden by her, found the spot where Ian still sat near the first fire. Its flames had finally dried enough of the wood to produce a proper blaze.
Ian had not moved since Ulli had forced him into the sand over an hour ago. Even from this distance, Robin could see that the thick water clothing he wore had been torn across his back and was slipping down his shoulder. His hair was tousled and sandy, his head resting wearily on folded arms that leaned atop his knees. He seemed to be endlessly staring into the flames.
She watched him. She wanted to stand, to go to him. Sit next to him. Share in the defeat of this victory with him. But she had nothing to offer him. She had no more plans. No more resources. No way to help him take back the castle and save his family.
In fact, she had likely sent two of his family members to their deaths.
She lifted Fletcher’s flask. Even that was now empty.
She dropped her own head to her knees and let the sound of the crashing waves wash over her.
“Robin.”
She looked up, unsure how much time had passed before Ian’s hoarse voice woke her from her own thoughts.
He stood a pace or two away from her. The soft morning light could not hide the exhaustion in his eyes, or the deep shadows that cut across the lines of his face, or the bruised split in his upper lip.
She said nothing, merely looked up at him, waiting for him to speak.
He crouched down so that he was level with her, pain flickering across his face as some muscle or bruise or injury protested at his motion. He rested his forearms on his knees, his hands hanging between them shaking slightly. Perhaps it was from the cold, but she sensed a driving energy in him.
She looked back up at his eyes.
“I am leaving,” he said.
