Oh my word, what am I doing? I blame Mom. Her maternal instinct has apparently rubbed off on me. I ignore Ky’s slack jaw and questioning eyes. He almost looks like just another teenage boy.
But he isn’t. He’s dangerous. A few rights don’t erase his wrongs.
“How would you know?” Conversation back on track. I clasp my hands in my lap, sentencing them to solitary confinement.
“I’d wager they’ve explained the basics. Your connection to the Verity’s vessel? How you’re the only one who can lead them to him?” Ky scoots closer. His patronizing tone makes me feel like a student in a class way too advanced for my knowledge. “Am I close?” He pulls something else from his pack. A canteen. He sips, then offers it to me.
I hesitate. We’re sharing drinks now? What next?
He sets the canteen in my lap. I don’t have to give him the satisfaction of an answer. His know-it-all expression gives him away. Crud. He knows he’s right. “You think these people are your friends.” A flippant gesture toward the stream. “But I’d be careful who you trust. Crowe isn’t the only one with an agenda.”
I snatch the canteen and take a swig, giving myself time to process what he’s implying. The cool liquid has a slight sweetness to it, as if he added honey or something. But I can’t enjoy it. Not when my mouth has already turned bitter. Does he really expect I’d believe him over them? Over Joshua?
“I changed my mind,” I say. “I’m not interested in listening to your conspiracy theories.”
Ky wipes his knife on his pants and tosses the apple core toward the stream. It bounces and rolls, covered in dirt once it reaches the bank. “I’m just trying to help you. Do you really hate me so much you’d refuse to see what’s right in front of you?”
“I don’t want your help. I didn’t ask for it. So just stop, okay?” Taking no care whatsoever, I toss him the canteen. Water sloshes and soaks the front of his shirt and pants.
Nostrils flaring, Ky screws the cap on the canteen, stashes it, and then rubs both hands on his thighs. Dirt streaks his pants like tire tracks. “Have it your way.” He moves to stand. “If you won’t listen to me, at least consider asking your precious David why he’s fighting so hard to protect you. Why they all are. You might be surprised to find what dirty little secrets they’ve been hiding.”
I shoot him a stone-cold glare.
His mismatched eyes lock on mine. “One last thing.” He slides his hand into his pack, withdraws a familiar leather tome. “This is yours.” He tosses it to me.
My gaze widens. “Mom’s sketchbook.” Emotion swells, lodging in my throat, pressing against the backs of my eyes. “How—?”
“You dropped it. The night I followed you.” He kneels and double knots his bootlaces. “I held on to it.”
Is this some sort of game? Another trick to earn my trust and gratitude? “Why would you do that?” The words sound more like an accusation than a question.
He shrugs. “After this delightful conversation, I have no idea, to be honest.”
His transparency unnerves me. I hug the book to my chest. “Thank you.” Swallow. Does he have any idea how much this means? To have this piece of Mom when I’m not sure I’ll see her again?
A nod. “You’re welcome.”
He grabs his flashlight and tromps off down the hill, leaving me adrift between suspicion and uncertainty. I inhale Mom’s pencil and paper scent, the familiarity easing my headache. Part of me is aware this is his strategy to gain my confidence.
But there’s another part, small and fragile and insecure, wondering if his words hold even a modicum of truth.
“Crowe isn’t the only one with an agenda.”
To the Crown until Death.
My breath hitches. Not to me, to the crown. But what does that mean, exactly? Would the Guardians go to any lengths necessary to see their king returned to the throne? I stare at my red-ringed wrists. Everyone supported Gage’s decision to tie me up.
Everyone. Except Ky.
A warning bell pings in the recesses of my mind, its context obscure. Is the alarm for Ky or something else? Ugh. I draw my knees to my chest, rest my chin in the space between them. The only person I can count on is Mom, and she’s not here.
Scrape, scrape. Gage kneels beside a teepee of twigs, a nest of dry grass situated beneath. He’s striking his knife against something black and shiny. Flint? Sparks fly. Flames burst. Gage cups his hands around his mouth and blows. Soon a small fire crackles, smoke rising from its center.
Ky’s relaxed against a tree down the hill, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head. He’s with the others, but he’s not, always maintaining his distance.
My own eyelids droop as I tune out everything but the stream’s mollifying babble. Can I trust him? I hug the book more tightly against my chest, clinging to the lifeline Ky’s given me. He didn’t have to save Mom’s sketchbook, but he did. Knots form in my stomach. I can’t let my guard down. Ky’s peace offering isn’t enough. Not yet.
Not until Mom is safe. Not until we’re home.
EIGHTEEN
Might Have Been
I’m going to hurl. Chew, smack, swallow. Chew, smack, swallow. How long does it take one tiny person to finish a meal?
Stormy strolls alongside me, nibbling a chicken leg. It took Kuna all of thirty minutes to catch, kill, pluck, and clean the thing. He roasted it section by section over Gage’s small fire, then everyone took a piece to go. Except me. How can anyone eat something that once had eyeballs? Disgusting.
“Want some?” She waves the meat in my face, bits of torn flesh dangling like loose threads.
My nose scrunches at the wood smoke fumes. I shrink away. “Gross.”
She shrugs, shredding off another rodent-sized bite. “If you keep eating meals meant for birds, you’re going to starve.”
I roll my eyes. I’ll die before I eat body parts that once moved. So far, the food here is a mixture, some familiar, some not so much. The berries Stormy picked had a raspberry look and feel, but a strawberry taste. Sour and not at all juicy, but I can’t be too particular.
Kuna belches behind us, the resonance closer to a roar than a man-sized burp.
Stormy giggles as if this is the most endearing thing in the world.
Oh brother.
Now that we’re beyond Shadow Territory, keeping track of time is less daunting. Gray fades to indigo as twilight bruises the day. When we crossed the stream, leaving the Forest of Night behind, the trees began to thin, the foliage spreading farther and farther apart. The ashy hues faded to actual colors, a black-and-white film remastered frame by frame.
As the sun sets we tramp across rocky terrain, which Stormy informs me is Pireem Valley. To the east stands the tallest mountain I’ve ever seen, and to the west tall rocks and tree clusters block our view of what’s beyond. Despite the desert landscape, the depth of color awes me. Red rock and glittering sand and tulips! Tons of them, shooting from the hard earth. Total misfits yet the perfect addition to the otherwise bland valley.
At the valley’s edge we pass beneath a stone arch. Knee-high foliage and arcing sycamores greet us on the other side. We take care with our steps, trying not to trample the undergrowth completely. I look over my shoulder. Ky straightens every bent weed and vine with meticulous effort. Kuna causes the biggest trail, but even his steps will be untraceable because of Ky.
Distracted, I trip over a thick, unearthed root and stumble forward. Thankfully, Stormy let me continue our trek unbound. My hands reach out, free to stop my face from joining with the earth. Something thorny sinks into my left palm, stinging. Stormy pulls me upright, and I dust my hands on my thighs. A red line stains my jeans, and I turn my palm skyward.