Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (17 page)

And the more Will talked to Clare, the more he felt as if he knew her from somewhere—as though she were a long-lost friend who had resurfaced only recently. And she was remarkably easy to talk to, as well; around her, words flowed from his lips like water. He often feared that he was talking too much—until a conversation would drift off into silence, and Clare would quickly pick up again where he had left off. She seemed just as eager to learn about him as he was to learn about her, and it delighted him. If he was not teaching her the stars or telling her stories of his time with the Ravens, she was telling him about the Westlands.

Will had never been farther north than the south
western
border of the
Kahara Desert
, and the most water he had ever seen at one time was the Great Lake to the west. So he listened with almost childish delight to Clare's tales of a body of water so vast that it had never been crossed, and of a land ruled not by oaks, birches, and maples but by tall pine trees in the north, and in the south by trees with leaves as long and broad as he was tall and wide—the same trees, said Clare, that dropped great, round, hairy seeds which could be split open with an axe and drunk from like a bowl of water. She told him tales of the Northland king and his subjects, who wore the skins of animals and had hair as light as the sun, and of the privateers that lived among the Western Isles, where they drank spiced rum distilled from cane and the natives had skin nearly as dark as her hair.

The days passed quickly—almost too quickly for Will. As much as he wished to get back to Castor and the Ravens, he wanted even more to stay in the forest with Clare for only a little longer. It was an odd feeling, and one he was completely unaccustomed to.

On the fourth morning, with the help of his walking stick, Will was able to replenish their water supply. His wounds were stiff, but the pain was tolerable and in the end it was worth it—he was able to take a much needed bath, or what amounted to one in his present condition. He never did get as clean as he would have liked, but at least the stink from ten days of not washing was gone. And it did feel good to stretch his aching muscles, if only for a little while. At one point he looked down at his reflection, curious as to the full extent of the toll the yaru had taken on him, and was mildly shocked at his appearance—not because it looked bad, however, but because it looked surprisingly good.

His face was covered in two weeks' growth of beard—he made a mental note to cut it off as soon as they made it back to Prado—which was broken by three long fingers of shiny new skin that ran from just above his right eye to below the left corner of his mouth. They were still scabbed over in some small areas, but overall looked to be nearly healed. The scars looked as though they would fade with time,
which was astounding when considering the claws that had made the injuries. He unwrapped the bandages from around his arm and thigh and was surprised to see them in much the same condition. The healing wounds still ached, but he didn't think they would trouble him for much longer. His nose, he was delighted to see, had healed without even a hint of a sign that it had ever been broken at all.
Good,
he thought,
and here I was ready to re-break it and set it straight
.

The short hike back to the campsite was somewhat more arduous than the hike down, namely because of the gently sloping incline he now had to climb. By the time he made it into the clearing, his brow was slick with sweat and his limbs were trembling from exertion. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his healing leg and willed it into a secluded corner of his mind. Years on the battlefield had taught him how to ignore injury to an extent, but the process was still difficult.

He was surprised to see as he broke through the tree line that Clare had already packed their things. He was even more surprised to see her kneeling by her pack with the blade of a long, curved knife beneath her hair, which she held taught with her other hand.

“What are you doing?” Will asked curiously.

“Cutting my hair,” she replied. “I looked in the stream yesterday and it's too long. It'll only get in the way. I haven't cut it since...well, since I left Dahoto, I suppose.” She laughed softly. “Funny how you forget things when you're on your own.”

“Don't,” Will said, and she met his gaze with questioning eyes.

“What?”

“Don't cut your hair.”

She gave him a funny look. “Why?”

Will belatedly realized what he had said and cleared his throat nervously. He could feel his cheeks glowing with embarrassment. “Erm...because it, ah...it looks good.” He cleared his throat again and looked off into the forest. Why was it sometimes so simple to talk to Clare, yet so difficult at others? “You shouldn't cut it.”

He could still see her staring at him out of the corner of his eye, and for a long moment she did not move. Then, finally, she let her hands fall haltingly to her sides and sheathed her knife. “Well...alright then,” she said softly. Will suspected the comment was not entirely directed at him.

She had donned her sword and traveling cloak, and as she stood she slung her pack over one shoulder. Will turned hesitantly back to look at her, but she did not meet his gaze. “I thought you were bent on making me rest,” he said, and then a thought occurred to him. “Wait, you aren't leaving, are you?” The words came out rather more plaintively than he had intended.

“I figured we'd stretch your leg out some,” she said, still avoiding looking at him. She made a show of fiddling with her belt. “Do you think you can make it back to the village?”

“I should be able to,” Will said with a nod, glad to be back on familiar conversational ground. “As long as we take it slow. How long do you think it'll be?”

She paused for a moment, considering. “About...three-quarters of the day, maybe? Factoring in rests for you.”

Will waved his hand in the air as though shooing away an insect. “I don't need rests.”

Clare looked at him dubiously. Her eyes did a strange little dance, darting away from his for an instant only to return a moment later.
Did I say something wrong?
he wondered.
Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned her hair...

“Really,” he continued. “I want to get to back to Castor as soon as possible.” Castor, of course, had probably declared him dead a week ago. Will would consider himself lucky if the Ravens were still in Prado when they arrived. But he didn't mention any of this to Clare—nor did he mention the thoughts circling around his mind that centered on staying with her in the clearing for a few more nights. No, he was fairly certain saying such things would do a great deal to exacerbate his already awkward situation.

She shrugged. “Alright. Whatever you want.” She turned away and made for the edge of the clearing. “But I wager you'll need three rest stops.”

~

As it turned out, she was right. It felt incredible to walk again, but being mauled by a yaru and subsequently spending over a week sitting or lying on the ground had taken its toll. His stamina had suffered, and the still-regrowing muscles in his thigh were very sore after only a belltoll of slow marching. Wearing all of his armor and weapons felt heavier than normal, too, and he inwardly cursed his weakness. By the time they left the forest and crested the grassy knoll that gave them a view of the distant village, he was sweating profusely.

“Do you want to stop?” Clare asked, gently placing her hand on his back before snatching it away again.

Will panted and leaned heavily on his walking stick. With his free hand he slowly massaged his thigh, wincing as pain shot through his leg. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let's keep going. Need to get there before sundown.”

The sun had sunk low in the sky, casting a colorful sheen across the land. It reminded Will of the last sunset he had experienced at the village, and on the heels of that memory came the more painful one of his final conversation with Rik. Sadness stabbed at his heart, but he mentally parried the blow. He would have time to mourn later when they were safely inside Prado's walls.

By the time they reached the village the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon. It painted a beautiful picture, replete with lush golds, fiery oranges, and deep purples. Will loved sunrises and sunsets; watching them had always been able to calm his heart, no matter the circumstances. But now...

He sighed, his shoulders slumping the slightest bit, and turned back to the village. The exhaustion and pain that had been his constant companions for the past four days were gone, dulled and smothered by an empty shadow. He could see the soot stains on the town hall, but its innards were lost in darkness.
Best to keep it that way,
he thought dully. He had no desire to remind himself of the horrors he had found there.

They walked slowly through the village, side by side, neither saying a word. Every so often Clare darted sidelong glances at Will as though confused how to react, but he gave no sign that he noticed. For the moment, he wished for nothing more than silence.

Images of blood and screaming men flashed through his mind, and try as he might he could not will them away. Never before had he lost so many men so quickly. He could see all of their faces as clearly as if they were there before him. The iron wall that held his guilty conscience in check cracked, threatening to release all of the emotion pent up inside of him.

He spotted something out of the corner of his eye next to one of the houses and stopped, his breath catching.
That's where we slept,
he remembered. There was still a slight depression in the grass next to it, as though someone had been sitting there, and he made for the spot. Silence enveloped him; all he heard was the steady drum of his heart, and his walking staff thumping the ground in time to the rhythm. Finally, after what seemed to him an eternity, he stopped, and leaning heavily on his stick knelt down and reached into the grass, the emerald blades still dark with congealed blood. His fingertips touched what he had seen, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

It was small, only as long as his hand, with several holes cut along its length and at either end. The wood was smooth, worn down by the press of many fingers over the long, slow march of time, and the craftsmanship was elegantly simple. It was the perfect instrument for a traveling soldier.

“What is it?” Clare asked quietly from behind him.

Will held Rik's tiny wood flute into the air for her to see; it felt far heavier than it should have, a leaden weight in his hand. He did not speak, and he did not turn to face her. He would not—could not—let her see the tears stinging his eyes.
I'm sorry,
he thought.
Rik, I'm so sorry.
He pressed his knuckles into his forehead and squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut.

After a moment he opened his eyes and whispered, “May the Titans watch over you.” It seemed the
appropriate thing to do. He gripped the flute tightly in his hand, its small form nearly concealed within his grasp, and then attempted to stand. His leg gave out and he fell to his knees, landing with a heavy thud. He barely felt it.
Comical,
he thought, nearly laughing at himself.
Like a bad scene from a cheap trouper's play.

Clare was there instantly, kneeling in front of him with her hand on his arm. “Will,” she whispered, her eyes searching his face, and he knew she could see the agony there that he was trying so desperately to hide. “Will, I'm so sorry.” It was too much, and fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. She wrapped her arms around him, cradling his head against her shoulder and stroking his hair.

“This is my fault,” he whispered, his face pressed into the hollow where her shoulder met her neck. “I—I should have—”

“No. Will, there was nothing you could do.” She leaned back and looked him in the eyes, her hands going to the sides of his face. “There was
nothing
you could do. You are not to blame for this.”

He nodded. Of course he wasn't; he knew that. And yet he felt, deep down, that he could have protected them if only he had been a little faster, a little stronger.
Just like always,
he thought angrily, gritting his teeth. Thoughts of the Eastland girl danced around his head, but strangely she did not appear.
Where are you?
he thought.
Why don't you torment me now?!
He could still hear her voice, could still remember the words even after so many years.
“Ma'dar! Kama'ak yam, ma'dar!”

He pulled abruptly away from Clare and stood, turning to hide his face from her. “I'm sorry,” he said in a dead monotone, but he spat his next words as though they were poison on his tongue. “What you must think of the heroic mercenary now. Crying like a babe.”

He heard her feet scrape against the earth as she stood, and he waited—hoped to whatever spirits were watching—for the moment when he would feel her hand on his shoulder. But it never came, and she did not speak.

“I'm sorry,” he finally whispered again, and half-turned to look at her. She had the expression of a beaten child, of one who wishes desperately to be somewhere else because they feel they have done something wrong, but they do not know what. Her eyes darted madly from his own to his shirt and all the places around him.