Kingsbane

For a moment, she watched his face in profile—his straight nose, the pucker of his ruined skin, the ferocious bright-blue of his eyes in the gray light.

“Well,” she said, “you have been working at it for two whole days now, after eighteen years of your power lying dormant. I can’t imagine why it hasn’t all come crashing back to you at once. Eighteen years is hardly anything, after all.”

A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth. “You’re mocking me.”

She grinned up at him. “I am.” And then she touched his cheek and made him look at her. “I think it’s beautiful when you thread. Every time it happens, I lose my breath.”

“They’re spotty,” he said, his voice softer now. “The threads are fragile. They hardly hold.”

“To you, maybe. To me, they’re miraculous.”

“They’re useless if they can’t carry you where you need to go.”

“All great work must start somewhere,” she said, and then shivered a little, for she hadn’t intended to say those words. They’d surfaced as if someone had reached inside her and tugged them out. She touched her throat, frowning.

“Yes, that’s true,” Simon said, “but unfortunately we don’t have time to sit here for ages while I recover my abilities.”

Remy marched over, his boots squishing in the mud. “You know what you should do,” he announced, stating it half like a question.

“Ah, yes,” Simon said, “I’d forgotten you were the threading expert here.”

Remy crossed his arms. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Then he ruffled Remy’s hair with a little smile, and Eliana’s heart jumped into her throat. She had to step back from them, put distance between herself and Simon’s body.

“The first time you threaded,” said Remy, “was when Eliana healed me. And you were holding on to her, and she was using her power. So”—he shrugged—“just do that again.”

Eliana stared at him. “We can’t possibly re-create that moment. You would have to be dying again.”

“Well, not that exact moment. But you’ve been doing lots of little things with your castings—moving branches, flooding streams. Maybe you need to do something bigger.” Then Remy examined Simon’s face. “Maybe you should try healing him this time instead.”

Eliana could hardly contain her surprise, and yet the idea made a certain sense. She looked to Simon, letting her eyes roam over the ravaged landscape of his face, what she could see of his arms.

He looked as though someone had slapped him. “No,” he said, backing away from her. “I won’t allow it.”

“It could work though,” Remy insisted. “Your whole body’s been beaten up. You told me you’re always hurting.”

Eliana frowned at him. “What does that mean?”

“Never mind,” said Simon, shooting a glare at Remy. “I’m fine.”

Remy rolled his eyes. “He told me just last night. He said, ‘Will you please, for the love of all that is good in this world, leave so I can go to bed, because my body is screaming at me and soon I’ll be screaming at you.’ And then I asked what that’s supposed to mean, and he said that he’s always in pain because of his training with the Prophet.” Remy paused, looking smug. “And then I went to bed.”

Silence fell between them. It took Eliana several long beats before she could look at Simon again. When she did, she saw that he had closed his face to her. He was all Wolf now—cold and hard, jaw square.

“Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Don’t pretend with me.”

His smile was sharp. “Isn’t that what we do, Eliana? We pretend, you and I.”

“Not anymore. If you’re going to send me back in time, if we’re going to attempt this madness, then you’re going to look me in the eye and tell me only truths.” She glared up at him. “Are you in pain?”

For a long time, he said nothing. Then something in the lines of his body relented.

“Yes,” he said tightly. “Always.”

“Because of the Prophet?”

“And many others.”

Her throat ached at the sight of him standing there, battered and brave, bearing his pain in silence. “Will you tell me, someday? Will you tell me what happened to you?”

He caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I hope I’ll have the time for it,” he said against her skin, and then he turned away from her, leaving her swaying a little in his absence.

Remy gave her a shrewd look. “I’ll leave you alone, then, for a while. If that would be helpful?”

Eliana made a face at him, which he enthusiastically returned. And then, once he was gone, she took a deep breath and turned around to find Simon watching her thoughtfully.

“Well?” She gestured at his face. “Can I try?”

“I don’t know what I’d be without my scars,” he said quietly. “They remind me of what I’ve done, and what’s been done to me.”

“And don’t you want to forget at least that second part?”

He shook his head. “No. My anger fuels me. Without my pain, I’m nothing.”

“I don’t believe that. We are more than what’s been done to us. We are more than our anger. And I think we have to try this. Or, we can sit out here watching your threads fade again and again and wait for the Empire to find us.”

It had begun to rain, hardly more than a light mist, and the thin silver curtain of it painted the clearing a queer iridescent shade, as if the light were coming from within the raindrops themselves, and not from the clouded sky.

Simon nodded curtly. “Fine.”

They sat on the ground, in a dry patch beneath a broad oak draped with ropy white moss. Eliana’s nerves took root in her belly. She made a show of arranging herself in the grass, and when she looked up again, Simon was watching her, his eyes guarded and grave.

Before she lost her courage, she took his face in her hands and closed her eyes, and then, after she had grown used to the unbearable intimacy of it—their knees touching in the grass, his cheeks rough under her palms, his breath moving the ends of her hair—she said quietly, “Hold on to me. Like you did in Karlaine.”

At once, he slid his hands up her arms, cradling them gently. As though a broken circle had been completed, she felt calm settle within her. Linked securely to him, she focused all her thoughts and energy into the twin sleeping suns of her castings. They began to vibrate, awakening against his skin. She felt herself shifting, gliding, as if slipping between two cool layers of the world, cut away from each other to create a space for her between them. Her jaw relaxed and her tongue softened. She was liquid and warm; she hummed along with her castings.