Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
He, too, suffers in his own way.
“What are you doing here.” Merc’s voice cracks and now he scrubs at his face like he’s trying to get feeling back in it. “Why are you—”
“I saw that the horse was gone.”
“And you thought Julion is right about me and I took off.”
His head turns toward the field once more. When he doesn’t say anything, and makes no moves to get to his feet, I take a few steps in his direction.
“Talk to me, Merc.” As a strand of white hair waves into my face, I pull it away with impatience. “How can I help you.”
It’s a while before he answers: “I was a farmer, once.” He digs his hand into the soil again and clenches another fist full of the rich, dark crumble. “Before … I became something else.”
“You don’t have to live and die by the purchased sword.” There’s no response to that, so I press, “Can you not return to the north? Surely there is vacant land in the place I know you love. I heard the longing in your voice when you spoke of the mountains and the trees there.”
His reply, when it eventually comes, is low and carries a kind of defeat that I do not associate with his strength: “You know nothing of me.”
“You’re wrong.” When he shakes his head, I counter, “I’ve only been able to survive as I have by judging the people around me, especially the men. And you can decide where you go and what you do, more so than most people.”
“There is no going back for me.”
I think about what he said to me in the tunnel. “Then make a different forward.”
“I can’t.”
“Why.”
“Because of you.” He casts the soil aside, surges to his feet, and impatiently brushes his palm off on the seat of his britches. “I’ll meet you back at the house. We leave soonest, but the horse needs to eat more.”
Maybe that’s true. That’s not why he wants to stay out here alone, though.
“All right.”
While I turn away, his vacant expression as he looks toward the horizon haunts me, the kind of thing I know I will never forget.
Both of our veils have dropped.
But only one of us is prepared to acknowledge this.
Thirty-Two
One Final Parting Gift.
I’m sitting on the stoop of the house next to the saddle, our packs, and his surcoat when Merc finally returns. I don’t look up at the man or the horse, because I’m afraid of what’s showing on my face. With me no longer hiding behind a hood or a veil, I’m going to have to work on composing myself when I’m anything but composed.
And I’m not talking about what I found upstairs. No doubt he saw the bloodstains on the first floor, too, and as if more would be a surprise?
Merc clears his throat. “You look ready to go.”
Getting to my feet, I brush off the seat of my makeshift pants and glance back at the door. “I collected any food that seemed remotely edible in a sack, and I found two water bladders and filled them. But I’m not sure whether we shouldn’t leave it all behind—”
“Don’t worry about the symbols.” The horse shakes his head as if in disagreement. “They don’t mean anything.”
Is he serious? “Only enough to ensure the violent deaths of every living thing here.”
“I’m referring to whether we should be concerned with contamination. All three of us drank the water last night. Dark magic goes there first. If this place was actually cursed, we’d feel it by now.”
“Or be dead,” I say with horror.
“And we didn’t eat any of the crops that were poisoned.”
“I thought … that was frost.”
“No. All the grass is still alive.”
Fates. But at least he sounds like he’s back in control, as if whatever happened at that field was left behind with the ruined vegetables and wilted leaves.
“We’re in this together, Sorrel,” he says brusquely as he saddles up the chestnut.
“At least until the Badlands.”
There’s a pause. “Yes, that’s right.”
I nod, as if we’ve reshaken on our agreement.
“I’ll just be getting my things, then—”
“They’re right here.” I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed. “So. Shall we saddle up?”
He says something that I don’t catch, and then he’s over at the pile I made of his things. With sure hands, he takes off the shoulder holster that mounts the broadsword on his back, pulls his surcoat on over the steel mesh on his chest, and then restraps the weapon’s heavy weight. While he’s tying his pack on the side where it was yesterday, I go to put on my own, and stop as the wool coat I’ve been wearing since last night registers.
My eyes shift again to the S and P marking by the entry.
Before I can think too much, I take the coat off and go back into the house. As I return it to its place on the peg, I take a last look around. My eyes linger on the bloodstains. I don’t want to wear the clothing of a dead man, as if a violent mortal event is something you can catch, like a cold.