Relinquish: Book II of the Rising Trilogy (12 page)

Bastien’s jaw clenches. “I guess I should’ve known that would happen. A part of me thought it was a way for me to show you I was okay, still kicking and all that.”

I grab my bowl once more, simply needing something to hold until the tremor in my fingers passes. “It was a good plan.”

“Didn’t help though, did it?” He tosses a handful of needles into the fire and the flames surge into the air, igniting before burning out rapidly. He stares into the flames for several minutes. “No matter how bad things got, he should never have abandoned you.”

“Why not? You did.”

The instant the words cross my lips, I wish I could take them back. The color leeches from his face. “You know why I had to.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t alone.”

“Eamon was supposed to take care of you. To make you happy when I couldn’t.” Color rushes back in like a tidal wave, crashing over his face in splashes of scarlet. “I left so you could have a life, so you could be with him like you were supposed to be.”

His words cut through me like a poison-tipped dagger, deep and visceral. A wound I wish was fatal. I drop my head to my hands, feeling the tremor rise from my fingers to encase my entire body. I feel nauseous, ill with regret.

“Why didn’t you send word to me?” he says so softly I struggle to hear him over the crackling of the flames. “You know I’d have found a way to help you.”

I lift my head. Despite how much it would’ve hurt him, I know, staring into the depths of his pain-filled eyes, that he would’ve done anything to protect me. Even if that meant protecting me from myself.

“I couldn’t do that to you. The way things ended between us…” I trail off, shaking my head, knowing we shouldn’t be speaking of such things. “I didn’t want to hurt you again.”

Bastien rises onto his knees, closing the gap between us before I can draw in a breath. He reaches out as if to touch my cheek but draws his hand back. It hangs awkwardly in the air between us as he searches my face.

Warm tears streak down the curve of my cheeks. My throat feels raw as I clear it and the moment passes. He sinks back down and looks away. “Nothing ever ended between us, Illyria. We just… we needed space.”

“Did it help?” I wipe at my nose, wishing I had a cloth to use instead of my sleeve. This uniform is going to need a serious washing when we arrive at his base!

“No.” He pushes himself upright, rising to his full height. I would have to crane my head to meet his gaze, but I don’t even try. I can’t bear to see the emotion that I would find if I did. “But you should have given me a choice.”

Dipping low, he grabs his bowl of cooling soup and disappears into the shadows. I watch his silhouette in the moonlight until he disappears into a dense grove of trees. I clutch my arms tightly around myself as a chill that the fire can’t touch settles into my bones.

Ten

I rise at dawn, my back and neck stiff from lying on the hard ground. The air within the tent is cold, much colder than it had been when I turned in last night.

I waited up for Bastien, stoking the fire and adding kindling when it burned low, but he never came back. At some point in the middle of the night, I heard him return, the covers of his makeshift bed rustling as he burrowed deep into its layers.

Rubbing my eyes and stretching my arms high overhead, grazing the canvas roof, I realize the material is damp to the touch and drooping low. It snowed last night and Bastien was stuck out in it.

Guilt cinches tightly around my gut as I grab my boots and shove my feet into them.
It’s my fault, of course. I should have stuffed down my misgivings and invited him to sleep inside.

The tent is more of a glorified tike-tent, as Eamon likes to call it. Big enough for one full-sized adult to crawl into or a couple of kids to mess around in. Considering most of the soldiers are used to roughing it, I’m sure they don’t mind the cramped quarters, but when it comes to Bastien, his nearness is something I’m not sure I’m ready to handle.

When I emerge from the tent, I see the fire has long since died out. The embers are clumped together in balls of damp ash among the newly fallen layer of snow. It has drifted against the side of my tent and at the base of trees, making the two-inch snowfall seem more like half a foot. Bastien’s bedroll has been lifted off the ground and slung over a crudely constructed lean-to, made of the remaining bits of firewood and our laser guns. Hardly ideal for sleeping in a winter storm.

As I turn in a slow circle, gazing deep into the woods, I realize Bastien is gone. Did he leave sometime during the middle of the night?

I cast my gaze over the moist ground, peering at the blinding white of the snow, and spy a set of tracks moving off to the south. Did he leave me behind?

That’s when I hear a whistle in the woods, faint and
certainly far off but high enough in pitch to be heard over the rustling of the trees and the pattering of clumps of snow falling from heavy-laden tree boughs. The returning whistle is lower in pitch and staccato in rhythm.

I stand and listen as two more back and forth calls drift my way and then silence returns to the land. I work to busy myself around the camp, beating as much moisture as I can from Bastien’s bedding before rolling it up.

I change into a new uniform, staring longingly at my camo pants, but I know with the new chill on the air, I will need the insulation the uniform offers. Winding my hair into a bun, I draw the hood of my jacket up over my head to keep the small flakes falling from the sky from sliding down my neck.

I nearly have the tent packed away when Bastien returns with a handful of glossy, purplish berries. It looks like they had at one time been encased in ice. Judging by the bright-red patch on his palms, he used his own body heat to melt them. “Breakfast is served.”

He dumps over half of the berries into my open palms and tosses the rest back. A small bubble of purple bursts between his lips, staining them momentarily. The corners of my lips twitch into a smile before I lower my gaze. “Friends of yours?”

“Scouts. We’re closer than I thought. Must’ve taken a shortcut through the foothills and brought us out on the wrong side. No wonder I didn’t find camp last night.”

“Do we need to go back?” I ask. Supplies are in greater abundance than they were the year before, what with our supply lines better manned as more soldiers continue to mutiny against Drakon, but we never needlessly abandon resources if we can help it.

“No, a truck will be dispatched to collect it. We need to get you back to base. The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can go after Drakon.”

I wipe my hands clean on the sides of my pants, thankful that the purple stain won't show through the black material. I wish I could say the same for my hands, but at least breakfast wasn't wolf again.

If I’m not exhausted by the time we stop tonight, I’m going to go hunting. I could really go for roasted rabbit
right about now.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.” I reach for my pack, but Bastien is already there, snatching it away to sling over his back. His hair is lightly dusted with snow. Droplets drip from the spiked ends onto the bridge of his nose as we brush down the campsite to clear away any signs of our stay.

Even though this area is well within our territory, we can’t be too careful. A rogue Sky Ship could easily spot a campsite from above if poorly attended.

The snows come and go throughout the day, falling in sprints of thick blankets and then fading away to nothing more than a faint trickle of flakes. The hike keeps us fairly warm and the slick terrain helps me remain focused, but when lunch rolls around and we stop to eat, I find myself longing to sit alone.

Thankfully, Bastien doesn’t seem to be in a talking mood either. He spends his time fiddling with the zip of my pack, his gaze averted. I can tell he is lost in thought and wonder if he’s thinking about our conversation last night.

The forest is quiet today, the birds nestled in their trees to weather the storm. The sound of our boots crunching becomes monotonous as we walk, heads bowed against the winds. I had hoped by heading south we would reach slightly warmer weather, but so far the tip of the southern borders have been less than welcoming.

From time to time, I hear the call of a hawk spiraling high overhead. I consider asking Bastien to stop to check out the newly killed animal to see if the meat is still usable, but I remain silent. I’ll suffer through another meal of wolf meat if it allows me to keep the peace.

I envy the birds, swooping and gliding on the driving winds, viewing the world from an angle I haven’t seen in a long time. I haven’t flown since the day we attacked Drakon. A part of me wonders if I’m even capable of it anymore, but I still remember the feeling of the wind whipping through my hair. The feeling of freedom and weightlessness.

You aren’t the only one that can fly
, I think as I stare at the hard set of Bastien’s shoulders as I walk behind him. I know he is angry. I just can’t decide if that emotion is entirely pointed in my direction or if he has reserved a bit of it for himself.

The snows rise over my ankles, making our hike more arduous. With each step, I can feel myself wearing down, but Bastien never slows, although he seems more aware of my condition than Eamon was. Bastien may be driven to run from his own demons, but at least he is considerate along the way.

The only evidence of passing time is the slight darkening of the sky. I know it must be nearing late afternoon, but without the sun in sight, it is hard to pinpoint an exact time.

Bastien halts directly in front of me and I slam into his back, grunting as I break against him and slump to the ground.

“What’d you do that for?” I rub my chin, sore from where I hit.

He waves at me to be quiet and I’m instantly alert. I rise to my feet, crouching low as I hurry to his side.

His gaze sweeps the white landscape. I follow his lead but close my eyes, feeling my way instead. I’m about to tell him that whatever he heard must be an animal, but I hear a hiss pass through his lips. My eyes pop open and I nearly stumble backward.

A woman stands before us, less than fifteen feet ahead. She is elderly and hunched at the shoulders. Long white hair flows to her waist in a single braid, curled over her left shoulder. Small wisps stick out around her face. Her cheeks are thin and her face wrinkled with the passage of time. Pale, translucent skin is pulled taut over arthritic hands, curled inward like claws.

I find myself completely lost in the woman’s gaze. Her eyes are as blue as the deepest sea and filled with vibrant life, betraying a youth that is in sore contradiction to the state of her physical body. A silver cloak flows over her frail frame, the hood drawn back from her head to rest upon her back. Her sleeves are wide and billowy. Her feet concealed by the wide hem that rests upon the snow.

Bastien places a hand upon my wrist in warning. “Who are you?”

“I am Sariana, high prophetess of Calisted.” Her eyes appear to twinkle from within. “At least I used to be until I was shipped off to this place.”

“Are you a friend or foe?”

The woman laughs as she stretches her hands out on either side of her. “Do I look as if I can bring you any harm?” Bastien frowns but says nothing in response. The woman’s smile broadens. “You are wise not to trust me, Bastien. Although, I think you may decide you need to hear what it is I have to say.”

His grip on my wrist is almost painful. “How do you know my name?”

“Oh.” She waves a hand noncommittally in the air. “I know a great many things. I wouldn’t be a very good prophetess if I didn’t, hmm?”

Casting a glance in my direction, I know Bastien is trying to gauge my reaction. I can sense nothing about this woman, no abilities, yet there is something different about her. Almost as if she weren’t standing there at all. A void.

She turns her gaze upon me. “Although you may possess vast amounts of power, Illyria, you will not be able to search my memory. It is a gift given to seers at birth to protect our visions so none may be implanted or stolen.”

“I can see her,” I say to Bastien, never dropping the woman from my gaze, “but I can’t feel her.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

I shake my head. He draws me close to his side. “What is it that you want from us, prophetess?”

“You ask the wrong question, young man. What you should be asking yourself is what you want from me.”

“I want nothing,” he replies. I can hear his heart beating beside me, thrumming loudly. Or perhaps that is my own heart. I can't tell.

“On the contrary. You have one question that burns brighter than all the others.” Lifting the hem of her cloak, she turns, glancing back at us over her shoulder. “You want to know why you are still in love with Illyria.”

The small wooden building is hidden behind a grove of thickly overgrown spruce trees. I wouldn’t have known it was even there if I hadn’t been straining to see our destination. It blends perfectly with the woodland backdrop, the roof blanketed with snow and the walls hewn from trees of the same spruce family.

A small spiral of smoke rises from a chimney, the stone slightly wonky as it perches atop the slanted roof. Two small, square windows can be seen in the front of the home as we approach, smeared with years of grime.

When Sariana turns to smile back at us over her shoulder, pushing the door open, I realize with a start that her mouth is nearly toothless.
How did I not notice that before?

Nervous tension wiggles down my spine as I cross the threshold into a dark room. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light of candles set about the room.

The elderly woman putters about the cluttered room, stepping lightly over stacks of books to lower herself into a rickety rocking chair nestled in the corner. I notice very little of my actual surroundings as I sink to the floor before her, careful not to knock over a stack of leather-bound books to my right. I feel lightheaded as I look at her, mesmerized by the glow within her eyes. It is a stunning trick of light, almost like the brilliant green glow in the eyes of a wild animal after the sun has gone down.

An unusual feeling passes over me. It feels like something gently massaging my brain. Not painful, just… odd. After a brief moment, the feeling passes.

The bent woman leans forward. “I have waited a long time to meet you, Illyria. Since long before you were even in your mother’s womb.”

She rubs her hands over the silken material of her cloak. “I am one of the three high prophetesses. The other two are my sisters, Liliana and Dinara. Sadly, Liliana passed some years back.”

“And Dinara?” I ask.

Sariana’s eyes take on a distant look, her voice soft. “She was taken from me, held prisoner by Aloysius before he became king. He feared our power yet was drawn to it at the same time. Together with my sisters, we were very powerful. After Liliana died, he chose to exile me here.”

“I’m sorry. You don’t care about my life.” She blinks, as if waking from a dream. “I know what it is you seek. I have the answers.”

Bastien leans forward, his expression one of caution yet edged with longing. “Can you tell us why Illyria is in such turmoil?”

I glance over at him, watching the shadows that play across his face. He draws back from my gaze, a flush rising in his cheeks.

Sariana says he seeks the answer to why he still loves me, but he hasn’t said those words. Even now he can’t seem to bring himself to say them. Is he hiding from himself or trying to protect me from more pain?

“Each of you has been given the DNA of your chosen mate. What Kyan told you is true. Illyria has been selected to be with Eamon.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it puffs out between my lips. Bastien’s shoulders tense, but he says nothing, nor does he attempt to look at me. Sariana smiles. “But she possesses your genes as well, Bastien.”

“So there was a mistake,” I say.

“No. Not a mistake at all. The genes you received were the exact ones you were intended to have.”

I scrunch up my nose, utterly confused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”