The Ones We Burn, page 35
They stared at each other. If the gods were real, then they were particularly cruel, because even exhausted, even bloodied and bruised, Aramis Sunra was still the most magnetic person Ranka had ever laid eyes on.
Ranka wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to know if she died tomorrow if any of this would matter at all. But she was beyond deserving any answers from Aramis, so instead she lay back down.
But Aramis didn’t.
“What you said earlier,” Aramis said. “About not expecting there to be an after for you—you meant that?”
“Ongrum is a skilled warrior, and without my blood-magic… I don’t know.”
“How can you say that so calmly?”
“This isn’t my first time facing death.” Ranka closed her eyes. “And I am tired of fighting.”
If the princess wanted a fight, Ranka was too exhausted to give one to her. Somewhere in the front room, the floorboards creaked as Percy adjusted his position. An owl hooted outside. Ranka thought maybe Aramis had fallen back asleep, and then, so soft Ranka could barely hear her:
“Foldrey.” Aramis’s voice trembled. She locked her arms around her knees. “He’s… leading… the…”
“Princess,” Ranka said gently. “Breathe.”
But Aramis’s gasps only increased in violence. She rocked back and forth, her breath hitching higher, higher, higher. Ranka knew what was coming next.
Aramis bit her fist—and screamed.
For the first time since Ranka had met her, after months of hunting winalin witches, creeping through tunnels, and facing down death, the princess of Isodal finally, entirely unraveled.
The tears came quickly. Aramis’s entire body shook with great, terrible sobs as everything finally hit her in full force. Ranka watched her, dimly reminded of a different day, five years ago, when she’d woken in Belren and realized Vivna had left her behind. She recalled the terror that had sunk into her bones, sharper than a knife, colder than the deepest trenches of the Kithraki rivers. She recalled anger.
And above all, she remembered betrayal.
The way it had burned her throat, stolen her breath, carved out her chest, and collapsed her ribs. The way it had made her want to plunge into denial and break everything around her. The way it had shaken her to her core—this new, unrelenting belief she was not worth loving.
That she was not worth anything at all.
There would be no tempering this pain for Aramis. So instead of whispering her hollow reassurances, Ranka did the only thing she could.
She stood in witness of Aramis’s fury and grief, and she stayed.
After several minutes, Aramis’s sobs slowed. She picked her head up, her eyes red and raw. Snot dripped from her nose and crusted her chin. Deep, angry half-moons winked from her palms where she’d dug her fingernails so hard into her skin, she’d drawn blood.
“My parents loved us, but they had a kingdom to run. But Foldrey… Foldrey always had time for us. It was Foldrey who taught us how to read.” She laughed, low and sad. “Can you imagine? A guard teaching his charges to read, instead of the tutors. Mother used to joke that they couldn’t pry him away from us. From the time Galen and I were born, he was there, and he never left. He was supposed to protect us.”
“I know, Princess,” Ranka said softly. Ongrum’s face flashed through her mind’s eye. “I know.”
“I thought…” Aramis shook her head. “We grew up with power. With everything we could have ever wanted. We were spoiled as children—but Foldrey never treated us as special. I hated him for it sometimes, truly. He could have been fired, or worse, for the way he spoke to us sometimes. But he was always honest.” She wrapped her arms around her knees. “He always loved us, in the end.”
A lump formed in Ranka’s throat. Somewhere overhead, seabirds cried. This land, this people, this girl, they were all so different from what she’d always known—but the pain was familiar. Ranka didn’t know why that was a comfort—that she could cross the continent, could leave behind everything she knew, and their hearts still broke the same.
“Sometimes,” Ranka said slowly, her words coming from far away. “The people we love aren’t worthy of it. They betray our history, take away hope for any future that might have been. But it doesn’t change what they gave us. Not if we don’t want it to. And the knowing—the truth of it, that they weren’t who you thought? That you didn’t know sooner? It doesn’t make it any more our fault.”
Tears dripped from Aramis’s chin.
“It’s not worth torturing yourself over why you loved them, why you love them still,” Ranka murmured. She looked away, and when she spoke, it was not a princess in a sun-soaked land she saw, but a girl in the north, a girl among the trees, a coven beyond the mountains, a sister, a mother, a family. The words kept coming.
“Why do we love anyone?” Ranka whispered. “It usually isn’t logical, and it’s not always right. But I don’t think we’re usually given a choice. Love doesn’t just disappear. Even if you want it to. Even if it would be easier for everyone involved.”
“I am so angry,” Aramis whispered. “I am so, so angry at you. At both of you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be, and that makes it worse. He was my family. You were my friend, Ranka.”
“You were mine.”
“You were my friend, and then you—we—I thought…”
Neither could give air to what both were thinking: that friend didn’t even come close to describing what they’d dared to feel, knowing the impossibility of it all. Knowing the cost.
“You love her,” Percy had said, so simply, as though he’d been noting the color of the sky.
She did.
It was terrifying. It should never have happened.
But she did.
“I don’t expect your forgiveness.” Ranka pushed herself into a sitting position, the blanket scratching at her skin, and now it was her turn to hold back tears. “Or your trust. I am owed neither. I deserve neither. But I want you to know, Aramis—I have never regretted anything in my life more than I regret betraying you. I should have buried that axe in Ongrum’s heart, but I wasn’t strong enough. And for that I am so, so sorry. Truly. I have made many mistakes in my life—I have done so many wrongs, have hurt so many people. This was the worst of them. This, more than anything, is what I wish I could take back.”
Aramis’s lips began to tremble.
“But I can’t.” Ranka’s voice broke, and she dug her fingernails into her thigh. “I… have spent so much of my life lost. I’ve always been a weapon, a monster, a threat. And I have never felt worth anything, to anyone. I’m realizing now… some of that was by design. I have lived my life as a girl living lost.” Ranka swallowed. “But I didn’t feel lost with you. I ruined that. And I will never forgive myself.”
Now Aramis was crying, and Ranka was crying too. How badly Ranka wanted to hold her then. How much it stung to know she couldn’t. They remained like that for a long time—wiping furiously at their eyes, Aramis telling Ranka over and over again how angry she was, and Ranka only saying I know, because she did, truly, and she loved Aramis too much to do anything but take every ounce of anger she’d earned.
It was a long time before they quieted. It wasn’t anything like before. They felt like strangers, but the crackling fury had eased. Aramis wiped some of the snot from her nose and looked at the ceiling.
Ranka stood. She took a step forward, and it was more terrifying than any of the steps that had led her through the mines. Slowly, she sat on the edge of the bed.
Aramis scooted back so Ranka had room to sit.
“I loved her,” Ranka said softly. “I know that doesn’t change anything. But the woman you met that night, she is—was—my mother, in every way but blood.”
“Will you be able to do it this time?” Aramis whispered. “Stand up to her?”
I’m begging you to choose yourself.
Even now Percy’s words struck a chord of fear in her. Ongrum had always had a grip on Ranka, had always known how to reel her back in. But that was before the winalin witches. That was before Ongrum had taken dozens of innocent girls and turned them into monsters.
Ranka was learning that even love had its limits.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Princess. This time, I will.”
There was a chance—a slim one—that Ranka could beat Ongrum. She didn’t have to kill her. She only needed to distract and subdue her long enough for Galen to get away. Once he was safe, nothing else mattered.
“It’s Volst,” Ranka said suddenly.
Aramis turned to her. “I’m sorry?”
“You asked me once, about my name. My real name, before the Skra took me in.” Ranka closed her eyes and leaned back in the dark. “It’s Volst. Ranka Volst.”
She had never told anyone. It didn’t feel like a thing that ought to matter. That name, this old piece of her, an echo of a little girl born to a village that no longer was. She’d told herself Ranka Volst had died in Belren, but it felt like it mattered now, that someone knew who she’d been.
Felt like it mattered even more that that someone was Aramis.
Aramis didn’t say anything. Just nodded. Her lips formed the name, as if testing it out, rolling it over her tongue, this new piece of the girl who’d betrayed her.
Ranka leaned her back against the wall and closed her eyes. She would move, soon. It was improper for her to sit up here. But she would take just a moment to rest, in this fragile calm.
“Maybe we’ll win,” Aramis breathed finally. “And maybe… I don’t know, Ranka. I need… I don’t know.” Her voice quivered. “Maybe we’ll get a second chance to start over, without some plague, a war, or meddling covens.”
Pain blossomed in Ranka’s heart. This was as close as Aramis would come to admitting that some of Ranka’s feelings were returned. That she regretted what had happened. That she, too, wished they could return to the girls who’d danced in that ballroom without a care, dreaming of a cabin they’d never build, in a life they’d never have.
Ranka remained on the bed, painfully aware of every inch between them. She needed to get up soon. But she was so tired.
“Maybe we will, Princess,” Ranka whispered. “Maybe we will.”
66
SUNLIGHT WOKE HER.
Golden rays lanced across Ranka’s skin. Someone warm nestled against her, legs tangled with hers, arm draped over her hip. Touch had always been what made Ranka feel loved. She’d forgotten how badly she’d starved for it. Ranka rolled over, still half-asleep, and the person stirred. Brown eyes fluttered open, only a few inches from Ranka’s own.
For a lovely, muddled moment, caught between the realm of sleep and waking, Ranka had no idea who this girl was, but Goddess above, she was gorgeous.
Reality returned.
She was in Seaswept. This girl was the princess of Isodal.
And they were hardly on cuddling terms.
Aramis seemed to have this same realization, because she tried to jerk backward—which was a bit hard because her arms were around Ranka’s waist, and their legs were tangled together.
Voices came down the hall.
The door flung open. Percy paused in the doorway. A brief, goofy smile lit up his face. “Well, isn’t this sweet.”
Ranka practically tumbled out of the bed, and she didn’t need a mirror to know her face was bright red. She smoothed her clothes as quickly as she could and staggered into a standing position just in time for Foldrey to barge into the room too.
Percy’s smile fell. Aramis looked between them, her eyes still foggy with sleep but already beginning to brighten with worry. “What is it?”
“The witches have changed their mind,” he said. “Galen dies at sunset.”
* * *
The palace announcement was brief: Galen Sunra would be executed at sunset to answer for his forefathers’ crimes against Witchik.
Aramis paced the room. “Have we heard back from any of the provinces?”
Foldrey shook his head. “The messengers will be getting there today. And even if they leap into action, soldiers will never arrive in time.”
No one dared speak. Aramis was silent for a long, slow beat, and then she shook her head. “Very well. Then we rescue him now.”
“Princess, we can’t possibly—”
“You had your own small army of Hands and loyal guards prepared to launch a coup, did you not?” Aramis asked coldly.
Foldrey glared back at her. “I did, until half of them defected and another quarter were murdered.” He passed a hand over his face. “I have a handful of men in the city. The rest—if they’re even alive—are probably in the dungeons.”
An idea sparked in Ranka’s mind. She looked up. “A few loyal men won’t be enough—but a whole coven might. Ongrum never won the favor of all the witches, correct? Her grip on power is tenuous at best. That was why she needed me.”
Percy sat up straight. “If we can upstage Galen’s assassination and sway at least one coven to our side…”
“The rest may follow.” Ranka’s heart began to beat faster. “I talked to Ursay, the Oori leader, at the ball. They know about winalin, and they don’t like Ongrum. They fled when the attack started, but if we could get the Oori to take our side and make a stand, the Arlani may switch loyalties too. Then it would only be the Murknen and the Skra. They wouldn’t have the numbers.”
Foldrey looked up. “I can send a messenger to the Oori.”
Ranka shook her head, remembering the dark intelligence in Ursay’s eyes, the fury that sparked there when Ranka had told them of the plague. “One of us will have to go. Ursay’s too smart to risk their coven’s life without promises from someone close to power.”
“I’ll go.”
Everyone turned.
Gone was Percy’s mocking smile, his airy humor. The boy stood quietly, his face grim.
“I’ll go,” Percy repeated. “I met Ursay at the ball—and I know more than anyone the cost of letting winalin rage free. I can convince them.”
He needed this. Winalin haunted him, would always haunt him, if Percy didn’t do everything in his power to undo the damage it had wrought. He rose, pulled Aramis into a tight hug, and made for the door.
“Percy,” Ranka said suddenly. “Tell Ursay—tell them I won’t waste my chance. Tell Ursay the Bloodwinn intends to keep her promise.”
He held her stare, a question in his eyes, and nodded. Ranka had the uncanny sense she was looking into a mirror of what her life might have looked like had she made different choices.
I thought you were braver.
Maybe she could be yet.
“All right,” Aramis said quietly, her eyes burning. “Now how do we get my brother back?”
67
THE TUNNELS WERE CRAMPED.
It was strange how familiar they’d become. The long, sloping caverns of dried salt might have been a comfort were it not for the stench of death that permeated them.
Ranka led the way. Foldrey and Aramis both bore torches, as did two men who brought up the rear. They wore no gold pins, but from the loathing in their eyes when they regarded Ranka, they were clearly Hands.
They’d been walking for an hour when the screaming began.
It was far away, but unmistakable. At least five voices, pitched in horror, cut short as soon as they’d started. Ranka’s skin crawled. Aramis looked to her with a question in her eyes, as if expecting her to want to run to their aid, but Ranka turned away. It could have been anyone in those tunnels—but it was no question what had killed them.
A small, dark fire sparked to life in her heart.
Ongrum had done this—and Foldrey had helped. They’d both unleashed this terror on the world, turned witches’ bodies into weapons, turning them against their own.
It would end today, one way or another.
Ranka drew a prayer sigil on her chest and kept walking.
She recited the plan in her head. Aramis and Foldrey would free the Hands who were imprisoned and rally the rest serving in the palace. Meanwhile, Ranka would approach the arena where Galen was likely to be executed and stall Ongrum by turning herself in.
The ground shifted under their feet. The air was warmer here, drier, as salt caverns shifted from rock to hand-laid stone. Foldrey and Aramis put out their torches. The weak light of the dungeons flickered ahead of them.
Ranka’s heart quickened.
This was it. Even if things went well, she would likely not see tomorrow’s sunrise. Ranka had spent her entire life preparing to die. To be born with blood-magic was to be born with a time bomb in your veins. She’d stopped fearing death long ago.
The question that lingered, then, was this: would she die righting the wrongs of her past or cementing them?
Together the three of them walked forward—the witch, the princess, the traitorous guard. It was ten minutes to sunset. The covens would be gathering now, eager to watch a prince die.
“This is where you leave us,” Foldrey said softly, his voice startling Ranka. He nodded to a corridor to the left. “That way will take you to the arena. Exit the stairs, turn left, and you’ll be there shortly.” He paused, his eyes flicking over her. “Good luck, Bloodwinn.”
She knew better than to think Foldrey wished for her health or safety. His work would be easier after this if she was dead. But a piece of her longed to ask if things might have been different—in another life, could he have been the mentor she’d thought she’d found in Ongrum?
Could he have loved her, the way he loved the twins?
A part of her thought he could. It changed nothing, but it hurt all the more.
Aramis nodded. “I’ll walk you there.”
Foldrey frowned. “I don’t think that’s—”
“I don’t care. I have some things to say to the Bloodwinn. I’ll be back shortly.”
Aramis started off down the hall then. Ranka followed, and they left Foldrey behind.
* * *
The dungeons were too narrow to walk side by side, so instead Aramis led, Ranka trailing behind her. It felt too familiar—walking in the dark, the two of them headed toward uncertainty. For a moment Ranka thought only of that morning, how warm Aramis had been, legs tangled with hers, her skin sweet with the scent of sleep, eyes cloudy with lingering dreams.
