‘A vendari. That means a protector, right? That’s what Caz said. What was he protecting?’
Her lips press further still, tightening to such a thin line that they all but disappear. Then, without a word, the Sanning turns and walks to Stide, leaving me to watch her go.
The two Sannings may not have magic, but they have knowledge.
And right now, they’re keeping it from me.
But not for long. Not while my friends’ lives are on the line.
Chapter 51
Alittle way away, Ruben is crouching next to one of the Rottings lying on the edge of the crumbled-in hule. My eyes bulge at the sight in front of me.
Stide was right. Leading them over the unstable ground stoppeddozensof them from reaching us.
As I step a little further away from the burrows, Ruben turns the now-still body over with a grim gentleness, as if the dead might still feel the indignity.
‘He’s wearing a uniform,’ he says, voice low. ‘He was a soldier before he was … that.’
The words hit hard. A uniform is supposed to mean something. Order. Duty. Someone who belongs somewhere, to someone. It makes me think of Grenda and her sons.
Kyor doesn’t comment at first. He just stares down at the corpse, jaw tight, braced, as if he’s waiting for the soldier to sit up and accuse him of ordering him to his death.
‘He was,’ Kyor agrees finally, eyes tight.
‘One from Wrohelm,’ Ruben continues. ‘I bet he was from the Hirathean Pass. Do you think that means we’re getting close to the Issen?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply truthfully, my mind skipping back to what Ryne said about the conflict with the Torailians. Could this soldier have been here, not battling the Issen, but the Torailians? If so, his presence means we’re no closer to Issen lands.
Kyor looks away from the soldier’s body. He swallows. Hard. ‘I killed him,’ he admits. ‘One of my own men.’
‘Hey, you did the right thing,’ I tell him. I rest a hand on his good shoulder and feel the rigid line of him beneath my palm.
‘Did I?’ The question is quiet, but it slices through me all the same.
I don’t answer straight away.
Because this isn’t about right or wrong. Not really.
I look at the body again. At the uniform. At what he was and what he became. At the way Kyor’s jaw is locked tight, as if he loosens it even a fraction, something inside him will crack.
‘He stopped being a man the moment he became a Rotting,’ I say. ‘You had no choice.’
My mind goes back to the Myrkr. Would I have plunged the dagger into it, knowing what existed beyond the shadowy self? Knowing he was a priest once? I think so. I don’t see what choice I had.
Kyor’s gaze flicks to mine, sharp and wary.
‘You did the right thing,’ I continue, pushing my thoughts away and focusing on him.
His breath catches.
‘It was the right call,’ I repeat. And then I throw his own words back at him. ‘Fucking own it, Kyor.’
He shakes his head, eyes haunted. ‘They train you to make these decisions quickly,’ he says, voice stripped bare. ‘But they never teach you how to live with them.’
Kyor’s jaw works, tension rippling through him. His voice drops, and when he speaks his words are just a murmur. A confession. ‘There are men missing from my rolls who were never reported dead.’ He looks at the soldier’s Wrohelm uniform, face tight. ‘I guess this answers what happened to them.’
The prince stands abruptly, steps away from the circle, and swings up onto Elska’s back.
