“I was the one who made you take me there.”
“Yeah, well, people aren’t always rational about that sort of thing.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t actually fuck anyone at the tavern, if that matters to you. I may have made out with the blacksmith girl a little; I’m not sure, I was pretty drunk. But I’m ninety percent certain that was all.” She cocked her head and waggled one hand. “Well. Eighty percent.”
“You were right, though. I don’t own you.”
“Of course not. But if we’re going to be the kind of partners who spend time naked together, you know. There should probably be some ground rules.” Kit let out a deep breath. “Okay. Done with the feelings-talk. Can we please just f—”
Gyre cut her off by pressing his lips to hers. Kit fell over with a delighted squeak, her hands already tugging at his trousers.
*
Sometime after, Gyre lay on his back, staring at the roof of the tent. Kit was nestled beside him, naked and warm, her breaths slow and peaceful.
What am I doing here?
He could follow the steps that had brought him to this place in his mind. Maya’s abduction, his mother’s death, the hard years on the road as he’d searched for anything that offered a scrap of hope that the Order might not be all-powerful. Deepfire, Yora and the rest, his pursuit of the Tomb, and finally Kit. And now I’m following a mad old ghoul in pursuit of a power I don’t even understand.
You found what you were looking for. Yora’s voice echoed through his thoughts. Was it worth it?
Kit never seemed troubled by the people who got hurt because they got in her way. The Auxies, the bandits, Harrow and all the rest. Gyre didn’t fool himself that she’d mourn him, if the occasion arose. And when his rage burned brightest—when he looked Maya in the face and heard her spout the Order’s lies—he could almost make himself that cold. It was only afterward that doubt stole in.
Is it worth it?
He turned his head to look at Kit, outlined in perfect clarity through the darkness by his silver eye. She shifted, curling up tighter, as though she sensed his regard.
She’s right about Naumoriel. The old ghoul was using them. But he’s the only thread I have, the only connection to the power I need. He’d had a taste of it now. Defeating the pair of Legionaries had been a start, and he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t been satisfying. But it’s only a start.
Is it worth it? Yora echoed.
*
All through the next day, they descended, following the river.
Try as he might, Gyre still couldn’t put names to any of the mountains that surrounded them. The Shattered Peaks was a vast range, and he knew there were whole sections that had never been settled by the ghouls, and thus never attracted the attention of the Chosen or the scavengers who followed them. It was entirely possible that he and Kit were the first humans to set eyes on this valley, at least since the days when skyships passed overhead.
Then again, they were headed somewhere, which meant that the place wasn’t as free of ghoul settlement as it first appeared.
Inevitably, a few plaguespawn found them, drawn by the steady tromp of the constructs’ march. Compared to the ghouls’ creations, they were ramshackle, awkward things, organic material haphazardly repurposed into a new form with no coherent plan, no elegance or efficiency. By contrast, the constructs were marvels, the black muscle under their spiked exteriors making their movements fast and lethal. When they engaged the plaguespawn, the difference was clear—the interlopers were smashed aside with casual ease, their stolen forms pulped by stony fists and left as smears of black blood on the rocks. If Naumoriel thinks that Kit and I are going to be more effective than that, he’s going to be very disappointed.
That evening, as Gyre pitched their tents, the ghoul was again gently lifted out of his war-construct and set by the side of the stream. There was something different about Naumoriel out here, Gyre thought. He seemed almost melancholy, a far cry from his manic rants back in Refuge.
He doesn’t expect to come back from this, Gyre realized with sudden clarity. He had no idea how long most ghouls lived, but clearly Naumoriel was pushing the upper limit. Whatever power he’s looking for, he doesn’t expect to survive using it.
“Can I ask you something?” Kit said, plopping herself down happily beside Naumoriel. The old ghoul looked at her and heaved a very human sigh.
“If you must,” he said.
Please don’t be about ghoul fucking, Gyre thought.
“Why me?” Kit said. “You could have killed me, when I wandered near Refuge the first time. You could have just left me alone, even, and I would have died in those tunnels.”
“Indeed,” the ghoul said. “It was my duty to do just that. The Geraia entrusted me with the defense of the city, so they can go on with their self-involved debating and debauchery and never consider the outside world.”
“So why, then?”
“Because the outside world will not ignore us forever.” He looked down at her, eyes hooded. “And because the war is not over.”
“Against the Chosen, you mean? Because the Twilight Order is still fighting? Is that why you need this power?”
Naumoriel’s ears waggled with amusement. “Your digging for information is transparent, human.”
“Yeah.” Kit ruffled her hair. “Subtlety was never my strong suit.”
“There is much that is hidden, even from me. Over the years I have discovered … hints. With the power that sleeps under the mountain, I will find the truth. That is all you need to know.”
As they spoke, Gyre was working. He finished with the tents, then took out his own pack, digging down to the very bottom and removing the thick clay cylinder. Trying hard for nonchalance, he tucked it under his arm and wandered toward the old ghoul’s war-construct, which stood motionless with its canopy open.
He glanced over his shoulder. Naumoriel was still staring at the river, ignoring Kit’s chattered questions. Gyre stepped closer to the construct, which was hunched on its legs far enough that he could see into its central cavity. His hasty recollection had been correct—there was a space behind the ghoul’s padded seat, big enough to fit the bomb. Naumoriel, Gyre guessed, was unlikely to find it—from the look of things, he didn’t move about the construct much.
For a moment, Gyre hesitated. He watched Naumoriel sitting with Kit and felt a stab of guilt. He hasn’t betrayed us yet. Maybe he never will. He repeated again the list of all those who’d already sacrificed to build the road to the power Gyre wanted. Yora and Harrow, Chosen knew how many others. Sarah, mangled and burned. Maya, turned into a willing slave. He touched his face, the new scars laid over the old around his silver eye. Me.
Is it worth it?
In one quick movement, he leaned over, lowered the bomb to the floor of the construct, and wedged it in place. He quickly stepped away, and waited a few seconds before looking at Naumoriel. The old ghoul gave no sign he’d noticed, still staring down the river.
Maybe we won’t need it. Maybe Naumoriel would fulfill his side of the bargain. But if not, then at least we’ll have an option.
Late that evening, when Kit slipped into his tent, he told her what he’d done. She kissed him and called him brilliant before she went for his trousers again. After an enthusiastic interval, she fell asleep by his side, nestled in the crook of his arm. She looked younger when she was sleeping, without the swagger and the cocky smile, pale skin smooth and broken by a dozen small scars, body lithe and muscled, with only the barest hint of breasts and curves. He worked his fingers into her short blue hair, and she grumbled and shifted in her sleep.