I crane my head at her. “Why is that? Research, learning…those are noble ventures in their own way.”
She looses a breath, curling her fingers through her short hair. “Because I’ve been doing more than just learning, Nox.”
She peers up at me then, her blue eyes wide with mingled fear and regret. “Sometimes I’m the hero. Sometimes I’m the villain. I never quite know until it comes down to the final stand, but I’ve always had a role to play. But if my role was to observe, not to interfere, if there was no point to being the hero or the villain, then what in the Fates did I get my hands dirty for?”
The next morning, I wake to Zora humming as she roasts a hare over the fire.
When I get off this island, I’m never touching a hare again, but I’m grateful to my sister for at least having the kindness of heart to cook it for me.
If she’s still bothered by our conversation last night, by the realization that whatever she’s done to dirty her hands hasn’t been Fates-ordained at all, she doesn’t let it show. In fact, she seems as chipper as I’ve seen her since stumbling upon her campsite with Farin.
“What has you in such a good mood?” I venture to ask, hoping I won’t regret it.
“Oh, nothing,” she says, twirling the hare on the makeshift skewer she’s made out of a loose branch. “Just that we’re getting out of here.”
I wait until we’re eating to pursue my excited curiosity any further. It might have been years since I’ve interacted with Zora like this, but if there’s anything I remember from our childhood, it’s that her moods are prone to volatility when she’s hungry, so I figure it’s best to wait until she has something in her stomach before forcing her to explain herself and chancing her agitation.
Once our bellies are full of hare, I venture, “So you’ve figured out how to get us both back into our original bodies.”
She chomps on the last bit of meat left on her skewer. “Why are you always so polite? It’s sort of insulting, actually. We both know that you know that I’ve known how to get out of here this entire time. Or do you just enjoy insulting my intelligence?”
“I do take immense pleasure in it, yes,” I say, to which she actually smiles, “but I didn’t want to push you too hard.”
“Some things need pushing,” she scolds, before launching into an explanation of how she plans for us to traverse the Fabric of realms.
CHAPTER 35
ASHA
I’m drowning. Water shoots into my open mouth, the pressure too intense for me to clamp down my jaw, close the opening.
I’m drowning, and the water is filling my throat.
It’s just a gag, Asha. It’s not real, says a familiar voice. My magic.
Not real. It isn’t real.
It’s a strange sensation, swimming back to reality from the fog of mingled bliss and confusion and dread that encircles me, but my magic leads the way, his voice holding my hand through the daze until I blink, and the truth comes into focus.
“It’s not real, Asha. You’re not drowning,” he says, except he isn’t my magic at all, because my magic can’t hold my hand. My magic can’t stroke my cheek, can’t get close enough that I could feel the heat of its breath.
Az.
No, no, no, no.
I search for my magic, for a familiar, comforting voice, but find none. Memories assault me in vibrant flashes. Blaise weeping over a tapestry. Blaise sinking her teeth into my flesh. A sharp sudden pang, then numbness. A desire for compliance washing over me.
Where are you? I call to my magic but receive no response. Is my magic still being affected by Blaise’s venom?
Blaise.
I could strangle that girl.
But I can’t think of Blaise now, not when Az’s fingers stroke my flesh.
It’s strange how a touch I had craved for so long has me wanting to crawl out of my skin now.
“It’s just a gag. Just a gag. You’re not drowning, I promise,” Az is saying, as if his promises are worth anything.
His sage-green eyes gaze down at me in concern, his tanned face partially obscured by the shadows. Wherever we are, it’s dark. But that makes sense, because if Blaise was working with Az, she would need somewhere dark to hide during the day.
The ground shakes below me, and it takes me a moment to orient myself, to realize it isn’t the ground at all, but the floor of a wagon.
Az has me tied up in the back of a wagon, one that looks as though it was made to block out the sunlight. The only light in the space comes from a lantern sitting on the floorboard next to Az, who kneels above me, still stroking my cheek.
“I promise it won’t be like this forever,” he whispers. Like I’m a child who doesn’t understand why my wound must be stitched. I want to spit at him, but the gag clogs my mouth. “We’re just too close to the Rip to risk you drawing from its power and speaking. But as soon as we’re back in Naenden, I promise, Asha, the gag goes. I can’t—I hate—seeing you like this,” he says, “but you have to understand, I don’t know how long it will be until the king’s powers over your emotions wear off. You’re safer this way.”
I can’t speak with my mouth, so I give him a piece of my mind with my gaze. Not for the first time in my life, I find myself thankful for my missing eye. It makes it rather easy to communicate fury and disgust.
“I’m sorry, Asha. I really am. You’ll thank me for it later, though. Once his powers over you have worn off.”
I want to scream, want to shriek at Az to untie me, to never ever put his slimy hands on me again. I want to shout that he’s the monster, not Kiran, and that he knows better than to think otherwise.
But I can’t scream. I can’t shout. I can’t do anything that I want.
So I do the opposite.
I calm. I force my anger into submission, and allow a look of relief to overcome my features.
