Tayler’s companion groans and rolls over.
“Baten?” I ask.
Tayler chews on the inside of his cheek. “He’s one of them.” He tips his head toward Azmar. “Half, anyway.”
Just like Perg. I lean back, then wince when it pulls at my injury. “You have a half trollis in your camp?”
Tayler glowers, skeptical. “Why not? Their kind won’t take care of them.”
Azmar looks equally stunned, though I try to keep my focus on Tayler. “We . . . There’s a half trollis in Cagmar as well. He’s a friend of mine. His name is Perg.”
Tayler eyes me, but I think he believes me. And then I’m aware of Azmar standing near me, the sun casting his shadow long across the ground. His kindness to me. His arms around me in the waterworks.
I swallow, hard. “Your township accepts him?”
Tayler shrugs. “He’s been there since he was a baby. He’s older than I am.”
“Where is your township?”
Tayler’s face closes off instantly at my thoughtless question. Of course he won’t tell me where he lives, not with Azmar right there. Wherever it is, it’s far enough away not to be on my father’s maps.
I look around, licking my dry lips. The monotonous land has little in the way of notable formations or vegetation, save for the copse of spindly trees. Then I realize something.
There’s a township I haven’t been to. Another place of refuge.
The Cosmodian, the only person to instill hope in my fearful heart, might live there.
I want to know. I want to know so desperately that a chirp escapes my lips. At the very least, to be able to thank her . . . and if given the chance, I want so badly to learn from her. To learn more about myself and the workings of the gods and their messages in the stars. To understand my place in the universe and, one day, to brighten the future of someone else, the way the Cosmodian did for me.
It feels too forward to ask outright. I think for a few beats, then pull close to Tayler. His eyes widen, but I seek only to reach his ear. “The flowers that grow in the canyon’s shade are edible. They can be replanted.” I think of my schedule. “The day after tomorrow, if you can, would you meet me here? If your camp isn’t moving too far. I want to know more. I know you can’t trust me now, but I want to know.”
I pull back. Tayler studies me. I can feel the weight of Azmar’s stare as well, but I don’t meet it. Tayler mumbles, “Give me four days. Evening.”
Relief puffs up like the smoke of a newly lit pipe.
I stand, faulty on my injured leg, and say, “Let them go, before Homper gets back.” I turn to Azmar. “Please.”
His mouth sets into a line—I imagine this goes against his training—but he nods.
Tayler moves like a snake, bolting toward his cousin, who blinks, confused. Tayler hauls him to his feet. The cousin sees Azmar and reaches for his belt, but his weapon is gone. Tayler mutters something to him and drags him north. I watch them go. After about thirty feet, they both take off at a run.
Azmar steps closer to me, watching them like a hawk. “You believe him?”
“I do. I don’t think he’d have a reason to lie to me.”
Azmar’s gaze penetrates, as though he’s trying to unravel me, seeking my sincerity. Or perhaps he senses I performed as I did with Grodd at the caste tournament, and the humans were not simply afraid of him—though not long ago, I would have feared Azmar myself. I meet the gaze head on. Azmar looks away first.
A sizable stone protrudes from the ground nearby. He gestures to it. “Sit.”
“Why—”
“Your leg.”
I glance down. Blood shows starkly against the light beige of my skirt. It’s not a bad wound—the knife didn’t reach the muscle—and it’s on my outer thigh, away from the spot where a blade could have ended my life. Azmar takes me by the arm and helps me sit. Then he grabs my skirt and tears a long piece off the bottom.
“Hey!” I protest.
He doesn’t look up from his work. “We’ll mend it.”
I bite my lip as he tears another piece. “Thank you,” I murmur. He puts a warm hand behind my knee and lifts it to bend my leg at an angle. His hands are very human, save for their color. He hesitates for a second before pushing the skirt up to see my wound, which starts about six inches below my hip.
My face heats, and I dare not speak. Azmar takes a canteen from his belt and cleans the cut, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face scrunch when he does. I know how trollis feel about strength and weakness, though Azmar is not like most trollis. I’m silent as he works, but I can’t help but notice . . . his usually fluid hands move artlessly. His cloddish touch sends prickles of heat through my skin, and yet it’s as though he’s trying not to touch me. Certainly not the way a soldier trained in field wounds would touch a patient.