15 – 4

“Stop.”

The empty road rolls on ahead, Port Viara's gate a mile's distance behind. Hills rise-and-fall away to the south; and to the north, a rocky shoreline. A strong wind has pulled a blanket of pale gray clouds over the sunrise sky and brought cresting waves in to crash among smooth-worn stones. The sound makes Clarke wince; she turns her face deeper into my shoulder to hide from it. She leans on me still, though now more for comfort than support. We stop; Rolly Pike doesn't.

He goes ahead and turns to face us, that accursed crossbow still in hand. Were he to fire it, the bolt would strike me where it did Juliana. I would die as she did: swiftly, with blood in my mouth and hands reaching for something they'll never grasp. Does he like that, I wonder? Does it thrill him? I look for answers in his eyes and find only a hollow darkness, like the bramble-beast's.

It must, I decide. Why else would he do it?

His aim shifts away; the bolt now pointed at the shoreline. “Walk until your feet are in the water,” he says, “and stay there 'til they go numb.”

I don't understand, and stare at him until I find my voice; ask, “Why?”

“Walk,” he says softly, barely heard over the sound of wind and waves. There is something in those hollow, dark eyes of his. It is a small and deeply hidden thing; too cold to be compassion and too sharp to be mercy. I don't know what it is.

I should think I never will.

Clarke pulls on my arm; murmurs into my shoulder, “Let's just – let's go.”

They're the first words she's said since we left Port Viara's gate; since she asked me where Juliana was and I answered, since that soft, simple oh had left her.

The shoreline isn't far. It has a few stones large and dry enough for us to sit on, to look out at the lake, and watch its choppy waves. It would be nice to sit down, I should think. I'm tired, and there are far uglier places to die.

We turn our backs to Pike and walk down towards where the grassy slope ends in a sharp, short drop to a shoreline of stony sand. At any moment, for any reason, he could choose to bring this whatever-it-is to an end with a twitch of his finger. I drop down first, then turn back to help Clarke. Our eyes are drawn back to the road, to the man at its side, and the crossbow he aims at us.

“What's he doing?” she asks, quiet and confused. She looks to me for an answer I wish I had. I can only shake my head. She sighs, drops her brow to my shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she says to me.

I bring my hand to the back of her head, curl her hair around my fingers. Take a deep, shuddering breath; let it out slow. “So am I,” I say, “for all of it.”

Wind and waves in my ears; her warmth in my arms. Stony sand and driftwood spars; boulders large and dry enough to sit on. A blanket of pale gray clouds pulled over the sunrise sky.

I hope he leaves us here, after. It really is beautiful.

There's been so much beauty on my road, hasn't there? The elk spirit's wise, warm eyes; an old man's kindness; Valdenwood on Market Day; two new friends; sheltering from the rain beneath a wagon; crowning a Queen of Splinters. A stranger opening his home to us. Peanut the horse.

Juliana.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

So much beauty.

Cold water rushes around my ankles; seeps through my boots in a heartbeat. It pulls a gasp from me, past the knot in my throat. Clarke wraps her arms around me; clings with all her strength. A sob shudders through her. My eyes sting. Tears well and spill over.

I can't feel my feet.

Any moment now.

Take a deep, shuddering breath, hold her close, and wait.

Mother, Father; I'm sorry, and I love you.

I look out at the lake and its choppy waves. Any moment now.

- - -

It doesn't happen. The strong wind chaps my face and chills my hands, the cresting waves it brings in soak my legs to the bone, and it doesn't happen. Moments become minutes, pale gray clouds roll overhead, and we're still alive. I don't understand. If he didn't bring us out here to die, why did he? I look back, hoping to see something in his dark, distant figure.

I fail, because there's nothing to see, because he's not fucking there. He's gone. I tear myself free of Clarke and stagger up out of the water. She says my name, startled and confused. I barely hear it. Shock saps what little balance my numb limbs have left; I catch my fall on a boulder, large and dry enough to sit on. Clarke says my name again; louder, or maybe closer. I can't speak. All I can do is flap a shaking hand at where our killer should be.

She sees it immediately; or rather, she doesn't. Doubt and disbelief leave her in a single word: a breathy “What?”

I shake my head. My mouth hangs uselessly open. She digs her nails into my shoulder.

“What?” she says again, “Wh – Where is he?” She takes my face in her hands; forces me to look at her, “Where. Is. He?”

There's a knot in my throat, swollen with fear and grief; rage and tears; and a fragile, fragile hope. It makes my voice a harsh whisper when I answer her, “I – I don't know, he's...he gone.”

“He can't,” Clarke insists, sniffling. She scrubs a hand under her eyes and looks as I had looked, squinting against the pain that light and noise bring her. “No, he can't be. This – this is a trick, like that monster, back in the forest. He's just...he's hiding somewhere.”

“In the trees?” I offer, because it's the only place he can hide. The shoreline is ours, the slope's grass too short, and the road too empty.

She nods, “Must be,” then presses her palm to the scabbing wound on her head and screws her eyes closed. I find my footing and help her to take my seat on the boulder. She squeezes my hand and takes a slow, shaking breath.

I watch the treetops sway in the wind. “They're quite far, aren't they?”

Clarke hums. She's listening.

“Do you think...can he even see us from there?”

She sighs and, in a pain-thinned voice, says, “He wouldn't be there if he couldn't.”

That knot in my throat, made in part of a fragile hope, loosens slightly when I ask, “What if he's not?”

Her eyes open. Winds blow; waves crash. “What?”

“What if,” I say, “he's not there at all? What if he's not anywhere? What if he's – gone –?”

She shakes her head, wincing. “That doesn't – he wouldn't just...”

Bring us out here and leave us? “I know,” I say, “but he...he killed her, right when Merigold told him to. Why not us?”

She squints up at me, eyes as blue as the open sky filled with doubt and something small and fragile, “I don't know,” she answers.

“Neither do I,” I admit, watching the treetops sway, “but I think – I think maybe...I'm going to go look.”

Coda

It's hard for her to believe now, but back when she first got started, she had doubts. There was so much to do and never enough time, money, or people to do it. There'd be two or three days at a time where she'd get an hour's sleep or less.

It was impossible, they said. It couldn't be done, they said.

Losers, every last one of them.

Look at her now. She accomplished everything she'd set out to do. She was richer than anyone else in the Timberlands. She had the best house, the most money; she was the fucking Mayor of the biggest fucking town. Her life would only get better from here.

There was a knock at her door. She was in her office, admiring the gold leaf on her nameplate and the thickness of the paper she had shipped in from the Grasslands. Her desk was huge, and so was her chair. The one for visitors was smaller and worse. She laid her hands flat and called out, “Enter!” in her most authoritative voice.

She had a lot of practice being authoritative. It came with being the best.

Rolly came in, closing the door behind him. She liked Rolly. He was respectful, he listened, and he did what she paid him to. She also liked that he called her Madam Mayor. It sounded good every time he did.

“Is it done?” she asked.

He nodded. “They're gone.”

“Excellent work,” she praised, restraining herself to a proud nod, “You've earned a hefty bonus for your hard work.”

Greed lit up his eyes. Anyone else would miss it, but she knew what to look for. “Thank you, Madam Mayor.”

Every time. She didn't think she'd ever get used to it. “That's all for now, Rolly,” Merigold said, “get some rest.”