CHAPTER 22

Gauntlets of Ink

The night after their run-in with the robbers, Kaito challenged Archer to a fight.

Archer wanted to fight, certainly, had the desire in his fingers and bones, craved the respite it would give him, and the forgetting, however temporary. But he was afraid too, afraid of what it would make him.

So he refused, and Kaito’s features warped with hurt. He tried to mask it with a grin, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes—green and flat. “What’s the matter, brother?” he demanded. “Afraid I’ll beat you?”

Archer almost stepped forward. He almost laughed and threw an easy punch for the Gormani boy to dodge, knowing how it would escalate. It might’ve been okay, if only they’d fought. Fighting was the language they shared. No one spoke it better.

But then he saw Sefia watching him from outside the ring. She wasn’t wearing the green feather in her hair anymore. Had she lost it? Or was he losing her?

“Rest up,” he said, and Kaito’s eyes flared with hurt and disappointment. “The real fight’s in two days.”

Something in Archer’s chest twisted, pulling him toward Kaito, but he ignored it.

The others parted as he made his way to Sefia, who led him to her tent, where, piece by piece, she peeled away his bloodspattered clothing, finding wounds he hadn’t even noticed on his legs, his arms. He could still hear the woman screaming, You killed her! You killed her!, could still hear Kaito laughing in his face. But slowly, as Sefia applied a wet cloth to his skin, wiping his fingers, his knuckles, the noise inside him faded, until all he heard was the trickle of bloodied water being wrung from the rag.

When she brought the cloth to a cut on his arm, he put his hand over hers. She looked up at him.

And in that moment she was perfect: midnight hair and onyx eyes, compassion and strength.

“I can’t lose you,” he said.

Setting the rag aside, she crawled into his lap. She cupped his face with her wet hands and looked deep into his eyes. “You won’t,” she said.

Gingerly, he touched her wrists as water trailed down his neck, over his chest and his thundering heart.

•   •   •

Each night after that, he dreamed. He wept. He panicked. It was worse than it’d been since his memories had first returned. He would’ve liked nothing more than to spar, to pick a fight, to drown someone in violence. It would’ve helped, he knew, would’ve made him feel like himself again. Only he was afraid of being himself now.

So he waited. He waited until they were crouched on the hill above the impressors’ camp, where the cabins and the cross-shaped canteen nearly touched the frost-spiked shore. Beyond lay a sheltered inlet, with the Northern Ocean a steel cut along the horizon.

Sefia and the bloodletters—a term they’d seized upon as eagerly as Kaito had—huddled around Archer as he arranged rocks and pinecones in a rough approximation of the enemy camp. “The boys are being held here, on the south side,” he said, tapping one of the stones.

Thanks to the Book, they were already familiar with the number and movements of their enemies, and this close to the evening meal, most were in the canteen, with a few others in the surrounding cabins.

“Scarza, you and your squad will take the north cabins. Frey, the south.”

He glanced at Kaito, who’d wanted to be part of the main assault on the canteen. Despite the friction of the past two days, Archer would have liked for the Gormani boy to join them; he was their best fighter, after all. But according to the Book, Kaito was supposed to help Sefia free the imprisoned boys, and the rest of the bloodletters wouldn’t hear of trying to change things.

“Don’t worry, brother.” Kaito’s voice was rough with bitterness. “With the sorcerer on our side, we can’t fail.”

Sefia shot him a glare.

“What is written comes to pass,” Aljan murmured.

Archer could feel the battle racing toward him, dark and furious, so close he could almost taste it.

He wanted it. He needed it. If he didn’t get it, he’d explode.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Squads of bloodletters split off and went stalking into the dark, fanning out among the cabins as Archer led the rest of them toward the canteen.

Creeping up the steps, he glanced around. The others were in place. Everyone was ready.

As he reached for the doorknob, a single snowflake fluttered down, landing on his wrist—perfect, fragile, fleeting. Flurries of white spiraled out of the sky as if by magic.

The first snow of the season.

The first snow of his life.

The camp went deathly quiet.

He thrust open the door. Gunfire skittered through the air like chips of ice on a hot stove.

It had been less than two days since their battle at the ranch, but to Archer fighting felt like a long drink after a week in the desert. He slit throats, punctured skulls, cut tendons, and wrenched bones from their sockets. Every movement was crisp, clean, like silk rippling in water.

It felt good.

It felt right.

The bloodletters fought with the same vicious abandon. Anything to do the most damage. Anything to inflict the most pain. Nothing could withstand them.

All of a sudden, Kaito was there too—roaring, slashing, venting his fury on any impressor who crossed his path.

Archer scanned the room: corpses, mangled bodies. No Sefia. He grabbed Kaito by the elbow. “Where is she?”

The boy shook him off. “She’s fine!” Pulling his revolver, he shot someone behind Archer. Blood spattered the back of his neck.

In that moment, Archer knew he could have left. He could have let Kaito finish the battle in the canteen to make sure Sefia was safe.

He didn’t. He chose the fight instead.

Kaito grinned.

In the heat of battle it was like nothing had changed between them. They were together again, and it was joyous, comforting, perfect—they were home. They moved through the canteen with ruthless efficiency, their movements so well-timed it was as if they shared the same violent heartbeat. In and out, they ducked and dodged, feinted and fired. Around them the bloodletters danced like marionettes in a theater, perfectly choreographed, always deadly.

And then—too soon, it seemed—it was over. There was blood everywhere, splashed on his jaw, slicked across the floor. Frey and Scarza returned with their squads to let him know: All the bloodletters had survived.

Sefia appeared in the doorway. Her clothing was torn, her hair coming loose from its ties, and there was a bruise forming on one of her cheeks.

Guilt split Archer’s insides. He should’ve gone to her. He should’ve left the fight to help her. He could’ve lost her.

Catching him staring, she held up three fingers.

Three down.

Trembling, Archer raised his trigger finger.

One to go.

•   •   •

Night fell as celebrations began in the canteen. Finishing up bowls of Griegi’s fish stew, the bloodletters sang and drank their pilfered barley wine and told stories to remember the boys who hadn’t made it to freedom. They looked so happy, Archer would have liked to join them.

But then Kaito raised his cup and declared, “We were dead, but now we rise!”

The others stood too, their benches scraping against the newly scrubbed floor. “We were dead, but now we rise!” As one, they drank.

And Archer knew—maybe he wasn’t free either.

The noise in the canteen swelled. They sang their victory songs and recounted their battles. Frey pushed Aljan into a corner, one hand on his chest, and there, with the old fishing nets dangling from the rafters like wisteria, she kissed him. His arms went around her, hesitantly, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. The food and the liquor and the heat of all their bodies made the room feel cramped, until Archer felt like rushing to the shuttered windows and flinging them open for a breath of fresh air.

Sefia found him by himself, hunched over an empty mug. “Want to get out of here?” she asked, extending her hand. The skin under her left eye was swollen and purple.

Faintly, he nodded.

They’d almost made it to the door when someone grabbed Archer’s shoulder.

Kaito. His cheeks were red with drink and he was smiling, but he looked more cross than cheerful, more desperate than drunk.

“Hey, the party’s just getting started,” he said.

Archer shrugged on his cold-weather gear. “I just need some air.”

The Gormani boy looked from him to Sefia and back again. His eyes were unfocused. “C’mon, brother, you’re our leader. You’re one of us. Stay.”

Archer hesitated. He could’ve stayed to drink with Kaito and sing his songs and be his friend and brother. But then he remembered the ranchers’ screaming. He remembered the bruises on Sefia’s face. He liked Kaito, but he didn’t want to be like him.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling up his hood. “Not tonight.”

“You could be great, you know?” the Gormani boy called, his expression contorted by hurt and betrayal and anger. “If you weren’t such a coward.”

Archer cringed at the words as he stumbled down the steps into the yard. The fallen snow glinted sharply on the frozen ground.

“He’s just drunk,” Sefia said. “He didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Archer answered. But it’s true. He was at war inside himself, daily, sometimes moment by moment, and he was too afraid to choose: the weakling who’d gotten himself kidnapped, the animal, the chief . . .

They crossed to the nearest cabin, where Sefia peeled off her coat and sat down on a cot. “So,” she said, tracing the weave of the blanket. “One crew left.”

Archer couldn’t figure out what to do with his arms, so he settled for crossing them over his chest as he leaned against one of the support beams. “Yeah,” he murmured. “One.”

“And then?” She tilted her head. “D’you think we’ll continue? To stop the rest of the impressors in Kelanna?”

He closed his eyes. As if on command, the faces of the men he’d just killed flashed before him. They went by so quickly they soon became unrecognizable, muddled combinations of eyes and mouths and broken noses, bruises, cuts, and bullet wounds.

Nightmares or dreams. Fears or desires. He couldn’t tell anymore.

“I don’t know,” he said, opening his eyes again.

Sefia bit her lip. “Do you want to?”

“Yes.” Archer sat beside her, feeling the cot shift beneath them. “But I’m afraid.” He lifted his hand, sweeping her hair behind her ear. As his fingers grazed her bruise, she winced. “Of this,” he whispered. Of hurting you. Of losing you.

“You should see the other guy.” She attempted a smile, but at the look on his face, she frowned. “I’m fine, really.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Cradling the sides of his face, she kissed him. “One day, all of this will be over. One day, we’re going to be free.”

She tasted like salt and sweetgrass and a hint of the wine she’d drunk in the canteen, and for a moment he forgot about the mission. For a moment all that mattered was the way Sefia pulled him toward her; the way she sighed as his lips found the hollow of her throat and she fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, exposing her collarbones, her chest; the way she looked at him with such trust as they lay back on the cot, half-undressed, and kissed each other until their lips grew tender and he forgot everything else but her.

•   •   •

Cruel dreams, filled with jeering and shouting, startled Archer awake, but the sounds of his nightmares did not fade. Sometime during the night, the celebration in the canteen had become pure noise—hollering and laughing and the rhythm of fists on tables.

Sefia bolted upright beside him, her eyes unfocused, her cheek creased by the pillow. “What is it?” she asked, sliding back into her shirt.

“I don’t know.” Archer shook his head. “But I don’t think it’s anything good.”

Struggling into their outerwear, they flung open the door.

The cold bit, stinging Archer’s lips, reminding him of the push and pull of Sefia’s mouth on his own.

When they reached the canteen, they were swamped with light and heat, the smell of medicinal alcohol and warm bodies and iron. Strewn along the dining tables were needles, candles, rags spotted with ink, and empty cups. Seeing Archer and Sefia, a few of the boys jumped up, cheering.

“Archer!” Kaito greeted him with open arms. Sweat dampened his hairline, and his green eyes shone bright as stars. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. You are my chief, and you are my brother, and one day I will prove I am good enough for you.”

Archer didn’t move, transfixed by the tattoos that coiled around Kaito’s forearms. They had the thick swooping slashes of Aljan’s work—a fine mesh of lines and barbed stars.

Writing.

One by one, the others stood and crossed their arms. Even the newest bloodletters wore the marks.

Kaito beamed at him expectantly.

“‘We were dead, but now we rise,’” Sefia read, turning his left arm. And the right, “‘What is written comes to pass.’” With each word, her voice grew heavier, and softer.

The boys had quieted now. Archer stared at them—at their flushed, fervent expressions—and at Kaito, who looked at him like an eager dog that doesn’t know it’s about to be kicked.

“Why would you do this?” Archer asked.

Kaito tried to smile, but it came out half-formed. “Because we’re bloodletters. We’re your bloodletters,” he said, sounding confused and hurt. He glanced around. Then, as if he didn’t know what else to do, he bowed his head and crossed his arms. “We offer you our allegiance.”

In that moment the tattoos seemed to blaze like black flames. Frey and the boys looked like warriors from some far-off battlefield, from some far-off myth. And Archer was their great leader.

At last, it hit him, really hit him: the following he was building, his gift for killing, the way destiny seemed to guide their blades.

What is written comes to pass.

Was it him? Was he the boy with the scar? What if, all this time, they’d thought they were fighting the Guard, when in reality they’d been doing exactly as fate had prescribed? As the Book had prescribed?

“Brother.” Kaito’s voice was soft, high, the voice of a scared little boy. “Are you with us?”

Shaking his head, Archer took a step back. “No.” It can’t be me.

And Kaito, thinking he was being rejected, for all his service, for all his loyalty, shot Archer a look so black it could have curdled darkness.

Archer fled. Over the threshold and down the steps, he stumbled into the yard, feeling the lamplight on his heels and destiny breathing down his neck.

“Chief!”

“Come back!”

But he didn’t go back.

He reached the edge of the bay, where his feet slipped on the icy stones. He pitched forward.

Then Sefia was there beside him, her breath warm against his cheek. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

But nothing was okay, and he finally admitted it.

He clutched her to him, burying his face in her hood. Her mittened hands cradled the small of his back, her touch muted by their fur-lined coats.

“Is it me?” he whispered.

His next questions came to him before he could stop them: How many do I kill in the war? And: Why do I die alone?

Out on the water, the moonlight shifted over the whitecaps.

“I don’t want it to be you,” Sefia said, but her voice was filled with doubt.

Inside, he crumpled.

He should have run away with Sefia when they’d had the chance, before they’d ever met Kaito or Scarza or any of the others. They should have picked a direction and kept going, over the ocean, until they hit some foreign land where they could have started fresh.

Alone. Uncomplicated. Free.

But he wasn’t free.

Maybe he’d never been free in his life.

Because even now, knowing what he was becoming, what his thirst for violence was turning him into, he couldn’t stop. Not now, with only one crew of impressors to go.

Maybe never.

REMEMBER

YOUR