Jase squinted at the sun. “No. We can get a few more hours of walking in.”
I reluctantly nodded. I knew he was right—the sooner to the settlement, the sooner I got back to Hell’s Mouth so the others would know I was still alive and the whole mission wasn’t abandoned. He was eager to get there too. In spite of dragging a three-foot length of chain between us, his pace had never lagged until he noted my limp. But sleeping out there, utterly exposed … it would be hard enough to sleep under the cover of these skimpy trees as it was. A loose breath skittered through my lungs.
I dipped my hands into the brook, splashing my face, taking a drink and picturing myself a week from now, back in the middle of a crowded city. Jase knelt beside me, and fully dunked his head in the shallow water, scrubbing his face and neck. When he surfaced and smoothed back his hair, I saw the gash over his brow from when the hunters trapped him. The cut was small and the dried blood that had crusted his face was gone now, but it made me wonder why he had wanted me to follow him down that empty street in Hell’s Mouth. What had been his plan for me before he had been intercepted by the hunters? I didn’t think it was to share a cup of tea.
I rinsed my neck and arms with more cool water, wishing the brook was deep enough to take a whole bath, but then I caught the silver flash of something even better. “Minnows!” A few feet away, dozens of shiny minnows darted in a dark pool of water created by a cluster of rocks.
“Dinner?” Jase said, his tone hopeful. We hadn’t come across any berries or fungus or even a squirrel to spear with our walking sticks. Our only prospect for dinner had been water, so the fish, however small, lifted my spirits, and it seemed, his too. But catching the slippery angels was another matter.
“Take off your shirt,” I said. “We can each hold a side of the fabric and corral them. We’ll use it as a net.”
He eagerly pulled his shirt over his head, and my excitement for the minnows was replaced with discomfort, wondering if I should look away, but we were chained in close proximity and a strange curiosity took hold. He held his shirt in his hand and I watched the water dripping from his hair trickle down, traversing his chest, abdomen, and the muscles that defined them. I swallowed. It explained the force of his punch when he killed the hunter, and his grip when he pulled me into his arms in the river and held me against him. A winged tattoo fluttered over his right shoulder, across his chest and down his arm. My mouth suddenly felt dry. Synové would have plenty to say about this if she were here, but my thoughts and words stalled on my tongue. He caught me staring.
“It’s part of the Ballenger crest,” he said.
Now it was me who was flustered, and I felt my cheeks flush warm.
He lifted his hand to the corner of his mouth, trying to stifle a smile, which only made me squirm more. I snatched his shirt from his hand. “Let’s catch some dinner, shall we?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JASE
It took several tries to catch the slimy bastards. They were clever and easily darted past our makeshift net, but together we eventually perfected our technique, sneaking forward in unison, allowing the fabric to billow so we could scoop them up. I hooted when we snagged our first catch of two, and with several more sweeps we had a few dozen of the skinny, four-inch fish piled on the bank. They weren’t much, but right now my stomach thought they looked like a juicy roasted pig.
“Cooked or raw?” she asked as she lifted one to her mouth.
I pushed her hand down before she could eat it. “Cooked,” I said firmly, not trying to hide my disgust. The last thing I’d had in my stomach was a barrel of ale, and squirming fish were not going to swim in it.
“Don’t look at me like I’m a savage,” she snapped.
“We simply have different eating tastes, and mine include dead game.” I worked on the fire while she began skewering the fish onto two sticks for roasting.
As the minnows sizzled over the fire, she looked at my chest again, this time leisurely, not looking away when I noticed. “Is that an eagle?” she asked.
“Part of one.”
“Tell me about the crest. What does it stand for?” she asked. “I didn’t know you even had one.”
Of course she didn’t. She knew nothing about us. “It’s hard to tell you about the crest without telling the whole Ballenger history, and I doubt you want to hear that considering your low opinion of us.”
“Try me. I like history.”
I shot her a skeptical glance. But she sat there attentive and waiting.
“It began with the first Ballenger, the leader of all the Ancients.”
“All?” Her brows rose, already disputing the claim.
“That’s right. Years after the Last Days—
“You mean the devastation.”
I knew there were a lot of different versions and words used to describe the gods’ revenge against the world. “All right, the devastation, but you can’t interrupt me after every word.”
She nodded and listened quietly while I told her that the leader of the Ancients, Aaron Ballenger, had gathered a surviving Remnant spared by the gods, most of them children, and was leading them to a place where they would be safe. But before they could reach Tor’s Watch, they were attacked by scavengers and he died. As he lay dying, he charged his grandson, Greyson, with leading the group the rest of the way. “Greyson found this symbol,” I explained, sliding my hand over my chest, “when they reached Tor’s Watch—at least a version of it—at the entrance to a secure shelter, and he adopted it as the Ballenger crest.”
“So he was your first leader?”
“Yes. He was only fourteen and had to look after twenty-two people he didn’t know, but they became family. The crest has changed over the generations, but some parts are constant, like the eagle and the banner.”
“And the words?” she asked, gesturing at my arm.
I shrugged. “We don’t know what they mean exactly. It’s a lost language, but to us they mean protect and defend at all costs.”
“Even death?”
“All costs means all.”
I glanced up at the sky. It was already a dusky purple, and a few stars were beginning to shine. “Too late to leave now. We’ll have to make camp here for the night.”
She nodded and almost looked relieved.
*
The sun had been gone for hours, and we stared at the small fire crackling at our feet. Light flickered on the yellow-ringed trunks surrounding us.
“I’ve never seen trees like this, so many and so thin,” she said.
“Legend says the forest grew from bone dust and that every tree holds the trapped soul of someone who died in the devastation. That’s why they bleed red when you cut them.”
She shivered. “That’s a gruesome thought.”
I told her a few other legends that were less gruesome, ones about the forests and mountains surrounding Tor’s Watch, and even a story about the towering tembris, which became the footstools of the gods and held the magic of the stars.
“Where’d you learn all these stories?”
“I grew up with them. I spent a lot of my childhood outdoors exploring every corner of Tor’s Watch, usually with my father. He told me most of the stories. What about you? What was your childhood like?”
Her gaze darted to her lap, a furrow deepening over her brow. She finally lifted her chin with a proud air. “Much like yours,” she answered. “I spent a lot of time outdoors.” She ended the conversation, saying it was probably time that we got some sleep.
But she didn’t. I stretched out and closed my eyes, but time after time when I opened them she still sat there, hunched, her arms hugging her knees. Had my story about spirits trapped in trees spooked her? It was strange to see her looking so vulnerable now, and yet earlier she’d been aggressively reckless when she told the hunter a riddle, challenging him, knowing he would strike her. There hadn’t been a drop of fear in her then, when all odds were against her. I wondered if this was some sort of trick. Was she up to something?