Brysen sat up, drew his legs up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around his knees, shielding as much of his body as he could behind his skinny shins. His breathing began to feel ragged again; all the euphoria he’d just felt was becoming a hazy memory. He was not even the littlest bit cold, but he began to shiver and wanted nothing more than to cover his skin.
“What did you do?” Nyall spoke for Brysen as he came up the slope, which was good, because Brysen couldn’t quite find any words.
“I did what had to be done to save him,” Jowyn answered, locking eyes with Brysen. “Your body temperature had dropped too low.”
“Will it—?” Brysen wasn’t sure how to form the question, wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. Jowyn’s skin was unmarred, marked only by his tattoos, which he seemed to take great pride in. It was skin without anyone else’s history carved into it, and Brysen wondered what it must be like to look at your bare skin proudly, as a thing earned rather than inflicted. On the other hand, was a life that left no mark any kind of life at all? The wound on Jowyn’s hand had already begun to heal. “Will I turn into—?”
Jowyn shook his head. “You won’t turn into one of us, no.”
Brysen swallowed, relieved but strangely sad. He wiped the traces of blood from his lips. “I need to get Shara,” he said, and he looked down at the exposed scars on his chest, at the rest of himself, just as exposed. “And I could use some clothes.”
Jowyn smiled at him, gentle mirth back in his eyes. “Maybe not in that order, though?”
Brysen smiled, too, but pulled his legs closer to keep himself covered just as the other boys of the covey arrived. There were stones digging into his bare backside, and his knees ached, but he couldn’t imagine standing up in front of everyone and strolling nude across the ice.
Jowyn looked at Brysen a long moment, then at the thin red line on his own hand. He took a deep breath, like he’d decided something hard, and went over to talk to the others.
Sitting alone, Brysen raised his fist out to his side, holding his knees to his chest with the other arm like a shield. He whistled. If Shara was in the cave, she could certainly see him, even in the dark. She could at least see his silhouette. He imagined her in there, beak wet with snake blood, staring at his distorted form through the moonlit ice.
He could feel the stares of all the covey on his bare back, crosshatched with whip scars and burns like a wax casing stretched over ground sausage meat. His whole back tingled with the sensation of being seen, but getting his hawk back was more important. A falconer hunting a lost bird had no time for shame. The self was meant to disappear when a man called a bird of prey home. At its best, it was a moment of total selfless peace; at its worst, it felt like a crushing emptiness.
He felt his heart pulling out toward Shara, focused all his thought on her, gave no space to his own worries or plans or fears … but they made space for themselves. He felt totally exposed.
“Come on,” he pleaded with Shara under his breath. “Come on, come on, come on…” He moved his fist up and down like he sometimes did in training when there was food on it and whistled again.
Still nothing.
If she wouldn’t come to his whistle, he would have to go get her, no matter the risk. This time, though, he’d be smarter about it. He looked back over his shoulder. The covey boys were now locked in a full-blown argument with Jowyn, and it seemed like Nyall was trying to get a word in. They were pointing at the rapidly healing cut on Jowyn’s hand, wagging fingers in his face. No one was looking at Brysen.
He stood quietly, trying to will himself invisible. His eyes searched for the thickest ice to cross, but before his bare foot set down on the glassy surface, three voices shouted.
Nyall yelled, “Bry, no!”
Jowyn yelled, “Don’t!”
And from atop the icy waterfall, backlit by the moon, his sister yelled, “Brysen, what are you doing? And why are you naked?”