Somehow, I fall asleep. I do not dream.
TWENTY
From that day on, his bedchamber becomes ours. It is a wordless agreement, giving both of us something to hold on to. We’re too tired to do much more than sleep, though I’m sure Kilorn suspects otherwise. He stops talking to me, and ignores Cal altogether. Part of me wants to join the others in the larger sleeping rooms, where the children whisper into the night and Nanny shushes them all. It helps them bond. But I would only frighten them, so I stay with Cal, the one person who doesn’t really fear me.
He doesn’t keep me awake on purpose, but every night I feel him stir. His nightmares are worse than mine, and I know exactly what he’s dreaming of. The moment he severed his father’s head from his shoulders. I pretend to sleep through it, knowing he doesn’t want to be seen in such a state. But I feel his tears on my cheek. Sometimes I think they burn me, but I don’t wake up with any new scars. At least not the kind that can be seen.
Even though we spend every night together, Cal and I don’t talk much. There isn’t much to say beyond our duties. I don’t tell him about the first note, or the next ones. Though Maven is far away, he still manages to sit between us. I can see him in Cal’s eyes, a toad squatting in his brother’s head, trying to poison him from the inside out. He’s doing the same thing to me, both in the notes and in my memories. I don’t know why, but I can’t destroy either of them, and I tell no one of their existence.
I should burn them, but I don’t.
I find another letter in Corvium, during another recruitment. We knew Maven was on his way to the area, visiting the last major city before the ashlands of the Choke. We thought we could beat him there. Instead, we found the king already gone.
October 31
I expected you at my coronation. It seemed like the kind of thing your Scarlet Guard would love to try to ruin, even though it was quite small. We’re still supposed to be mourning Father, and a grand affair would seem disrespectful. Especially with Cal still out there, running around with you and your rabble. A precious few still owe allegiance to him, according to Mother, but don’t worry. They are being dealt with. No Silver succession crisis will come and take my brother from your leash. If you could, wish him a happy birthday for me. And assure him it will be his last.
But yours is coming, isn’t it? I don’t doubt we’ll spend it together.
Until we meet again,
Maven
His voice speaks every word, using the ink like knives. For a moment, my stomach churns, threatening to spill my dinner all over the dirt floor. The nausea passes long enough for me to slip out of the sleeper, out of Cal’s embrace, to my box of supplies in the corner. Like at home, I keep my trinkets hidden, and two more of Maven’s notes are crumpled at the bottom.
Each one bears the same ending. Until we meet again.
I feel something like hands around my throat, threatening to squeeze the life from me. Each word tightens the grip, as if ink alone can strangle me. For a second, I fear I might not breathe again. Not because Maven still insists on tormenting me. No, the reason is much worse.
Because I miss him. I miss the boy I thought he was.
The brand he gave me burns with the memory. I wonder if he can feel it too.
Cal stirs in the sleeper behind me, not from a nightmare, but because it’s time to wake. Hastily, I shove the notes away, and leave the room before he can open his eyes. I don’t want to see his pity, not yet. That will be too much to bear.
“Happy birthday, Cal,” I whisper to the empty tunnel hall.
I’ve forgotten a coat, and the cold of November pricks my skin as I step out of the safe house. The clearing is dark before the dawn, so that I can barely see the eaves of the forest. Ada sits over the low coals of a campfire, perched on a log in a shivering bundle of wool blankets and scarves. She always takes last watch, preferring to wake earlier than the rest of us. Her accelerated brain lets her read the books I bring her and keep an eye on the woods at the same time. Most mornings, she’s gained a new skill by the time the rest of us are up and about. Last week alone, she learned Tirax, the language of a strange nation to the southeast, as well as basic surgery. But today, she holds no stolen book, and she is not alone.
Ketha stands over the fire, arms crossed. Her lips move quickly, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. And Kilorn huddles close to Ada, his feet almost entirely in the coals. As I creep closer, I can see his brow bent in intense focus. Stick in hand, he traces lines in the dirt. Letters. Crude, hastily drawn, forming rudimentary words like boat, gun, and home. The last word is longer than the rest. Kilorn. The sight almost brings new tears to my eyes. But they are happy tears, an unfamiliar thing to me. The empty hole inside me seems to shrink, if only a little.
“Tricky, but you’re getting it,” Ketha says, the corner of her mouth lifting in a half smile. A teacher indeed.
Kilorn notices me before I can get much closer, snapping his writing twig with a resounding crack. Without so much as a nod, he gets up from the log and swings his hunting pack over his shoulder. His knife glints at his hip, cold and sharp as the icicles fanging the trees in the woods.
“Kilorn?” Ketha asks, then her eyes fall on me, and my presence answers her question. “Oh.”
“It’s time to hunt anyways,” Ada replies, reaching a hand toward Kilorn’s fading form. Despite the warm color of her skin, the tips of her fingers have flushed blue with the cold. But he evades her grasp and she touches nothing but frosty air.