“Unach?”
Ritha opens her mouth, hesitates. “She was here last night. I know she’s not in the infirmary, nor with the scouts.”
Scouts. “The war . . . ?”
“Over, for now.” She gathers up her sewing materials. “The monsters fled. Trampled. Devoured, then scuttled back into the darkness. The trollis won the war without ever leaving the city.” She shakes her head and clucks her tongue, as if she doesn’t believe her own tale. “Now rest.”
“Ritha.” I point to the almanac on my small table. “Would you return that to Wiln for me?”
Ritha picks up the almanac and turns it over in her hands. Tilts her head in farewell.
She departs, and I fall asleep for a time. I wake a few hours later with a sore back and, one vertebra at a time, sit up. That ache still pulses in my chest, but it’s softer now. Ignorable, with the right distraction.
Taking my time, I rise from the bed. My stomach growls. I find a floral disk on my little table and chew on it as I slip into the corridor. I keep one hand on the wall to steady myself and wait for the lift, unwilling to attempt any ladders. I’m nearly to the trade works when a familiar face crosses my path. I halt immediately, my chest aching anew as my pulse speeds.
Agga, from the council. She’s broad and tall and looks at me with a narrow gaze. Hugging the wall, I lower my head.
“Good to see you finally, Lark.” She sounds exhausted and waves a hand. “There’s too much to do to keep up with the formalities.”
Hesitant, I meet her gaze. I’ve never been this close to her before, and I can’t help but gape at her sleeve. She might boast even more turquoise beads than Qequan.
“We know your information was true.” She waves her hand again, as though it’s inconsequential. “And, of course, we know only one person could have flooded our lands with creatures from the deep to drive off the humans. That noted, you may stay.”
Air floods me. I bow my head again. “Thank you, my lady.”
She scoffs. “Do not assign your human terms to me, child.”
“My apologies.” Agga begins to move past me, finished with our conversation. “Supra?”
She gestures impatiently.
“What about Azmar 937?”
Her wide lips turn downward. “He knows the consequences.”
She leaves then, the train of her robe dragging behind her. I watch her go as I lean against a chiseled stone pillar. When I finally push away, another trollis hurries to me. He’s a youth, a couple of inches shorter than myself, with broad shoulders and an abnormally thin waist.
“Lark?” He studies me with a sliver of skepticism.
I straighten. “Yes?”
“I’ve a message from Unach 935,” he says. “Azmar is awake.”
My body fights with my mind the entire way to the infirmary. I’m desperate for speed and barely remember to defer to the trollis as I go. But the faster I run, the more my chest hurts, and the more fatigue drips into my veins. I’m sweating by the time I arrive, and my skull hammers with my pulse.
I stand in the doorway, shoulders heaving with each breath. A nurse busies herself at the sink. Unach stands over Azmar’s bed, speaking quietly to him. Azmar lies on his side, hair free and falling over the edge of the mattress, his eyelids heavy. He mutters something.
I take a step into the room, and his gaze shifts to find me.
His eyes widen.
I know what fear looks like. And even if I didn’t, the way Azmar jerks back from me, hissing as his wound pulls, and struggles to clamber from the bed as his sister holds him steady is sign enough.
My body hollows. Unach sees her brother’s distress and turns. Sees me.
“Lark—” she begins.
I grip the door frame. “A-Azmar, it’s me.” My voice quivers with my racing heartbeat. I dare to take a small step forward. “Azmar, it’s Lark.”
The glassiness doesn’t leave his eyes. He reaches for a sword that isn’t there. Teeth gritted, he tries to lunge for me, only to be stopped by his sister. His knee collides with the bed and knocks it over.
“Stop it!” Unach shouts, wrestling him down. “You’ll kill yourself!”
My chest sears like it’s been pierced with a hot poker, and all that I am wilts around the wound. Retreating into the shadows, half-blinded by my own tears, I mumble, “I-I shouldn’t be here.”
The sound of my own breaking is deafening.
I turn and run, but I don’t get far before I’m desperate for air. Pain engulfs my head and chest. Tears wet my nose and cheeks.