“My map leads nowhere,” I say. “Not without Asher’s. But we read our brands together, and we sailed across the wastes to the remnants of the Old World, to the secret it holds.”
“What . . . secret?” he croaks out, the words broken by my blade.
“There is no Verdant. There are no gods. Everything you believe is a lie.” I grab the hilt of my knife, twist, and pull it free. Blood gushes, coating the front of the General’s leather robe and turning it deep black. He takes a single step toward me, eyes wide and haunted. Maybe he can’t believe what I’ve told him. Maybe he’s shocked by his own mortality. Maybe he’s still waiting for the gods to save him when he collapses at my feet and doesn’t move again.
His falcon screeches from the balcony rail, then streaks into the sky.
Reed grabs at my hand, his breath coming in uneven bursts. “You have . . . to blow . . . the horn,” he grunts out, nodding to a curved instrument that hangs on the wall just inside the balcony. “One long. Two short. One . . . long.”
I slice at Reed’s shirt with my knife, cutting the sleeve off his injured arm. There’s a gaping cut above his elbow, so deep I can see bone. “Oh, gods,” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” he says, but his eyes roll, and I think he might be near passing out. “The horn . . . They’ll surrender . . .”
I tear the discarded shirtsleeve, creating two long strips of cloth, and tie them both above the wound as tightly as I can manage.
“They’ll surrender . . . to whoever . . . wears . . .” His head tips back, eyes falling shut.
“Reed? Reed!”
I press two fingers to his throat. The kick of life pumps back against my skin. He’s just passed out.
I sprint to the window and grab the horn. Below, a portion of the crop fields are burning, and I wonder, briefly, if the General was right. If ruthlessness is needed to keep these wastes from imploding. If all we’ve done is destroy this paradise.
But crops can be regrown.
Powder Town’s flags fly on the dam, and their gunshots echo through Bedrock. It’s over. We’ve won, and the Prime will kill every last Loyalist if she has to. But if they surrender, if they stand down . . .
Maybe they don’t deserve mercy, but maybe, as Asher said, they were just trying to survive, like the rest of us. Maybe, with limited privileges and a close watch, they too can do more than just survive.
I raise the horn to my mouth and produce the call as Reed instructed. The noise sails over Bedrock, and the General’s falcon—circling above the fields—echoes my call with shrill cries.
I blow the horn again, repeating the call until the small, dark shapes of Loyalists below cease their fighting and turn toward the Backbone, raising their faces toward the General’s chambers. There’s shouting when they don’t find him standing on the balcony. The air grows taut, the tension as sharp as the metallic scent that fills the air. They don’t believe the surrender call.
They’ll surrender to whoever wears . . .
I dart for the General, put a hand behind his head, and lift the star chain free. It is heavier than I imagined.
Returning to the balcony, I hoist it high, letting the chips glint in the sun. When I lower it over my head, the Loyalists drop their weapons and raise their hands, their surrender spreading across the fields like a storm.
And just like that, with all that remains of my ancestors resting against my heart, it’s over.
Chapter Forty-Four
I stagger away from the window, rip the chain off. I don’t want it on me, don’t want it anywhere near me.
“You’re alive,” a familiar voice says, and I freeze. This isn’t real. I’m imaging him, my brain conjuring him into the world so that I don’t have to be without him.
“Delta.”
I turn.
It’s Asher, his chest heaving with exhaustion, blood along his brow. He drops his mag-rifle and rushes to me, gathering me up, pulling my face to his. His lips taste like salt and sweat, and then they are in my hair, kissing my head, my temple, the side of my jaw. He inspects my face, muttering about falcon talons, telling me that it looks bad, but I’ll be fine, that instead of a single scar through my brow, I’ll now have several. The star chain dangles uselessly in my hand, chips clinking.
“You were gone,” I say into his chest. “The wagon. It was burning.”
“I jumped from the bow. Just before the explosion. Three of us made it off.”
“Harlie?” I ask, looking up.
He shakes his head. She was in the crow’s nest when the wagon was hit. I saw it happen. Still, my ribs ache, as if I’m witnessing her death a second time.
“I saw you running for Bedrock,” he says, “and I followed. Helped the Prime cover you.”
“It was you,” I murmur. “I thought I imagined it.”
His right ear is covered in blood. I notice that he tilts the other ear toward me, and I wonder if maybe he can’t hear properly out of the injured one. I touch his face, make sure he’s real. The General’s stars knock between us.
“I don’t like that chain,” Asher says.
“Me either.” I set it down beside the General’s cooling body. “Here, quick. Help me with Reed.”
Asher grabs him beneath the arms. I take his feet. We’re approaching the curtain when the Reaper bursts through, breathless. Her nose is swollen—broken most likely—and her teeth are coated in red. “Delta, the Prime requires your immediate audience.” Her gaze flicks to Reed. “Dead?”
“Unconscious. Needs a healer.”
“I’ll help bring him to the Tender,” the Reaper says. “We’re already seeing to the injured.” She takes Reed’s ankles from me. Asher gives me a reassuring nod, a silent promise that we’ll see each other later. As soon as they have disappeared through the curtain, the beads part again and Kara the Prime enters.
Her dark skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, and if it weren’t for a few traces of blood on her garments, I’d assume she’d simply been working in the sun, not fighting a battle. Her gait is uneven, her weight pressed through her uninjured foot.
“Delta of Dead River,” she says heavily. “We need to discuss what happens next.”
But I already know what happens. I retrieve the star chain and stand before the Prime, holding it out in offering. She frowns, pausing a moment, then eventually drops her chin. I lower the chain over her head, letting the chips fan across her chest, some rusted, others gleaming.
“You made this possible,” the Prime says. “The chain could be yours.”
“I don’t want it. I don’t know how to lead.”
“I think you underestimate yourself.”
I lick my lips and glance out over the balcony. Powder Town’s forces are combing the fields, separating the injured from the dead. I can make out several water wagons, too, which I’m sure are filled with clean water for the ilked-up workers. Beyond the wall, crumbling where the blast barrels did damage, the wastes beckon. The horizon is a shimmering wall, rippling in the heat. A dark trail in the dry earth shows where the spilled water had begun snaking toward the Barrel. If we open the upper dam, just above the General’s quarters, will that water reach the Serpent and in turn Dead River?