48

Someone’s shouting. So far away. Shouting.

And I’m shaking, and I blink—

The sky is dark, but this black smoke is darker as it reels off the flames.

Jadon fills my vision, tears bright in his eyes. “What did you do? Wake up, Kai!”

My breath feels overgrown and rough in my chest. Is Veril alive? Is this all a dream? My eyes skip across the clearing now consumed with flames, past the burning trees, only stopping…

Veril.

I crawl over to my friend, my eyes wet and wild, and shout, “No,” but I’m so hoarse, nothing but harsh air comes out. “No!”

Philia wraps her arms around me.

I shove her away and pull the old man into my arms. His blood seeps from his back and mouth, and I hold him to my chest and force every part of my body to abandon me and to fill him. And I know this is futile, that he is gone from this realm. I don’t scream; I weep. All of me shudders with pain and grief and loss and anger and —

Philia’s behind me again. Her anguish tugs at me.

Jadon hides his sooty face in his hands.

The fire roars as the battalion of soldiers, the emperor’s men, turns into nothing.

My flame does not fuck around. And my tears and hope do not bring Veril back to me.

The Renrian’s face…the enchantment released…wrinkles and crevices and dark spots and scars and wisdom, so much wisdom.

They stole him from Vallendor. They stole him from me, this man I’ve known all my life, the one who taught me Renrian as a child…

Emperor Wake—he and his empire will meet my flame, too. That is my vow.

We stay there, Jadon, Philia, and me, breathing, one of us nevermore. The fire continues to die, the roar slipping into crackles and pops.

“What happened?” Jadon’s voice is weary.

I take a breath and slowly lay the old man back down by my knees. “We were behind you.” My voice sounds smoky and deep. “We were talking, and then he gasped. Such an awful sound. There he was, behind us, the Dashmala.”

“Sinth?” Jadon whispers.

I nod. “He used a pike.”

“And then?” Jadon asks, his voice growing anxious.

I lift a hand and wave it across the charred landscape.

Jadon scans the ruined earth with jumpy eyes. “Did you hit every soldier?”

I look at him with great intention. “That is my hope.”

There’s something in his eyes, beyond the sadness of Veril’s end. Anxiety and flickers of anger…but not at these piles of murdering fuckers.

“Are you about to tell me that I shouldn’t have?” My voice is so solid, it could hold the realm. “That I should’ve waited for you to act? That I let my anger take over?”

Jadon scowls. “I’m trying to determine if the emperor’s son is now a pile of ashes.”

I stare out at the flames. The ashes of soldiers look no different than the ashes of trees and brush. “I wish you luck in your determinations.”

Jadon shakes his head as he stares at the damage. With a ragged breath, he pushes to his feet and strikes out to search the wreckage for signs of Gileon Wake.

I turn to Philia. Her back shakes as she cries, her face hidden behind her hands.

“Philia,” I say softly.

She looks at me, her face as red as the embers. She opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t catch her breath between sobs.

I hold out my arm. “Come here.”

She crawls over to me, and I wrap my arm around her. She touches Veril’s cheek— it’s true —and she weeps into my shoulder.

As I hold her, Jadon paces the burned landscape. He frowns, then clasps his hands over his head. He looks back at me as though I’m a stranger, then he turns away and drops his head.

She will bring each of you death. Yes. Elyn’s right—and every one of these soldiers, especially Sinth, deserved every agonizing moment.

My body feels swollen, too big for my bones. My fingertips feel seared and tender from killing all these men scattered around me.

And Veril… He’d still be alive if I hadn’t asked him to join me on this journey. He’d still be alive if I hadn’t shown up at his cottage, a bloody wreck needing to be healed. He’d still be alive if Jadon and I had killed those burnu and hadn’t needed Veril and Warruin to complete the job. He’d still be alive if we hadn’t raced away from Maford, a village that burned down only because Elyn was looking for me there. He’d still be alive if Olivia hadn’t stolen my amulet. He’d still be alive if I hadn’t betrayed my family and if I hadn’t destroyed Chesterby, if I’d stopped to think without reacting. Without choosing violence.

Veril is dead because Sinth killed him.

Veril is dead because I’d already failed him.

We bury Veril as the fire wanes. The land still simmers, the heat still pushes at my face. The embers serve as a barrier to any creature that intends us harm.

Philia has found a nice spot for the old man’s body. “And I have my small spade,” she says. “It may take a while to dig, but it’s better than nothing.”

We bury Veril beneath a cinnamon tree. According to Veril, cinnamon symbolizes abundance and protection. Cinnamon heals. The Renrian provided all of those things.

Philia and I remain silent as Jadon slides the spade into the dirt. I say nothing as I anoint the old man with aromatic oils I found in his satchel. Rosemary, so that we remember. Cistus, for those who grieve. Yarrow to purify this space. Together, the three of us wrap the Renrian in his cape—the lavender one stenciled with butterflies, ravens, and dragonflies.

And then it comes—an ancient lamentation swelling from the depths of my soul. A melody that I must have learned, possibly from Veril, and kept in my heart. My voice quavers at first but soon grows stronger, the haunting notes mingling with the rustle of the leaves above and the crackle of embers of a ground that will never feel cold again.

Jadon marks the grave with a black jet stone, one of the stolen gems we found in Olivia’s bag, and whispers, “Goodbye, Veril Bairnell the Sapient.” He touches the grave once more, then stands and drifts away.

Philia whispers one last prayer that I can’t hear, then follows Jadon.

And now, I am left alone, not sure of what to say. And so, I say nothing.

The sky above us shifts from blue to an ominous purple. Another falcon flies closer to the trees in the weak light. But the still-billowing smoke hides us.

I select the most perfect crabapple from the few left and place it beside the jet stone.

I wairr eyalra irruis naedh, nirr llasialn.

Yes, I will. Until everyone responsible for this day is dead, and until the gift of fire has been taken from me.

“We’re still heading to Caburh,” I say, reaching for my satchel.

“Will the innkeeper talk with us?” Philia asks. “What if Separi thinks we killed Veril?”

“The Lady of the Verdant Realm would do no such thing, Philia.” Jadon snorts as he rearranges items in his pack.

I know he’s joking, but his sarcastic tone pricks at me. “The Lady says, ‘Fuck you, Jadon Ealdrehrt, whose fake sister is the reason we’re here in the first place.’ You know so much, maybe you should’ve taught Olivia to keep her hands—”

“Kai?” Philia whispers. “Your eyes.”

They’re burning holes into Jadon’s.

“What do you want me to do, Kai?” Jadon’s fists ball at his sides. “We’re here now, and I’m sorry, okay? Yes, she stole from you. Yes, if she hadn’t, Veril would still be alive, and maybe you’d be in a better place than where you are right now.”

He crouches and hides his face behind his hands. Then, with both hands, he tugs his hair. His face so weary, his eyes so soft and filled with pain. “I’m sorry for shouting, and the last thing I want right now is for you to be pissed at me. I know—this situation is just…just…” He shakes his head and looks up to the sky. He closes his eyes and pulls in a deep breath. Then he drops his head and pushes that air to the ground.

He touches Veril’s satchel set between us. “I can’t do anything with ‘shouldn’t have.’ Only ‘should,’ and we should head to Caburh. We should still find Separi and plead with her for help and maybe, just maybe, something will fall in our favor. Okay?” His eyes search mine, and he whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

My tears make him blurry, and I can manage to say only, “Mmhmm,” before opening Veril’s satchel.

Vials of tonics. Small pots. The mortar and pestle. Bread, ham, and cheese. Dried lentils and leeks. Honeycakes. Crabapples. Rum. Map. Dried plants. A small, jeweled dagger. A leather-bound journal and glass pot filled with black ink. A small quill pen. Soap. Fife.

Philia wants the dagger, and Jadon, the fife.

I claim everything else, along with Warruin and the fox amulet that had hung around his neck. Will either work for me, or is their magic tied solely to their wielder, now buried beneath a cinnamon tree? If I wear it, will the amulet hurt me, since it isn’t mine, even if I didn’t steal it? I wrap it around my left gloved hand, with the fox pendant snug beneath my middle knuckle.

I tend to Philia’s injured ankle as I take in our surroundings—stunted trees and wild grass, crags and roots creeping across vine—choked earth and gritty sand. I don’t need to study a map because I can feel that tug in my gut, that satin string pulling me in the direction we’d planned to take. Toward Caburh.

A silvery-blue moth lands on the fox pendant beneath my knuckles and stays there, not flapping her wings, just sitting there like she’s staring at me . “Come, Lady.” She’s real.

I whisper, “Okay,” relieved that I haven’t lost my ability to hear her voice.

I hope that I’ll gain some of the attributes of Veril’s fox—intelligence, cunning and agility. I’ll need each power to survive whatever— or whoever —comes at me next.