“Not all is lost,” the Warden said, his voice hoarse. “I know a spell to purify the water.”
That night they slept in the open spaces of the desolate village. The horses hovered between nestled clumps of people, snorting and huffing. Roland lay on the bare ground beside a collapsed hut, with Kaya pressed against him, the supple feel of her body a small but necessary comfort. Her parents and siblings were beside them, most sleeping, some just pretending to. As he rested, his back sore and his hand aching from holding the reins too tightly, Roland swore he could hear a great rumble descend over the land. He chalked it up to the unified grumblings of two hundred hungry bellies.
He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the sound to get some sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he saw the glowing red stare of Jacob Eveningstar as his former master helped Karak raise the bridge across the Rigon. Frustrated and afraid, he lifted Kaya’s arm from his chest and sat up. She stayed sleeping, tucking her hands beneath her chin. It amazed Roland how attached to her he was, how interwoven their lives had become. Yet that attachment had brought with it a deeper well of fear; now when he pictured the dead hanging from trees, they all had Kaya’s face.
“I love you,” he whispered, and kissed her cheek.
He stood and left the gathering, hoping a walk would calm his nerves. After taking a few steps, he realized he’d forgotten the sword Azariah had given him. As he bent to retrieve it, he was struck by how much his life had changed. For twenty-one years he had lived without so much as seeing such a weapon; now it felt as though his life depended on having one near.
Once he was away from the town, Roland felt horribly exposed. His footsteps led him into the forest, where he might find some sort of cover. The moonlight was faint through the thick canopy of maples and elms overhead, and he stumbled through the darkness, arms held out before him, fending off branches and vines that threatened to slap his cheeks or poke out his eyes. He walked for some time, the night deepening around him, and it was not until he reached a circular clearing, littered with rocks and knee-high grasses, that he allowed himself to rest. He sat on a stump in the middle of the clearing, its bark spongy and brittle to the touch. The tip of his sword’s scabbard scraped against the rocks below.
“Roland?” someone asked.
Startled, he swung around on the stump and almost fell off. Behind him was a beautiful specter in a burlap nightshirt, playing with the kinky curls of her hair. The ghost rubbed the bridge of her nose, which she always did when she was uncertain, and the mirage broke.
“Kaya?” he asked. “What are you doing out here?”
“You left me,” she answered. “You promised you’d never leave me.”
He stood up and ran to her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly. Though she was the same age as him, and more experienced in many ways, she seemed younger in that moment, like a frightened child wishing to be comforted after a nightmare. But that’s what we all are, he thought. Frightened children, hoping and praying for the best.
“You were sleeping,” he said, placing a light kiss on her forehead. “I just needed to take a walk. To think.”
“I saw you leaving,” she said softly. “I was worried.”
“Kaya, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Yes there is. You don’t have to lie to me. Why else would you have brought the sword?”
He stroked her hair, refusing to answer. He thought of when he’d first used that sword, the night of the attack on Lerder. Moments after he and Azariah had scaled the makeshift wall around Lerder, a group of twenty assailants, those he’d watched swim across the river and scale the western bank, had come screaming around the bend. Though the townspeople had been given every armament stowed beneath Ashhur’s temple, none brought their arms up in defense. Three Wardens were cut down immediately, the rest jumping to action and herding the people into a tight group at the edge of the forest. A handful of attackers had forced their way through the wall of defending Wardens, slaying four more, one of them leaping at Kaya as she sat crying atop his horse. As if on instinct, Roland had rushed forward, driving the tip of his sword through the man’s gut. Blood gushed, screams echoed across the valley, and in a matter of moments it was all over.
“What is that?” Kaya said suddenly, jerking him from the recollection.
“What is what?”
“That light. That sound. Over there.”
He turned his head, looking toward the edge of the forest. Very humanlike noises were issuing from that direction, a grunt or two, followed by a strange jangling, like a giant chime clanging in the wind. The foliage began to quake. Roland felt himself freeze in place, Kaya clutched in his arms.
A shadowy figure stepped into the clearing, looking just as much a phantom as Kaya had. It was a large man with long, dark hair hanging in front of his face. His armor marked him as one of Karak’s soldiers. The man acted groggy, like he was recovering from a long night of wine and laughter. If he saw them, he did not react, instead turning to face a tree a few feet in front of them. There was a faint splashing as he urinated on the trunk.
Roland felt Kaya tremble, and he covered her mouth with his hand. The man finished his business and shook himself off, then ran his hands through his nappy hair and groaned. He started back the way he’d come, but then paused. Slowly he turned, as if in a dream, and gaped at Roland and Kaya.
“What the…?” the man muttered. He fumbled at his waist, grabbing the hilt of a short dagger wedged there, and then took a few staggering steps toward them, the dagger held out before him. Kaya yelped and struggled in Roland’s grasp, which made the man halt for a moment. His face was a mask of confusion and panic.
“Who’re you?” he asked, scratching his head with his off hand.
Roland stayed mum, squeezing Kaya to make her keep quiet as well.
“I said who are you?” the man repeated, his voice panicked now. He turned, gathering air into his lungs as if he were about to shout, but a blur flashed across the clearing before he could utter another word. A gleaming shaft of steel erupted from the place where his head met his neck, and Kaya let out a small shriek. The man offered a choked protest as his body shuddered, then went limp. The blade retracted, and the man teetered backward, falling to the stony soil with a thump.
Azariah hovered over the corpse. The shortsword looked comically small in his large hands, the blade dripping with the dead man’s blood. He glanced up at Roland, his green-gold eyes narrowed, his mouth turned down in a grimace.
Roland couldn’t stop his body from shaking. He gaped at his friend, finding it difficult to form words, as Kaya sobbed in his arms.
“I always know where you are,” the Warden said, answering the unasked question. “It is my duty as your protector.”
That was all Roland could take. He broke, tears streaming down his cheeks and soaking the top of Kaya’s head as she continued to cry against his chest. Azariah stepped up to them, wrapping them both in his long arms.
“Hush now,” he said with tenderness. “You have been strong this whole time, when you could have easily given up. Both of you. You must remain strong even now.”
Roland swallowed a gulp of bile, trying to force his heart to beat slower. The feel of Kaya’s breath against his neck was even more calming than Azariah’s embrace. He imagined his first night with her on the roof, and the few times they’d explored each other’s bodies in the dark of night while the rest of their troupe was sleeping. His frayed nerves unwound, and a seemingly unnatural relaxation came over him.
“Better?” asked Azariah.
“A little,” Roland answered.
“And you, Kaya?”
“I…I think I’ll be okay,” she said timidly.