THE DARK KNIFE: CHAPTER ONE
There’s an ambush ahead. Fabithe knows that, but he’s going to walk into it all the same.
It’s not as if he has much choice. He’s heard and seen enough signs behind him to know that turning back would have exactly the same result. Better to keep pressing forward, even though that’s what the pursuing soldiers want. Even though they’re driving him in this direction. Because to do otherwise would be to admit –
Failure, the darkness inside him whispers. You failed once, and you’ll fail again.
Suppressing a shiver, he rubs his arms. His clothes are still wet from the river. The boat he took from beneath the Castle Retreat yesterday afternoon might have been the best way to escape in a hurry, but it was only a temporary solution. He had to steer it in to shore before darkness fell; it was that or be carried on through the night to the river’s abrupt end in a waterfall over the cliffs. And, in fact, the boat did meet that fate. It struck a clump of submerged detritus, spinning out of control, and he was forced to bail.
Him … and the three other people he is now responsible for.
He can hear them talking in low voices, behind him. Luthan, the girl who can use the power in her blood to perform magic. Toralé, the boy who survived torture that would have broken most people. And Oriana.
Oriana.
The girl who heals with a touch. The girl who saved his life.
Fabithe doesn’t have anything like their miraculous talents, but he does know violence. How to deal it, and how it’s dealt. And in a situation like this, with soldiers behind them and soldiers in front, that makes him responsible whether he wants it or not. The only trouble is …
You’re broken. A blade without an edge.
… he doesn’t believe he can do it. Not any more.
There was the boat. He got that wrong. Didn’t notice the obstacle in his path, left it too late to change course for the riverbank. Luthan had to spend blood lifting their belongings to safety, while he and Oriana guided Toralé through the water. By then it was evening. And everyone knows you don’t travel the Duskmire at night: one carelessly placed foot in the dark and you’d be drowning in a swamp before you could call for help. So he made them camp for the night. No fire, though: the ground was too wet for a firepit, and an open fire would have been as good as a beacon to any northern searchers. But maybe that was the wrong decision. Maybe they’d have been better off getting dry, even if it made them visible, than weakening themselves by shivering through the night in wet clothes. Or maybe they should have kept walking, dangerous terrain or no, to put as much distance between themselves and the Retreat as possible …
Two days ago, all this would have been second nature to him. He’d have made his choices and that would be that. But now, nothing is clear. All he knows is that since they set out this morning, at first light, there have been men on their tail. And he’s no longer equipped to deal with it.
A twig cracks behind him and he spins round, one hand reaching for a knife. But it’s just Oriana. At the sight of her swollen lip, a combination of rage and guilt surges so fiercely in him that he has to turn back away. Memories tumble through his head. The desperate gasping for breath. The inability to move so much as a single muscle. The helplessness as Ifor’s hand connected with her face –
You let her down. And you’re about to do it again.
He shakes it off. But the darkness lingers, a shadow underlying every step, every heartbeat. It’s a darkness he thought he banished years ago. It pulls him back in time, back to the night he lost everything. Perhaps he never escaped it. Perhaps he has always been there, in that cell. Seeing himself taken apart, piece by piece. No matter how he tries to tell himself that Ifor is gone for good, he can’t truly believe it. Not when the shadow remains inside him, deep in his bones.
“Is something wrong?” Oriana asks softly. “You have pushed us hard all day, and I know there must be a reason for it.”
Fabithe can’t answer straight away. Fear is surging in his blood; he doesn’t want her to hear it in his voice or read it from his eyes. And still the darkness keeps whispering. What hope do you have of beating them? Five years waiting for your chance, and he crushed you like an insect.
“Northerners,” he manages finally. Still he doesn’t look at her. “Ahead and behind. We’re walking into a trap.”
“How do you know?”
“Behind … I heard them coming. Saw the smoke from their fires. They’re not trying to be subtle about it. They want us to know they’re here. Because ahead …”
“Ahead what?”
“Ahead is the Arc. It’s a bridge, of a kind. The sole crossing point between north and south Duskmire. They’re driving us towards it, and that can only mean one thing.”
“They got there first?”
“Right. It’s what I’d do, if I were their commanding officer. Half the troop straight to the other side of the Arc. The other half behind us. The jaws of the trap.”
“But surely,” Oriana says. “Surely, if Ifor is … dead, then –”
Fabithe shrugs. It’s the last thing he feels like doing, but he does it anyway. “They’ll want revenge.”
It’s not as if he has much choice. He’s heard and seen enough signs behind him to know that turning back would have exactly the same result. Better to keep pressing forward, even though that’s what the pursuing soldiers want. Even though they’re driving him in this direction. Because to do otherwise would be to admit –
Failure, the darkness inside him whispers. You failed once, and you’ll fail again.
Suppressing a shiver, he rubs his arms. His clothes are still wet from the river. The boat he took from beneath the Castle Retreat yesterday afternoon might have been the best way to escape in a hurry, but it was only a temporary solution. He had to steer it in to shore before darkness fell; it was that or be carried on through the night to the river’s abrupt end in a waterfall over the cliffs. And, in fact, the boat did meet that fate. It struck a clump of submerged detritus, spinning out of control, and he was forced to bail.
Him … and the three other people he is now responsible for.
He can hear them talking in low voices, behind him. Luthan, the girl who can use the power in her blood to perform magic. Toralé, the boy who survived torture that would have broken most people. And Oriana.
Oriana.
The girl who heals with a touch. The girl who saved his life.
Fabithe doesn’t have anything like their miraculous talents, but he does know violence. How to deal it, and how it’s dealt. And in a situation like this, with soldiers behind them and soldiers in front, that makes him responsible whether he wants it or not. The only trouble is …
You’re broken. A blade without an edge.
… he doesn’t believe he can do it. Not any more.
There was the boat. He got that wrong. Didn’t notice the obstacle in his path, left it too late to change course for the riverbank. Luthan had to spend blood lifting their belongings to safety, while he and Oriana guided Toralé through the water. By then it was evening. And everyone knows you don’t travel the Duskmire at night: one carelessly placed foot in the dark and you’d be drowning in a swamp before you could call for help. So he made them camp for the night. No fire, though: the ground was too wet for a firepit, and an open fire would have been as good as a beacon to any northern searchers. But maybe that was the wrong decision. Maybe they’d have been better off getting dry, even if it made them visible, than weakening themselves by shivering through the night in wet clothes. Or maybe they should have kept walking, dangerous terrain or no, to put as much distance between themselves and the Retreat as possible …
Two days ago, all this would have been second nature to him. He’d have made his choices and that would be that. But now, nothing is clear. All he knows is that since they set out this morning, at first light, there have been men on their tail. And he’s no longer equipped to deal with it.
A twig cracks behind him and he spins round, one hand reaching for a knife. But it’s just Oriana. At the sight of her swollen lip, a combination of rage and guilt surges so fiercely in him that he has to turn back away. Memories tumble through his head. The desperate gasping for breath. The inability to move so much as a single muscle. The helplessness as Ifor’s hand connected with her face –
You let her down. And you’re about to do it again.
He shakes it off. But the darkness lingers, a shadow underlying every step, every heartbeat. It’s a darkness he thought he banished years ago. It pulls him back in time, back to the night he lost everything. Perhaps he never escaped it. Perhaps he has always been there, in that cell. Seeing himself taken apart, piece by piece. No matter how he tries to tell himself that Ifor is gone for good, he can’t truly believe it. Not when the shadow remains inside him, deep in his bones.
“Is something wrong?” Oriana asks softly. “You have pushed us hard all day, and I know there must be a reason for it.”
Fabithe can’t answer straight away. Fear is surging in his blood; he doesn’t want her to hear it in his voice or read it from his eyes. And still the darkness keeps whispering. What hope do you have of beating them? Five years waiting for your chance, and he crushed you like an insect.
“Northerners,” he manages finally. Still he doesn’t look at her. “Ahead and behind. We’re walking into a trap.”
“How do you know?”
“Behind … I heard them coming. Saw the smoke from their fires. They’re not trying to be subtle about it. They want us to know they’re here. Because ahead …”
“Ahead what?”
“Ahead is the Arc. It’s a bridge, of a kind. The sole crossing point between north and south Duskmire. They’re driving us towards it, and that can only mean one thing.”
“They got there first?”
“Right. It’s what I’d do, if I were their commanding officer. Half the troop straight to the other side of the Arc. The other half behind us. The jaws of the trap.”
“But surely,” Oriana says. “Surely, if Ifor is … dead, then –”
Fabithe shrugs. It’s the last thing he feels like doing, but he does it anyway. “They’ll want revenge.”
“So,” Dr Whyte says. “You wanted to talk to me.”
“I wouldn’t say wanted.” Shifting in my creaky leather chair, I glance around the room. It hasn’t changed, even down to the citrus scent in the air. I feel like I’m in one of those stories where some guy spends a day or two in the bliss of Fairyland, then returns to find that centuries have passed and everyone he loves is dead. Only for me it’s the other way round. It was the world that stood still, and me that moved on without it.
“They said I had to speak to someone,” I add, returning my attention to my therapist. “And I’d rather you than a stranger.”
Of course, I’ve already spoken to someone. Peter and I talked for nearly four hours after he found me dazed and confused at the bus stop. I told him everything before I finally agreed to call the police and let them know I was safe. But apparently that isn’t good enough.
“About what happened?” Dr Whyte prompts me. “Why you ran. Where you’ve been.”
“I didn’t run.”
“But you weren’t here, were you? For nearly three weeks. So where did you go?”
I meet his gaze. “Endarion.”
He’s almost as good as I am at presenting a façade of impassivity. Probably has to be, in his job. All the same, I detect the expected sequence of emotions in his face: confusion, realisation, finishing up with mild alarm. He believes me as much as every other adult – which is to say, not at all – but he can’t come out and say so.
“The place from your visions?” he asks cautiously.
“Right. I fell through my window and woke up there. It was all real. Everything I saw, it was real all along. Only what I didn’t know was that Ifor was actually my brother –”
“The man Oriana was about to marry?” Patting the file on the small table beside his chair, he adds by way of explanation, “I read back through your notes before you came in.”
“That’s him. I couldn’t stop the marriage, but I got her away from him. And then I saw he was going to execute Toralé, so I went to rescue him too, only that turned out to be a trap …”
A lump has formed in my throat, despite all my effort to keep this recitation as light and as glib as possible. Hastily, I conclude, “Ifor told me who I was, and then tried to send me away. Back here, to my prison. But I pulled him through the glass with me, and he vanished, and so did the key. I can never go back.”
“And that’s what you told the police?”
“I tried. But they didn’t believe me.”
The exact words of the officer who interviewed me were, Don’t mess around, love. This is serious. A woman from Woodleigh House was there too, Jenny – the closest thing I have to a parent, I guess. The two of them were kind enough, but I could hear everything they weren’t saying. Immature. Irresponsible. Wasting police time.
So then I had a go at lying. But of course, I’ve never been anywhere – in this world – so it didn’t take long before I began to stumble over myself. Which meant they didn’t believe that, either. They started asking me things I didn’t have answers to, details I couldn’t invent with any degree of plausibility. Then they suggested that maybe I should see someone else. A specialist. That’s when I panicked and told them I’d only talk to my own therapist.
If I’d possessed even the slightest common sense, I wouldn’t have spent four hours favouring Peter with a blow-by-blow account of every damn thing I experienced over the last three weeks. I’d have got him to help me fabricate a convincing cover story. This whole situation could have been made to vanish with the judicious application of an internet search engine. As it is, it’s the truth or silence. And I’m no longer satisfied with silence.
“I’m sure you can understand why they were concerned,” Dr Whyte says. “You’re a minor.”
“… irritation?” I suggest, but he doesn’t crack a smile at the weak joke.
“Please, Alyssia. We just want to make sure that nothing … happened to you.”
Of course something happened to me! What did I just say? But none of that really registered with him, because he dismissed it as fantasy before I’d even finished speaking. Everyone thinks they want to know where I’ve been, but what they actually want is a story that fits the assumptions they’ve already made. I don’t know why I thought Dr Whyte would be any different.
“I’m disappointed in you, Theo,” I say. Keep it flippant. “I thought you were capable of speaking without euphemism.”
“All right. Then did anyone hurt you – physically, sexually or emotionally – while you were gone? Force you to do anything you didn’t want to do? Give you drugs or alcohol?”
“Yes.” Watching the glint of hope in his eyes that I might finally be opening up, I enunciate every word with care. “My brother sent men to attack me and my friends, lured us into a trap, and made me return to this shithole.”
He makes a note on his pad, before giving me a smile that holds just as much frustration as the one I’m giving him. “Thank you for coming, Alyssia. I’ll see you again on Monday.”
Right. I have to see him twice a week, now. Since I’m a flight risk and a danger to myself and all the rest of it. Put another foot wrong and I’ll probably end up living in his office.
“Looking forward to it,” I say, and resist the temptation to slam the door on the way out.
“I wouldn’t say wanted.” Shifting in my creaky leather chair, I glance around the room. It hasn’t changed, even down to the citrus scent in the air. I feel like I’m in one of those stories where some guy spends a day or two in the bliss of Fairyland, then returns to find that centuries have passed and everyone he loves is dead. Only for me it’s the other way round. It was the world that stood still, and me that moved on without it.
“They said I had to speak to someone,” I add, returning my attention to my therapist. “And I’d rather you than a stranger.”
Of course, I’ve already spoken to someone. Peter and I talked for nearly four hours after he found me dazed and confused at the bus stop. I told him everything before I finally agreed to call the police and let them know I was safe. But apparently that isn’t good enough.
“About what happened?” Dr Whyte prompts me. “Why you ran. Where you’ve been.”
“I didn’t run.”
“But you weren’t here, were you? For nearly three weeks. So where did you go?”
I meet his gaze. “Endarion.”
He’s almost as good as I am at presenting a façade of impassivity. Probably has to be, in his job. All the same, I detect the expected sequence of emotions in his face: confusion, realisation, finishing up with mild alarm. He believes me as much as every other adult – which is to say, not at all – but he can’t come out and say so.
“The place from your visions?” he asks cautiously.
“Right. I fell through my window and woke up there. It was all real. Everything I saw, it was real all along. Only what I didn’t know was that Ifor was actually my brother –”
“The man Oriana was about to marry?” Patting the file on the small table beside his chair, he adds by way of explanation, “I read back through your notes before you came in.”
“That’s him. I couldn’t stop the marriage, but I got her away from him. And then I saw he was going to execute Toralé, so I went to rescue him too, only that turned out to be a trap …”
A lump has formed in my throat, despite all my effort to keep this recitation as light and as glib as possible. Hastily, I conclude, “Ifor told me who I was, and then tried to send me away. Back here, to my prison. But I pulled him through the glass with me, and he vanished, and so did the key. I can never go back.”
“And that’s what you told the police?”
“I tried. But they didn’t believe me.”
The exact words of the officer who interviewed me were, Don’t mess around, love. This is serious. A woman from Woodleigh House was there too, Jenny – the closest thing I have to a parent, I guess. The two of them were kind enough, but I could hear everything they weren’t saying. Immature. Irresponsible. Wasting police time.
So then I had a go at lying. But of course, I’ve never been anywhere – in this world – so it didn’t take long before I began to stumble over myself. Which meant they didn’t believe that, either. They started asking me things I didn’t have answers to, details I couldn’t invent with any degree of plausibility. Then they suggested that maybe I should see someone else. A specialist. That’s when I panicked and told them I’d only talk to my own therapist.
If I’d possessed even the slightest common sense, I wouldn’t have spent four hours favouring Peter with a blow-by-blow account of every damn thing I experienced over the last three weeks. I’d have got him to help me fabricate a convincing cover story. This whole situation could have been made to vanish with the judicious application of an internet search engine. As it is, it’s the truth or silence. And I’m no longer satisfied with silence.
“I’m sure you can understand why they were concerned,” Dr Whyte says. “You’re a minor.”
“… irritation?” I suggest, but he doesn’t crack a smile at the weak joke.
“Please, Alyssia. We just want to make sure that nothing … happened to you.”
Of course something happened to me! What did I just say? But none of that really registered with him, because he dismissed it as fantasy before I’d even finished speaking. Everyone thinks they want to know where I’ve been, but what they actually want is a story that fits the assumptions they’ve already made. I don’t know why I thought Dr Whyte would be any different.
“I’m disappointed in you, Theo,” I say. Keep it flippant. “I thought you were capable of speaking without euphemism.”
“All right. Then did anyone hurt you – physically, sexually or emotionally – while you were gone? Force you to do anything you didn’t want to do? Give you drugs or alcohol?”
“Yes.” Watching the glint of hope in his eyes that I might finally be opening up, I enunciate every word with care. “My brother sent men to attack me and my friends, lured us into a trap, and made me return to this shithole.”
He makes a note on his pad, before giving me a smile that holds just as much frustration as the one I’m giving him. “Thank you for coming, Alyssia. I’ll see you again on Monday.”
Right. I have to see him twice a week, now. Since I’m a flight risk and a danger to myself and all the rest of it. Put another foot wrong and I’ll probably end up living in his office.
“Looking forward to it,” I say, and resist the temptation to slam the door on the way out.
“So there is no way out of the trap?” Luthan asks.
“Not that I can think of.” Fabithe has been over it multiple times, but there’s little room for manoeuvre. The northerners behind them are, as best he can tell, spread out in a half-circle. Not that he can place them that precisely by campfire smoke and indeterminate shout alone. But it’s a classic hunting strategy: the beaters start wide to flush out the prey, then close in once the animal breaks cover, driving it towards the waiting marksmen. He and his friends can’t turn back without running into a group of soldiers and calling the hunt down on their heads. The only advantage they have right now is that the hunters don’t know exactly where they are. And that will change in … oh, about a day’s time. When the net tightens all the way, forcing them onto the Arc to be attacked from two sides.
Unless …
“Is there anything you can do?” It goes against the grain to ask for magical assistance, but any spar will do for a drowning man, and Luthan has been useful before … The faint flicker of hope dies as she shakes her head.
“It is against the five laws for me to hurt ordinary people. And without my stave, I can’t achieve anything more subtle.”
“But you pulled down the roof of the tunnel beneath the Retreat –”
“It’s about all I can manage: converting magical energy to other forms. Heat, light, sound, movement. And the more I do, the more of my blood I have to shed and the weaker I become.”
Fabithe considers that. “Then … could you create some kind of barrier behind us, at the right time? Move the earth to make a trench, or …”
“I believe so,” Luthan says. “What are you thinking?”
“That I’d expect the weak point of the trap to be on the far side. To get men there quick enough to be sure they were ahead of us for the ambush, they’d have had to travel light and limit numbers.”
“So you think we can get past them?”
“Not if the rest are close behind us. We’ll be overwhelmed before we can break through. But if we can get there far enough ahead of the net …”
“We are not very fast,” Oriana points out. “Toralé is exhausted already. How –”
“We’d have to keep going through the night, despite the dangers. Aim to reach the Arc by dawn tomorrow.”
Frowning, she turns to Toralé, touching his arm to claim his attention. “How do you feel? Can you walk any further?”
“Yes.” His voice is a raspy whisper, but his expression is determined. “I would do anything rather than be taken back to the Retreat.”
“What about mages?” Luthan asks. “They know I’m with you. Surely there will be at least one mage with the ambush party.”
Fabithe nods. “But better one or two mages than half a dozen. And you can handle them, right? You said you can’t hurt ordinary people. You didn’t say anything about mages.”
“I can try.” She doesn’t sound very sure. “But even then … do you really believe we can make it through?”
“It’s only guesswork. All of it. But I don’t think they’ll expect us to try to get there quickly. I think they’ll expect us to avoid the trap for as long as possible. And if that’s the case …” So many ifs. If they can get through the night without dying. If they can beat everything that’s waiting for them on the other side of the Arc. If Luthan can cut them off from the rest of the army. He squares his shoulders, trying to look as though he knows what he’s doing. “Maybe. It’s our best shot, anyway.”
You’re only fooling yourself, the shadows say. You don’t stand a chance.
Not me, he replies. But maybe them.
“Not that I can think of.” Fabithe has been over it multiple times, but there’s little room for manoeuvre. The northerners behind them are, as best he can tell, spread out in a half-circle. Not that he can place them that precisely by campfire smoke and indeterminate shout alone. But it’s a classic hunting strategy: the beaters start wide to flush out the prey, then close in once the animal breaks cover, driving it towards the waiting marksmen. He and his friends can’t turn back without running into a group of soldiers and calling the hunt down on their heads. The only advantage they have right now is that the hunters don’t know exactly where they are. And that will change in … oh, about a day’s time. When the net tightens all the way, forcing them onto the Arc to be attacked from two sides.
Unless …
“Is there anything you can do?” It goes against the grain to ask for magical assistance, but any spar will do for a drowning man, and Luthan has been useful before … The faint flicker of hope dies as she shakes her head.
“It is against the five laws for me to hurt ordinary people. And without my stave, I can’t achieve anything more subtle.”
“But you pulled down the roof of the tunnel beneath the Retreat –”
“It’s about all I can manage: converting magical energy to other forms. Heat, light, sound, movement. And the more I do, the more of my blood I have to shed and the weaker I become.”
Fabithe considers that. “Then … could you create some kind of barrier behind us, at the right time? Move the earth to make a trench, or …”
“I believe so,” Luthan says. “What are you thinking?”
“That I’d expect the weak point of the trap to be on the far side. To get men there quick enough to be sure they were ahead of us for the ambush, they’d have had to travel light and limit numbers.”
“So you think we can get past them?”
“Not if the rest are close behind us. We’ll be overwhelmed before we can break through. But if we can get there far enough ahead of the net …”
“We are not very fast,” Oriana points out. “Toralé is exhausted already. How –”
“We’d have to keep going through the night, despite the dangers. Aim to reach the Arc by dawn tomorrow.”
Frowning, she turns to Toralé, touching his arm to claim his attention. “How do you feel? Can you walk any further?”
“Yes.” His voice is a raspy whisper, but his expression is determined. “I would do anything rather than be taken back to the Retreat.”
“What about mages?” Luthan asks. “They know I’m with you. Surely there will be at least one mage with the ambush party.”
Fabithe nods. “But better one or two mages than half a dozen. And you can handle them, right? You said you can’t hurt ordinary people. You didn’t say anything about mages.”
“I can try.” She doesn’t sound very sure. “But even then … do you really believe we can make it through?”
“It’s only guesswork. All of it. But I don’t think they’ll expect us to try to get there quickly. I think they’ll expect us to avoid the trap for as long as possible. And if that’s the case …” So many ifs. If they can get through the night without dying. If they can beat everything that’s waiting for them on the other side of the Arc. If Luthan can cut them off from the rest of the army. He squares his shoulders, trying to look as though he knows what he’s doing. “Maybe. It’s our best shot, anyway.”
You’re only fooling yourself, the shadows say. You don’t stand a chance.
Not me, he replies. But maybe them.
Jenny is still in the waiting room of the therapist’s office. She wouldn’t let me take the bus here; she insisted on driving, then on staying until I was done. No doubt she thinks there’s a risk I’ll disappear again. And perhaps I would, if I could.
She greets me pleasantly before we leave the building and walk the short distance down the street to where her car is parked. She doesn’t pester me with questions, or say anything to suggest even the slightest reproach for the trouble I’ve caused her. Yet despite all that, I can barely suppress the surge of irritation that fills my throat with angry, cutting words. For three weeks I’ve been making life-or-death decisions, yet now I’m being treated like a child.
My friends are running for their lives, I want to tell her. And you’re making a fuss about me going places alone.
It makes me queasy, to think that they might be captured or killed. What would be the point of any of it, if I took down Ifor only for his minions to finish the job for him?
But then, maybe my mistake lies in assuming that there has to be a point.
“How are you feeling?” Jenny asks, once she’s pulled away from the kerb with me safely buckled into the front passenger seat. So that was her plan all along: wait until I couldn’t escape before starting the interrogation. I favour her with a shrug.
“You know,” she says after a pause, “if you ever want to talk to anyone in a … non-professional capacity, you can always talk to me.”
I go from annoyance to tearful gratitude in a heartbeat. My emotions seem to be that way at the moment: lurching back and forth like drunkards, knocking things over and leaving chaos in their wake.
“Thanks,” I mutter, blinking furiously. I already know she doesn’t believe a word of my story, so I’ll never take her up on the offer, but it’s nice to know she’s willing to make it.
As she navigates the one-way system in the direction of Woodleigh, I lean my head against the window and pretend to watch the streets slide by, but secretly I’m checking on my friends. They’re walking again, I think – ready to follow Fabithe’s plan to push on through the night and reach the Arc by dawn. Flashes of thought invade me as soon as I invite them in. I hope I’m not getting this wrong. He might not want to admit it, but he is worried. I’d rather walk until I die than be taken back there. This could be very dangerous without my stave. I never used to be able to read this much from them at a distance, without going inside their heads. It could be coming back here that did it, but I think it stems from beneath the Retreat, when Luthan gained a scar to match ours – that instant when I lost myself completely, torn between multitudes.
And speaking of which …
I’m used to silver threads in my mind. I’ve thought of them that way ever since I went into Endarion and started meeting the people I’d been having visions about. But there were only ever four: Oriana, Fabithe, Luthan and Toralé. They’re still there, brighter than the rest. Yet now, there are more. Lots of silver threads, some nearly as bright as the first four, some as faint as the shadow of a whisper. If my life was complicated with four other people clamouring for my mental space, I can’t imagine what it will be like now.
And that isn’t even to mention the single dark thread: the connection that should be there, but isn’t. The connection to my brother Ifor.
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the glass. My brother. I have a brother, when I thought for so long that I was alone in the world. He’s the cruellest person I’ve ever met. I made him disappear. And part of me, a part that’s tiny yet all too real, wishes I’d chosen differently. It wishes I’d promised him everything he wanted – betrayed my friends, let the world burn – in return for answers to the questions I’ve been asking my whole life. What happened to me? Where did I come from? Who am I?
So maybe it’s a good thing that I’m here, and my friends are there, and that’s the end of it. Because otherwise, I’m not sure I could look them in the eye.
She greets me pleasantly before we leave the building and walk the short distance down the street to where her car is parked. She doesn’t pester me with questions, or say anything to suggest even the slightest reproach for the trouble I’ve caused her. Yet despite all that, I can barely suppress the surge of irritation that fills my throat with angry, cutting words. For three weeks I’ve been making life-or-death decisions, yet now I’m being treated like a child.
My friends are running for their lives, I want to tell her. And you’re making a fuss about me going places alone.
It makes me queasy, to think that they might be captured or killed. What would be the point of any of it, if I took down Ifor only for his minions to finish the job for him?
But then, maybe my mistake lies in assuming that there has to be a point.
“How are you feeling?” Jenny asks, once she’s pulled away from the kerb with me safely buckled into the front passenger seat. So that was her plan all along: wait until I couldn’t escape before starting the interrogation. I favour her with a shrug.
“You know,” she says after a pause, “if you ever want to talk to anyone in a … non-professional capacity, you can always talk to me.”
I go from annoyance to tearful gratitude in a heartbeat. My emotions seem to be that way at the moment: lurching back and forth like drunkards, knocking things over and leaving chaos in their wake.
“Thanks,” I mutter, blinking furiously. I already know she doesn’t believe a word of my story, so I’ll never take her up on the offer, but it’s nice to know she’s willing to make it.
As she navigates the one-way system in the direction of Woodleigh, I lean my head against the window and pretend to watch the streets slide by, but secretly I’m checking on my friends. They’re walking again, I think – ready to follow Fabithe’s plan to push on through the night and reach the Arc by dawn. Flashes of thought invade me as soon as I invite them in. I hope I’m not getting this wrong. He might not want to admit it, but he is worried. I’d rather walk until I die than be taken back there. This could be very dangerous without my stave. I never used to be able to read this much from them at a distance, without going inside their heads. It could be coming back here that did it, but I think it stems from beneath the Retreat, when Luthan gained a scar to match ours – that instant when I lost myself completely, torn between multitudes.
And speaking of which …
I’m used to silver threads in my mind. I’ve thought of them that way ever since I went into Endarion and started meeting the people I’d been having visions about. But there were only ever four: Oriana, Fabithe, Luthan and Toralé. They’re still there, brighter than the rest. Yet now, there are more. Lots of silver threads, some nearly as bright as the first four, some as faint as the shadow of a whisper. If my life was complicated with four other people clamouring for my mental space, I can’t imagine what it will be like now.
And that isn’t even to mention the single dark thread: the connection that should be there, but isn’t. The connection to my brother Ifor.
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the glass. My brother. I have a brother, when I thought for so long that I was alone in the world. He’s the cruellest person I’ve ever met. I made him disappear. And part of me, a part that’s tiny yet all too real, wishes I’d chosen differently. It wishes I’d promised him everything he wanted – betrayed my friends, let the world burn – in return for answers to the questions I’ve been asking my whole life. What happened to me? Where did I come from? Who am I?
So maybe it’s a good thing that I’m here, and my friends are there, and that’s the end of it. Because otherwise, I’m not sure I could look them in the eye.