Snow Like Ashes(26)
That’s how we all are, too hard for what we should be. We should be a family, not soldiers. But all that really connects us is stories, and memories, and spasms of what should be.
Sir nods. He’s clean now, every speck of blood gone except the stains on his clothes. Like it never happened. “Not wanting to forget how horrible it is to kill someone is part of what makes you a good soldier.”
“Did you just—” My fist relaxes. “You just called me a soldier. A good soldier.”
Sir’s lips shudder in his version of a smile. “Don’t let that incapacitate you either.”
The sun dries the water on my cheeks and starts to singe my skin again. This is a weirdly peaceful moment for Sir and me. I fight down the giddiness that threatens to ruin it.
“Should we hug or something?”
Sir rolls his eyes. “Get your weapon. We head for Cordell.”
8
WHY SIR PICKED Cordell as our meet-up spot is still a mystery. Granted, it is the closest able-bodied kingdom to our former camp, which might have been the only reason. But I remember the rants Sir’s gone on about Cordell. King Noam’s a coward, hiding behind his wealth, hoarding his conduit’s power like all the other Rhythms, and on and on.
So when we aim our course northeast the next day, I have to ask. Even though I’ve already done so half a dozen times and gotten no response. But Sir and I did have a rather anger-free interlude, and he called me a soldier, so that has to be worth something.
“Why are we going to a Rhythm for help?”
Sir glances at me, his face half amused, half annoyed.
“Persistence can get you killed.”
“When accompanied by torture, it can also get answers.”
Sir snorts. “Rhythm or not, Cordell is closest. And we’re in a hurry now.”
And also desperate, if Sir expects us to get help in Cordell. Nothing is ever that simple, and if I can guess the reason for Sir’s decisions, something is definitely wrong.
“What’s our next move?”
Sir focuses on the horizon, the endless cream-colored waves of prairie grass and the beating sun. “Rally support,” he whispers. “Get an army. Free Winter.”
He says it like it should be easy. Just what we’ve been working toward for sixteen years.
And now, because we have half of Hannah’s conduit, it’s finally within reach. My whole life has been focused on getting the first locket half—I never really saw or questioned beyond that.
“Wait—we don’t have a whole conduit yet. Why would Noam agree to help us? And where is the other locket half, anyway?”
Sir glances at me but keeps his lips in a thin line. “It’s a risk we have to take, because of the location of the other half.” His voice is flat, and I can tell there’s something he’s not saying, but he presses on to my other question. “If you wanted to make a thing hidden, safe from the world, so you always knew where it was, where would you keep it?”
“With me, I suppose—” I flash to him. “No.”
He shrugs.
“Angra has the other half with himself? On his person?”
Sir doesn’t respond, letting me piece it together. His puzzles are a little annoying.
“So Angra kept one half constantly moving around the world so we’d have a horrific time getting it back while he had the other half around his neck all along?” I shake my head. “And here I thought getting the first half was an accomplishment.”
“It is,” Sir corrects.
One corner of my mouth quirks up and I revel in those words. It is.
“Why didn’t you go with Mather?”
The question pops out before I realize I’ve been thinking it. Not that Dendera isn’t capable of fighting alongside Mather too; despite the fact that she’d rather not be a soldier, she’s our second-best close-range fighter. But Sir is still the best, and the best should be with Mather.
“We can’t be caught together.” Sir swings his pack around and tugs it open. “Both of us are too valuable to the cause.”
He hands me a strip of jerky. I look at him, waiting for more explanation, but he sticks a square of cheese in his mouth and settles back into silence just as easily as he left it.
That’s it. Not because he cares about me, not because he wants to protect me. It has nothing to do with me. It never has.
I force down the dried beef, my hand flipping the little blue stone in my pocket. The carved surface is gritty against my fingers, and I imagine rivers of strength and fearlessness flowing from it, up my arm, and into my heart. I imagine it really is a conduit, my own source of inhuman strength tucked into my palm—both a symbol of power and a reminder of Winter.