Текст книги "Between Tides & Thunder"

Автор книги: Lena Kazak

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER TWELVE

TIME BLURS AS WE travel, each day flowing seamlessly into the next. Slowly, the landscape changes, daily subtle shifts that culminate in an entirely new world.

It starts with the snow. It no longer blankets the ground in endless, blinding sheets, but lingers in scattered patches beneath shady clusters of shrubs and prickly groundcover.

It’s how I know we’re finally out of Tundrayn. Technically, we’re in Arbinj, though there’s a large Rebellion presence here. The air grows warmer, enough for thin fog to cling to the earth in ghostly tendrils, rising between the slick stones.

Zevayr is sharpening his daggers when I return to our campsite after relieving myself. I sit beside him, and he wordlessly hands me breakfast—leftover rabbit meat.

“Look what I found.” My voice brims with excitement as I press a handful of bright red berries into his palm. “Are they safe to eat?”

He quirks a half-smile at my hopeful expression. When he pops one into his mouth, I nearly sag with relief. I’m sick of greasy rabbit meat and handfuls of nuts.

“Lingonberries,” he says. He eats another, then hands me the rest. I pluck one and chew it—Tides, it’s tart. My mouth twists, eyes watering at the overpowering flavor. I eat another one, and it’s just as sour.

Zevayr chuckles at my expression. “Tundraynis are such babies.” Before I can prepare a sharp retort, he asks, “What food do you miss most?”

“Fire-roasted trout,” I say immediately. My mouth waters at the memory of the flaky, buttery fish. “What about you?”

“Hmm,” he muses. His eyes look bright. Happy. I hate that I notice. “Mushroom stew.”

My brows furrow. “Mushroom?”

“It’s a type of fungus—grows in the ground.” He laughs at my horrified expression. “They’re safe to eat. Delicious, even. When we get to Arbinj, I’ll make sure the first thing you eat is a big bowl of mushroom stew.”

Quicker than lightning, his face goes blank.

“What?” I bite my lip. I’m not sure what I did to upset him.

Zevayr busies himself with his dagger as if sharpening its blade is his sole purpose in life. “Nothing. Just … my brother will probably want you to try steak first.”

“Steak?”

“Yeah. Comes from cows.”

“Is it good?”

A shrug is all I get.

“What else do you miss?”

He grunts but gives me nothing more.

We walk for hours. It’s warmer now, and I’m sweating beneath my tunic. Zevayr walks ahead of me, cloak thrown over his broad shoulder. My eyes linger on the definition in his back, visible even through his thick clothing.

The man is pure muscle—I should know, I sleep pressed against him every night. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed, but today it hits harder. My gaze lingers a second too long before I force it away, muttering a curse under my breath.

This is dangerous.

But it’s normal, right? We’ve been traveling together for weeks. Alone. And I can’t help if—

A sharp yelp bursts free as my boot snags on a thick, twisted root. My ankle rolls. Pain lances up my calf—and then I’m lurching forward with no time to catch myself.

Zevayr spins at the sound, hand on the hilt of his sword. But he’s too late.

I crash into him with full force, the air knocked from my lungs as I collide with the firm pillar of his chest. He instinctively catches me, arms locking around my waist—but the momentum sends us both tumbling backward in a tangle of limbs.

We hit the ground hard, Zevayr bearing the brunt of it. My palms splay against his chest. I realize with a rush of heat that I’m sprawled across him, chest to chest, hips pressed tight, my weight straddling his thighs.

For one suspended second, neither of us moves.

His hands are still gripping my hips—firm, unyielding, burning through the layers of fabric between us. My face is buried near the crook of his neck, and all I can smell is him: smoke, pine, the faint trace of sweat and leather.

Familiar.

Maddening.

I lift my head slowly, breath catching. My dark, loose hair spills around his face like a veil, cutting the world away until there’s nothing left but us. His storm-gray eyes lock with mine, wide and startled—and something else. Something primal.

The scant space between us is thick with something unspoken and heavy. My heart slams against my ribs. A muscle pulses in his jaw.

Neither of us moves.

And then Zevayr shatters the moment.

“Don’t get enough of me at night?” he rumbles, his lips curling into a sinful grin that has warmth pooling in my core. “I’m happy to oblige, Mayah.”

Tides drown me. And him.

I scramble off, cheeks burning.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I adjust my satchel and stride away, limping.

“Mayah!” he calls out from behind me. Slowly, I pivot.

He’s still on the ground, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Heal your ankle before you storm away.”

Hours later, we come across a small cottage, nestled between the trees. It’s the first sign of civilization since we left Tundrayn. Zevayr says we’ll encounter more and more people now that we’re out of the harsh tundra.

“Do you think they’re friendly?” I whisper. I’m kneeling in the prickly underbrush, Zevayr beside me.

“Maybe. They could be in league with rebels, though,” he says absently, undoubtedly running every possible scenario in his head. “Regardless, they’re definitely not friendly to Tundraynis.”

“So we won’t tell them I’m Tundrayni.” I want a hot meal. And maybe a soft bed.

Zevayr’s lips tick up at the corners. “Solid plan,” he chuckles. “Too bad your pretty blue eyes will give us away.”

The smile freezes on his face, and his mouth slams shut like he can’t believe he said it. He averts his gaze, but not before I catch the flash of sheer panic before he masks it. One second, his face is open—boyish, almost. The next, a shutter drops behind his eyes, and the warmth disappears like smoke in the wind.

Something warm flutters in my chest. I’m overcome by the urge to tease him, to ask if he really thinks my eyes are pretty. If he thinks anything else about me is pretty. If he thinks about me at all.

But I don’t. I need to do a better job of keeping my distance.

We’ll reach Arbinj soon. Where I’ll marry his brother.

Zevayr and I have spent so much time alone, and my feelings are becoming muddled. I respect him, consider him a friend now, even. I’m definitely attracted to him. But I can’t let myself feel more than that.

And it’s best if he doesn’t, either.

Zevayr clears his throat, jolting me from my thoughts. “It’s safer to double back and walk around.”

He doesn’t look at me.

We head back the way we came, but unfortunately, remaining undetected is not in our fate.

Zevayr freezes, shoulders tight, and I nearly collide with his back. The scent of musk and something feral hits me a breath too late.

A low rustle sounds through the trees.

Then we see it.

A massive black bear. And it’s blocking the path ahead.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IT’S GIGANTIC.

Monstrous.

The bear stands on its hind legs, towering over Zevayr, and looses a menacing growl. Before I can react, Zevayr shoves me behind him, stretching himself to his full height, sword unsheathed and ready.

A heartbeat, then another.

The bear doesn’t move. Neither does Zevayr.

And then the worst possible thing happens.

Zevayr turns his head seconds before there’s a rustling in the underbrush, and then, a boy emerges, perhaps twelve or thirteen. Clutched in his hands is a large sword that eclipses him.

“Leave them alone!” he shouts at the bear.

“Zevayr,” I urge, but he’s already darting toward the boy.

He’s too late.

The bear swipes through the air, his claws tearing into the boy’s abdomen.

My feet move before I can register it.

Zevayr plunges his sword into the distracted bear’s side and yanks downward, ducking to avoid its weak retaliatory swipe.

But my focus is on the boy. His shirt is shredded, skin along with it—and the gashes are deep. Kneeling, I lift his head into my lap. His skin is already clammy, eyes glassy.

Tides help me.

Without a second thought, I summon my power when—

“Georg! Oh, Georg!”

The glow dies from my hands as a frantic woman bolts into the clearing, her long skirt swishing through fallen leaves. In a blink, she’s kneeling beside me, clutching the boy’s hand, tears streaming down her lined face. “I told you not to wander off alone,” she cries, cheeks gleaming with tears.

A loud thud. I follow the sound—the bear lies dead. Zevayr is unharmed. I want to sag with relief, but I can’t, not when there’s a boy dying in my lap.

“Help me bring him back to my cottage,” the woman pleads. The utter anguish in her voice pierces my heart.

“Wait,” I say, placing a hand on her arm before she can rise. “He’ll lose too much blood.”

“Mayah.” Zevayr’s voice is a warning.

But the boy’s skin is too pale, his breathing too shallow.

It’s a warning I don’t heed.

I call to my power again, until my hands glow with gentle white light. The woman gasps, but my focus is reserved only for my patient. My hands pass over his wounds carefully. One of the bear’s claws nicked his stomach. Focusing, I mend the tissue and soothe the inflammation. Next, I heal the deep gashes until his skin is seamless once more. My power flows through his body, sensing for any other internal damage—there’s a strained muscle in his lower back, and some minor scrapes and cuts.

I open my eyes, raising them to find Zevayr.

I expect fury.

What I find is worse—something soft and vulnerable flickering in his gaze.

Turning to the woman, I softly say, “He’ll sleep for a while. But your Georg will be just fine.” Her eyes are wide, glued to her son’s healed belly. Slowly, she looks at me. Really looks at me. Her gaze lingers on my eyes.

“Thank you,” she breathes. Then she tugs me into a tight embrace, her tears warm against my neck.

Zevayr carries Georg back to the cottage and settles him into a bed far too large for his small frame. I blot the sweat from his brow, then draw the covers up to his chest. In the doorway, his mother, Georgaina, hovers helplessly, wringing her hands.

Zevayr’s eyes burn into my back, but I’m too nervous to face him, afraid of what I’ll find.

Instead, I place a hand on Georgaina’s shoulder and give her a warm smile. The older woman wipes a tear from her cheek and insists we stay for a meal. I shoot Zevayr a questioning glance, and he nods. His hand scorches through the fabric of my tunic, searing into my lower back as we follow Georgaina to her modest kitchen. His steady touch anchors me in a way that it shouldn’t.

She feeds us delicious roasted hen and salty potatoes. It’s my first time eating hen—it’s too cold in Tundrayn for the small birds to survive. And after weeks of subsisting on unseasoned rabbit, I think it might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. I try to take small bites, but I finish my portion in minutes. Georgaina notices and piles more hen onto my empty plate. Zevayr hides a smile behind his hand.

“We don’t have much,” Georgaina says by way of apology. “But you’re welcome to anything you like.”

“This is perfect.” I smile at her, taking another bite.

“Where is Georg’s father?” Zevayr asks casually, his gaze flitting between me and the worn, wooden door.

Georgaina shakes her head, fingers playing with the checkered tablecloth. “He was summoned to the front lines a few years ago. His sword came home. He never did.”

Suddenly, the hen tastes like ash in my mouth.

“Georg carries the sword everywhere. Says he wants to be a soldier like his Pa. I want something more for him, though. Something better. But … we’re commons.” She shrugs, eyes glistening. “If the war doesn’t end, in a few years, he’ll leave me, too.”

Her words splinter my heart.

I’ve been agonizing over my people, but everyone has suffered in this war. Especially nonwielders.

This is why I need to get to Arbinj.

Zevayr clears his throat. “Is that a garden you have out back?” He gestures to the window behind me.

She nods. “It’s doing all right. Could do with some more water, though. Well’s empty. Soldiers came through a few weeks ago. Siphoned it dry.”

Tides, did these people have any luck?

A muscle ticks in Zevayr’s jaw. “And the Rebellion? Any trouble with them?”

Georgaina eyes him warily. “They stop by from time to time. Not friendly, but not hostile either. Sometimes they bring food.”

She says nothing more, but her silence speaks clearly.

The Rebellion isn’t their enemy.

Across the table, Zevayr catches my eye. His jaw is locked, lips pressed into a thin line.

Georgaina flicks her gaze between us, sharp eyes missing nothing. “Last I heard, Prince Zevayr was delivering the Tundrayni princess to Arbinj. But they were attacked. No one’s seen them since.”

My heart skips.

Zevayr’s hand moves—slowly, deliberately—to rest on the pommel of his sword. I plead silently with my eyes, hoping he’ll understand—hoping he’ll listen.

Please. Please don’t.

His jaw tightens further. I might be healing stress fractures in his molars later.

His fingers tighten around his sword.

Please. I don’t dare breathe.

Then, his voice cuts through the thick silence. “We heard something similar,” he rumbles, gray eyes locked on mine. “Except he isn’t delivering her, like bartered goods to be traded. He’s safeguarding her. Like a treasure.”

My breath catches. My lips part. Just for a heartbeat, something soft flickers across his face.

Then, it’s gone.

“We’ll be on our way,” he says, smoothly rising from the table. His hand doesn’t leave his sword.

I follow. “Georg will need a few days of rest when he wakes. Try to keep him indoors, if you can.” I squeeze Georgaina’s hand.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, pulling me into another embrace. “I wish I had something to offer you in return.”

“You do,” Zevayr says gruffly. “Forget you ever saw us.”

She nods solemnly. Georgaina tries to pack us food, but I shake my head. They have so little already.

Outside, the sky weeps—a gentle drizzle that hadn’t been there moments ago. There wasn’t a single cloud in sight, yet now the rain falls soft and steady.

Zevayr draws me to his side, sweeping his cloak over us like a canopy, and together, we walk on.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“HOW FAR ARE WE from Arbinj?” I ask, dry leaves crunching beneath my boots. It’s been hours since we left Georgaina’s cottage—the drizzle cleared after fifteen minutes of walking. “Well, uncontested Arbinj.”

We’ve avoided the rebels so far, but we’re deep in their territory now. I’m surprised we haven’t encountered any.

“About two weeks out from the army base. The men will recognize me—we’ll be safe.”

Safe. A big promise.

Will I ever truly be safe in Arbinj? A Tundrayni within their borders, my blue eyes a reminder of lost loved ones.

The thought plagues me more often as our journey nears its end. It’s a bittersweet feeling—I’m not ready for it to be over.

I don’t dwell on why.

“You summoned that rain. Back at the cottage,” I say instead, the words bubbling over. “Why?”

He glances at me, then back to the path. His shoulders are stiff. “The same reason you healed the boy, I imagine.” He’s quiet for several heartbeats. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “We’ve taken so much from them. I wanted to give something back.”

Heat prickles behind my eyes, my throat cinching tight.

I don’t ask him any more questions.

I’m starting a fire at our camp for the night when a loud boom of thunder cracks through the air. A sharp yelp tears from my lips, the dried branches dropping to the leaf-ridden ground. I whirl, expecting to find a wrathful Zevayr looming behind me, poised to summon lightning.

I blink.

He’s still sitting a few paces away, skinning a large hare. His lips tick up softly, an apology in his eyes. “That’s not me,” he says, pointing skyward. “It’s a natural storm.”

Right. We’re in Arbinj now. The land of thunderstorms.

The wind picks up, and something inside me buckles. I don’t want to ask. I don’t want him to know. But the crackling air clamps down on my lungs like a vise.

“Can you—can you make it stop?”

I hate the vulnerability in my voice.

His eyes soften, a look of regret crossing his face. “I wish I could. But I can only control storms that I summon myself.”

I nod too fast. I want to tell him it’s fine, and that I’m not a baby. But there’s another crash of thunder, and my hands jerk at my sides. The words die in my throat.

Zevayr pretends not to notice.

It starts raining while we eat—the rabbit tastes different tonight, more flavored—and Zevayr quickly strings up his cloak between two trees as a makeshift tarp, leather side up. We huddle beneath it, shoulder to shoulder. Since the weather has been warmer, we haven’t necessarily needed to sleep so close together—but I haven’t said anything, and neither has he.

And now, with the storm overhead, lightning flashing in the distance, I’m glad I didn’t. Because the second the storm raged too hard, I’d have crawled back, desperate for comfort, for reassurance.

That I was safe.

A thunderclap rattles the sky, and the rain pelts down even harder, like the storm wants me. I should have died that night with Mama, and now the thunder has come to collect its due.

A soft whimper slips out, and Zevayr draws me against his chest. His arms tighten around my shoulders, a ghost of a kiss brushed across my forehead, so faint I might have imagined it.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re safe.”

I am. I know I am, and I hate it.

I shouldn’t feel safe with him. I shouldn’t want to be here, in his arms. I shouldn’t crave the press of his hands against my spine every time thunder shakes the sky. But I know without a shred of a doubt, Zevayr would go to any length to protect me. I’d bet my life on it.

But will that still be true once I marry his brother?

Lightning flashes, and my heartbeat races, faster than the rain bursting forth from the swollen sky.

Throughout it all, Zevayr doesn’t let me go, not even for a second.

The storm eventually recedes, but I remain wrapped in Zevayr’s strong arms. He doesn’t ask me outright, but the question flickers in his concerned gaze.

What happened to me?

“I was a little girl,” I whisper. “Six years old. Mama and I were somewhere new. A holiday, she called it. Just the two of us. I don’t remember where, only that there was no snow. She’d read stories to me every night and let me help her in the kitchen.”

“Was she a healer like you?”

I shake my head. “She was a nonwielder.” His brows shoot up, and a watery laugh escapes me. “I know. Father’s council was outraged, but he wouldn’t be swayed. He loved her. I wish I remembered more about her, but it’s all faded. Her name was Meerah. She—” My voice cracks, and I struggle to swallow my sob. Zevayr’s hand rubs gentle circles against my back, and it comforts me far more than it should.

“I don’t remember much of that night. But she told me to hide in the closet and not come out, no matter what. I listened. There was a horrible storm. Lightning and thunder and rain. It shook the bones of the house. I was terrified. And the smell—it still haunts my dreams. Burnt flesh with the tang of metal.” Zevayr stiffens. “Father said it was a stormwielder. Sent by Arbinj.” I swallow hard. “He never recovered from her death. A piece of him died that day, too.”

The carefully constructed dam in my chest breaks open, and all my pain and grief and anguish rush out in an unstoppable tide. Sobs rack my body, but Zevayr is the anchor in my storm, holding me close to his chest until they subside. Ever so gently, he wipes away my tears, and Tides damn me, I let him.

“My mother was a nonwielder, too,” he says so softly, the words are almost lost to the night. “Not my birth mother. My father would never risk a nonwielder child. Faramir’s birth mother was a powerful earthwielder from a noble family. Mine was a stormwielder—I’ve never met her. Don’t even know her name. It’s common practice in Arbinj for noble families to treat their daughters like broodmares—trade powerful heirs for wealth and respect.”

I stifle a gasp. It’s barbaric. In Tundrayn, wielding is valued, but daughters aren’t sold for their abilities.

Zevayr continues. “But my mother—Tairna—the woman who raised me, she was a nonwielder. She tended to my scrapes and cuts. Held me after nightmares. She saw me, not the stormwielder with unlimited potential that everyone else did.” He swallows, his throat bobbing with the motion. “And then one day, she was just gone. I was maybe fifteen? My father says she returned to her home in Volca, but I knew he was lying. I could never get him to admit otherwise, and I had no proof. I suspect he had her killed. Probably didn’t want her influencing me.”

My heart aches for the boy he once was and the man he’s become, even as rage thrashes in my belly—rage for his father who snuffs out lives as if they’re nothing.

Zevayr’s mother.

And my own.

“I’m so sorry, Zevayr,” I whisper, palm splayed over his heart.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Your necklace. Did it belong to your mother?”

“Yes.” I clasp the teardrop pendant with reverent fingers. “It’s all I have left of her.”

“It’s beautiful.” He reaches between us, his fingers tracing the pendant, brushing against the dip between my collarbones. “It suits you.”

We fall asleep, cradled in each other’s arms.