CHAPTER 17

If You’d Been There

Tanin really did love them, Sefia thought, closing the Book. The way I loved them.

Deep in thought, she flicked the clasps again and again. She still hated Tanin for everything she’d done to her family, but for the first time Sefia felt like she understood her.

The questions were worse—Tanin’s, Versil’s, her own.

Sefia thought she was protecting Frey and the boys, protecting Archer. But was it kindness or cowardice? For their protection or hers?

Shaking her head, Sefia closed the clasps. She stepped into the damp night air, threading through the tents until she found Archer and Kaito’s.

Beneath his blanket, the Gormani boy whimpered. In sleep, he seemed so young. Vulnerable.

Crossing the tent, she knelt beside Archer’s cot as he began to thrash, his hands becoming fists.

“He’s dreaming,” someone whispered.

Sefia turned to find Kaito, awake and watching her like a wild thing in the darkness.

“He always dreams like this,” he continued. “Quiet. Never makes a sound.”

“When I met him, he couldn’t talk,” she whispered back. “Did he ever tell you that?”

Kaito shook his head, his curls rustling against the pillow. “We all lost something to the impressors.”

“What’d you lose?”

“My future.”

Archer lashed out suddenly, striking the side of the canvas tent with a sharp thwack.

“I could’ve been chief of my clan up north, like my mother, and her father before her,” Kaito said. “I’d been preparing for it my whole life. But now . . .”

“Can’t you go back?”

“I could.” He regarded her for a long moment. This was the stillest she’d ever seen him, with the focus of a hawk before the dive. It was unnerving, almost frightening. Then he rolled over in his cot, pulling the blanket over his head. “But I don’t want to.”

Crouched in the darkness, Sefia waited for him to explain, to laugh—something—but he didn’t stir again. Turning, she laid a hand on Archer’s shoulder.

His body jerked. His eyes flew open.

For a second, the panic was there—his confusion, his urge to fight blistering beneath his skin. But as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he stilled.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

Pulling a shirt over his head, Archer followed her out into the night. They retreated to the edge of camp, climbing onto one of the carts.

“You were dreaming,” Sefia said as Archer slid onto the seat beside her, thigh to thigh.

He nodded, fingering the piece of quartz at his throat.

“What about?”

“Same thing as always.”

She caught his hand in hers, twining their fingers. “One day, you’re going to tell me what that is.”

A sad smile flitted across his features. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I think we should tell the others what’s really going on.”

“The Guard?”

“The Book. My parents. Everything.” She explained what she’d read and what she hoped to do, and for a while, with Archer listening as intently as he ever had, she was reminded of how comforting his silence had once been, not a gap but an invisible tether, connecting them.

“Why?” he asked when she was done.

She nudged the Book, sliding it farther away on the seat of the cart. “Isn’t it worse not knowing?”

“Not always,” he said quietly.

Sefia reached up then, angling his face toward hers. For a moment, she stared into his golden eyes. “Whatever you’re afraid of,” she said, “don’t be.” Then she kissed him, long and hard, like she could finally convince him that she was with him, and she was not going anywhere.

When at last they parted, breath smoking between them, she put her fingertips to the worry stone gleaming at his throat, felt him stiffen as she grazed his damaged skin. Slowly, she leaned in and kissed the edge of his scar. Archer shivered beneath her touch.

“They’re going to hate me,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “But it’s better if they know.”

His arm went around her. “They won’t hate you.”

A cold wind rushed over them suddenly, making Sefia shudder.

Then, more to himself than her, Archer added, “I won’t let them.”

•   •   •

When Sefia woke in the morning, it was still dark. Frey must have been on watch—her cot was empty—but there was someone else in the tent, standing motionless at the threshold.

“Archer?” Sefia whispered, rubbing her eyes.

He let out a gasp, like he was drowning and struggling for air. “You’re alive.” He was at her side in a second. “You were so still, I thought—” He reached for her cheek, as if to reassure himself she was real. A small sob left him when his fingertips touched her skin.

“What happened?” she asked, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

“I dreamed you were in the ring with me. I had to fight you. I had to kill—but it wasn’t the impressors who put you there, it was Kaito and Frey and the boys. They wanted your blood, and I . . . I . . .”

“It wasn’t real.” She pulled him toward her. “You’re safe. I’m safe.”

“I couldn’t stop after that. I kept seeing you, whenever I closed my eyes . . .” He studied her face for a moment, as if searching for injuries, and then he kissed her, his mouth urgent, insistent, against hers.

Gently, Sefia drew him onto the cot beside her, murmuring, “It wasn’t real. We’re safe.”

He kissed her again and again, touching her face, her throat, her shoulders, his hand sliding down her arm to squeeze her hand, as if he still wasn’t sure she was safe. “Don’t tell them,” he whispered. “Please. I don’t know what’ll happen . . . I don’t know if I can stop them.”

She stroked the side of his face. “I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t tell them.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “What if they don’t forgive you?”

“You forgave me.”

“There was nothing to forgive.” Archer licked his lips. “But I—”

“Whoa, what—” Frey’s voice interrupted them. “Chief?”

Sefia’s cheeks went hot as Archer scrambled up, straightening his clothes. Frey looked amused as he slid past her, awkwardly bumping into the tent pole. But before he left, he said, “Sefia, please, just think about it, okay?” The canvas closed behind him.

Laying down her weapons and kicking off her boots, Frey gave Sefia a pointed look.

“I’m so sorry,” Sefia mumbled, hiding her face in the blanket.

Frey laughed softly as she flopped onto her own cot. “For years, I lived in a house with three boys and no parents. Trust me, you and Archer, that was nothing.” She propped herself up on her elbow, cocking an eyebrow. “Well, not nothing. Details, please.”

•   •   •

Despite Archer’s fears, however, Sefia had not changed her mind by the time Griegi called everyone in for breakfast. The haggard look in Archer’s eyes was more pronounced in daylight, evidence of just how little rest he’d gotten, worrying for her. But she couldn’t run from the truth anymore. Or her guilt.

Gathered around Sefia, Frey and the boys leaned forward as she unwrapped the leather casing and held up the Book for all of them to see. In the light of the campfire, the on the cover seemed almost alive, flickering with magic and intent.

“This is a book,” she said.

She told them about the Guard, Serakeen and his impressors, her parents. She told them how she’d found Archer in the crate, how they’d tracked Hatchet through Oxscini—two kids blundering into a conspiracy decades in the making. She told them about her father’s murder, and Nin’s, and how that same fate awaited them all now, if they weren’t careful—and maybe even if they were.

“The Guard?” Kaito asked when she was done. “That’s who wants us?”

“Yes.”

“And your parents were part of it?”

Sefia nodded, sensing Archer’s edginess. He’d buckled on his weapons this morning, and his hands hung loose and ready at his sides.

“But they turned on their masters,” Kaito said.

“Yes.”

“And now they’re dead.”

“Yes.”

He whirled on Archer, who flinched. “You knew?”

Archer nodded.

“You’re one of us, brother. Didn’t you think we had a right to know?”

“It’s not his fault,” Sefia said. “I was scared. I didn’t know what you’d do if—”

“You should’ve given us a little credit, Sefia.” Frey flicked her switchblade from hand to hand, the steel turning and twisting in deadly arcs between her palms.

“I’m sorry.” Sefia shifted the Book’s weight in her arms, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze. “I wanted to tell you. I—I hope it’s not too late.”

“She got you out,” Archer snapped, taking her hand. His fingers were cold, but strong. “She got all of us out. All she’s ever done is try to protect us.”

With a glare, Frey closed her knife and thrust it into her back pocket.

Kaito rubbed his scarred cheek as he paced before the fire like a caged creature. “You can’t undo what they did, you know that, right? You can’t unkidnap us, can’t unburn us, can’t bring the dead back. It still happened. It was still their fault.”

Sefia glanced up at Archer, who looked back at her with his sunken sleep-deprived eyes. “I know,” she said, “and I’m still their daughter. But I’m here, aren’t I? Trying to fix what they did?”

Kaito’s eyes flashed. There was a moment when she thought he might attack, all his rage and resentment unleashed, but then his lips pulled back from his teeth in a vicious smile. “I’m glad they’re dead then,” he said, “because that means you’re on our side.”

It was as good an acceptance as Sefia was going to get, so she nodded solemnly.

As the others began muttering among themselves, stealing glances in her direction, Archer dropped her hand. Without a word, he walked away, smoke curling around his head and shoulders as he crossed the campsite.

He still had not let go of his weapons.

While she wondered at Archer’s mood changes, Versil came up to her. “Sorcerer,” he said.

She squinted, trying to read his expression, but for once his white-speckled features gave nothing away. “Is it better?” she asked. “Now that you know?”

“Yeah. And it’s worse. Because they were your . . . because you knew . . .” He shook his head and went silent.

Frey made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat and stalked off.

“She’s pissed,” said Versil, coming back to himself.

“I’m sorry,” Sefia said.

“I know. That’s why I’ll get over it, eventually.” He gestured at Frey’s retreating form. “But sorry’s not enough for everyone.”

Sefia jogged after her, trying to ignore the stares and whispers of the others. But then Frey whirled on her just before they reached the tent, her voice drawing everyone’s attention. “How could you not tell me?” she demanded. “All this time, I’ve been sharing a tent with the daughter of the people who dreamed up this.” She jabbed a finger at her scarred throat.

Not knowing what else to do, Sefia gripped the Book tighter. “I’m sorry.”

Frey dashed tears from her eyes. “You didn’t think I’d been betrayed enough by people I love? You had to betray me too?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No one ever means to. But they still do.” Then, as if she couldn’t stand to look at Sefia anymore, she swept into the tent, which closed behind her with the sudden slap of wet canvas. Dew misted Sefia’s cheeks, her hands, the Book’s leather casing.

She didn’t go in after her.

•   •   •

When they struck out again, the mood remained tense. No one would speak to her, not even Frey or Aljan. Miserably, Sefia shivered in her oil skin cloak as a cold drizzle drenched the land.

Archer rode at the front of their caravan, stiff in the saddle with the rainwater running off him. It was as if he was the same haunted boy he’d been a season ago, harried by his nightmares.

When she tried to ask him what was wrong, he said nothing for a long while. The muddy track sucked at their horses’ hooves. Then he spoke: “I can’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know you wo—”

“No, you don’t get it. I’d have done it. I’d have done it in an instant. Don’t you see? If you’d been there with me, I would’ve killed you without a second thought.”

She reached for his arm. “You’d never—”

“No.” He jerked away so suddenly the horses started. His eyes flashed like lightning. “I know. Sefia, I can’t . . . you don’t understand.”

She fell back then, and allowed the others to pass. Archer did not look back for her.

That evening, when everyone else gathered to spar, Archer watched them from the edge of the group, so wound up you could almost see the urge to fight crawling under his skin.

Ordinarily, one of the boys might have wanted to fight him—they did that from time to time, to test their mettle—but that night they let him alone, like wolves avoiding their pack leader.

Except Kaito.

Maybe he wanted to challenge himself with an opponent at his most perilous.

Maybe he knew Archer needed a fight the way some people needed a drink.

It was brutal. Archer was too quick, too strong, too good. It was like he was channeling the whole force of his fear and guilt into his fists. The Gormani boy didn’t stand a chance.

When it was over, Archer stood over him like a conqueror, back and shoulders slick with sweat, breath heaving in his chest.

Kaito staggered to his feet. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and blood dripped from his knuckles as he raised his fist toward the black sky.

“Chief!” he cried.

“Chief!” The others took up the chant. “Chief! Chief! Chief! Chief!”

Archer grinned.

Later, Sefia cornered him while he was washing up, dabbing at his cuts with a damp cloth. “What happened? You could’ve really hurt him,” she said.

Anger touched his lips as he tossed the bloodied cloth back into the bowl of warm water. “You’re just figuring that out now? I’m dangerous, Sefia.”

“I know what you are,” she said, frustrated. “And I know you’d never hurt me.”

Before he could answer, Kaito ran up and hugged him from behind. “You were pulling your punches.”

Chuckling, Archer shoved the other boy away, his mood swing so sudden it made Sefia dizzy. “You’d be out cold if I hadn’t.”

“When I beat you, I don’t want to beat you because you went easy on me. I want to beat you because I’m better than you.”

“What if you’re not better than me?” Archer raised an eyebrow.

The Gormani boy glanced at Sefia. “You’re luckier than me. That’s all.”

“I wouldn’t call us lucky,” she said.

“Luckier than some, sorcerer.” With a grin, Kaito punched Archer in the arm and ran off again.

There was an awkward silence as Sefia waited for Archer to say something, but he just shook his head and walked away.

•   •   •

Heavy with dread, Sefia watched Frey and the boys the next morning, running drills as the sun pierced the overcast skies, lighting on frosted shards of grass and flashing sword points. The air was filled with the sounds of battle—metal ringing against metal, yelling and grunting, boots stamping in the mud. While Kaito called out commands, Archer wove in and out of the ranks like an eel, smooth and sinuous, avoiding thrusts and adjusting stances as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He looked so comfortable among the flickering blades and ranks of boys. But surrounded by bodies and sharp edges, he no longer looked like someone she knew.

Gradually, the others began to forgive her. Griegi stopped feeding her cold leftovers. Mako gave her a hug. Aljan took up his lessons with her again. She taught him to write, and he taught her to write beautifully, pouring all their guilt and forgiveness and sorrow into the Ms, Ės, Ss, and Ťs they carved into the ground.

One cool night as Aljan looked across the campfire at Frey, sitting watch on one of the carts, he asked how to write her name. At the rim of the darkness, the twists of Frey’s braids and the curves of her cheeks were blue with starlight, as if she were one part human and one part sky.

She hadn’t said a word to Sefia in days. She didn’t even use their tent anymore. Aljan told her she was sleeping in the trees, bundled up in the branches with her blanket.

With a sigh, Sefia wrote Frey’s name in the soil with their sharpened stick.

Aljan was silent as he studied the letters.

On the other side of camp, Scarza patiently led Versil to the stack of pots and pans left over from dinner. They often had to do that for him, or his chores would never get done. Grinning cheekily, the tall boy took up the scrub brush.

“Well?” Sefia asked.

Aljan’s only answer was a smile.

Abruptly, Versil plopped down between them, his hands dripping with suds. “Stop moping and go to her, brother.”

The mapmaker wiped away the letters, giving Sefia a look like, Can you believe this?

Her gaze drifted to Archer, sitting with Kaito as they planned their attack. It had been two days since they’d spoken of anything but their next battle, and she could feel the distance growing between them.

“Actually,” Sefia said, “I agree with him.”

“Huh?” Versil frowned, as if in the brief pause he’d forgotten what they were talking about. “Of course you do. See, Aljan? If the sorcerer says I’m right, I’m right.”

Aljan made a face. “Shouldn’t you be scrubbing a pot or something?”

“Oh, right.” Versil’s smile seemed broader for the patches of white at the corners of his mouth. Leaping to his feet, he danced toward the unwashed dishes. “You two are just more fun.”

Aljan didn’t approach Frey that night, but on the trail two days later, as they headed out of Shinjai into Gorman, he passed her a pleated sheet of paper inked with flowers—his version of a bouquet.

Sefia was watching her when Frey glanced up. Their eyes met, and there was a little less anger in her face than there’d been the day before. She lifted the piece of paper and smiled, ever so slightly.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

As Frey tucked the flowers away, Sefia reached for the green feather she still wore in her hair.

The vane was tattered; the barbs were bent. She tried to smooth it between her fingers, but some things, once damaged, couldn’t go back to what they used to be.

Ahead of her, Archer rode on, stiff and broad-shouldered in the saddle.

She slipped the feather between the pages of the Book and closed it with a sigh.

POWER

TO