Kilorn knows it. But he dances around the information I want, trying to lead me away.
Slowly, I shift my gaze to Sara as she works. Up close, she smells as soothing as her touch, carrying a fresh scent like clean linens. Her steel-gray eyes focus on my neck, finishing up the last of my bruises.
“Sara, do we have a casualty count?” I ask quietly.
Kilorn shifts uncomfortably in the chair next to my bed, coughing a little. He shouldn’t be surprised by the question.
Sara certainly isn’t. She doesn’t break her rhythm. “Don’t worry yourself with that,” the skin healer answers.
“Everyone’s alive,” Kilorn offers quickly. “Farley, Davidson. Cal.”
I already knew as much. He wouldn’t be smiling, and I would have woken up to a great deal more chaos, if any of them had died. No, he knows exactly what I’m asking. Who I’m asking about.
“All done,” Sara says, ignoring my question fully. Instead she offers a tight-lipped smile as she steps back from my bedside. “You should rest now. You need it, Mare Barrow.”
Nodding, I watch her go, seeing herself out of the bedroom with a sweep of her silvery clothing. Unlike the other healers I remember, she has no uniform to speak of anymore. Probably ruined in the battle, when she attended to so many dead or dying. The door closes softly behind her, leaving Kilorn and me to weather the heavy silence.
“Kilorn,” I finally mutter, prodding at him with tentative fingers.
He glances at me, watching with a pained expression as I draw myself up against the pillows. Ashamed, his eyes flicker to my healed side. Even though the wound is gone, his expression darkens.
So does his voice. “You were bleeding to death when we found you,” he whispers, as if even the memory is too horrible to recall at a normal volume. “We didn’t know if you would . . . if Sara could . . .” His voice trails away, laced with a pain I know all too well.
I’ve seen Kilorn bleeding to death too, when he nearly lost his life in New Town. I guess I repaid the favor. Swallowing hard, I touch my ribs, feeling nothing but unbroken skin beneath the folds of a fresh shirt. I guess the gash was worse than I thought. Not that it matters anymore.
“And . . . Maven?” I can barely say his name.
Kilorn holds my gaze, his expression unchanging. Giving no indication of an answer for an agonizing moment. Long enough for me to wonder what answer I’m hoping to get. Which future I want to live in.
When he drops his eyes, focusing on my hands, my blankets, anywhere but my face, I realize what he’s saying. A muscle twitches in his cheek as he clenches his jaw.
Something in me unwinds, a coil finally springing loose. I sigh and lie back, shutting my eyes as a storm of emotions rolls over me. All I can do is bear it as the world spins.
Maven is dead.
Shame and pride battle in equal measure, as well as sorrow and relief. For a second, I think I might actually throw up. But the nausea passes and I open my eyes again to find everything in its place.
Kilorn waits silently. It’s odd for him to be so patient. Or it would have been, a year ago. When he was just the fish boy, another kid from the Stilts with no future but whatever tomorrow held. I was the same.
“Where is the body?”
“I don’t know,” he says, and I see no lie in him. He has no reason to lie about this.
As with Elara, I’ll need to see the corpse. To know it’s well and truly finished. But his body frightens me more than hers, for obvious reason. Death is a mirror, and to look at him like that . . . I’m afraid I’ll see myself. Or worse, see him as I thought he was.
“Does Cal know what I did?” My voice breaks as I speak, suddenly fraught with emotion. I press a hand to my mouth, trying to calm myself. I refuse to cry over him. I refuse.
Kilorn merely watches. I wish he would hug me, or hold my hand, or maybe bring me something sweet to stuff in my mouth. Instead he pulls away to stand up. He looks on me with such pity, it makes me wince. I don’t expect him to understand and I don’t want him to.
Like Sara, he crosses to the door, and I feel suddenly abandoned.
“Kilorn—” I protest, until he turns the knob.
And someone else steps into the room.
Cal fills the chamber with warmth, as if someone just lit a crackling fire. His gleaming red armor is gone, replaced by simple clothing. He wears a mismatch of colors, without a stitch of black or scarlet. Because they aren’t his colors anymore. Kilorn slips out behind him, leaving us alone.
Before I can even wonder if Cal heard my question, he answers it.
“You only did what you had to do,” he says, slowly taking Kilorn’s chair. But he keeps his distance, letting the inches stretch between us in a gaping rift.
It isn’t difficult to guess why.
“I’m sorry.” He goes watery before me as tears rise in my eyes. I killed his brother. I took him away. I killed a murderer, a torturer. An evil person, twisted and broken. A man who would have killed me if I hadn’t stopped him. Killed everyone I love. A boy, made into a monster. A boy with no chance and no hope. “Cal, I’m so sorry.”
He leans forward, one hand on my blanket. Careful to keep out of reach. The silk beneath our fingers is smooth and cold, a long road of blue-gray embroidery. He stares at the pattern on the blanket, tracing the thread without speaking. I fight the urge to sit up and touch his cheek, to make him look me in the eye and say what he wants to say.
We both knew this would happen. We both knew Maven was beyond our help. It doesn’t stop the pain, though. And his is so much deeper than mine.
“What now?” he whispers, as if to himself.
Or maybe we were wrong. Maybe he could have been saved somehow. The thought cuts me apart, and the first tear falls. Maybe I’m just a murderer too.
Only one thing is certain. We will never know.
“What now,” I reply, turning away.
I stare at the window, the sky spotted with haze and weak starlight.
Minutes stretch and pass. We don’t speak. No one comes to see me, or find Cal to pull him away. I almost wish someone would.
Until his fingers move, brushing against mine. Barely touching.
But it’s enough.
EPILOGUE
Mare
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back and see it?”
I stare at Kilorn like he’s just grown a second head. The suggestion is so absurd, I almost don’t answer. But he looks at me, expectant, innocent as a child. Or at least as innocent as he can be. Kilorn was never particularly innocent, even when we were children.
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his Montfort uniform, waiting for my response.
“See what?” I scoff, shrugging my shoulders as we walk across the Archeon airfield. Clouds hang low on the horizon, obscuring the setting sun, as well as the smoke still trailing from parts of the city. It’s been a week, and they’re still putting out fires. “A house on rickety sticks? It’s probably ransacked, if someone else isn’t living there,” I mutter, thinking of my old home in the Stilts. I haven’t been back and I have little desire to ever return. I wouldn’t be surprised if the stilt house were no longer standing. I can easily imagine Maven destroying it out of spite. When he was alive. I don’t care to find out either way.