Jond reached for Sylah with sadness in his eyes and pulled her up from the ground. She looked down at their intertwined hands. Neither one of them had lost the thick calluses from their years of training.
Sylah pulled in a ragged breath, and her chest caved in, pulling in her tall stature. She didn’t want Jond to see what she had become, how she had failed everyone who meant anything to her. Her hair fell forward, the braids jangling with the memories of the people she had lost.
“Jond,” Sylah rasped. “How did you survive?”
A knot appeared between his brow but was smoothed out by the beginnings of a smile. “We survived, Sylah, we survived.”
“I saw the runebullets strike you. I thought I saw your last breath.”
Jond sat back on his haunches and lifted up his shirt. The bullet holes had healed into three perfect silver spheres. Sylah reached out to touch them, her fingers running over the grooves of muscle toward the scars. He shivered at her touch, and she pulled away. He gave her a shy smile before continuing, “I was close to death. So close I could hear Anyme calling my name. But it was someone else who came to my aid.” He held the hand Sylah had placed on his chest. “Papa Azim’s body had fallen on me, hiding me from the officers. His blue blood protected me.”
There was applause in the courtyard followed by the chant, “To protect and enforce law.” The crowd screamed the Warden of Strength’s vow as Uka Elsari reached the top of the five hundred steps—the first one to do so.
Sylah loosened her lips to spit.
Jond continued. “Do you remember Amud? The farmer that Papa traded with? He came to the Sanctuary that evening.” The crinkles around his eyes softened. “He had a box of two dozen eggs he wanted to trade for fresh latex. Instead he found me, strapped me to the back of Anka, and took me back to his farm.”
The image of Jond on the back of Anka the goat should have been funny, but Sylah didn’t laugh.
He continued, “After two mooncycles I woke from my coma. After three more I could stand. It took me a year to cough without drawing blood.”
Sylah stiffened. “He knew?”
“Of course, but he protected me, hid me from prying eyes. Told anyone who came by that I was his nephew. He was alone on the farm.”
“Why didn’t you come find me?”
“I thought you were dead, Sylah. Amud, he told me the army had killed you all and taken your bodies away.”
“Mama—” Sylah stumbled over the shape of her memory. She swallowed, started again. “I thought only Mama and I escaped…Did you go back? To the Sanctuary?”
“No.” His voice cracked.
Sylah’s eyes flickered to the scene in the courtyard beyond, anything to tear her eyes away from the grief, raw and bleeding, reflected on Jond’s face.
Jond continued, “One day I woke and Amud’s house was empty. I went outside and found him. His mind had been going for some time, he was losing his balance more often, forgetting who I was, where he was.” Jond swallowed. “He had fallen and hit his head. I wasn’t sure if he had passed before or during the tidewind.”
“It’s been getting worse.”
Jond nodded. “I set a pyre for him and continued to run the farm alone.”
They looked at each other, the unspoken words just within grasp, if only one of them would reach for them.
More cries rang out, and they both turned their eyes to the scene below.
All four disciples had now reached the top of the steps, and the crowd had erupted into cries of joy. The wardens shook hands with their disciples, ending their ten-year reign. Sylah’s hands clenched by her waist.
The former wardens began their descent into the bowels of the crowd. Even the Dusters and Ghostings were cheering, caught in the infectious patriotism of the event and the reverence they felt for their leaders.
Sylah didn’t hear cheers. She heard the cries of newborn Ghostings having their hands and tongues severed, she heard the creaking of the rack as Dusters were torn limb from limb, she heard the snap of the whip from the plantation overseers.
“Are you okay?” Jond’s hand touched her wrist.
Will I ever be?
Sylah nodded.
Yona Elsari, the now former Warden of Strength, led the way down the steps. Sylah couldn’t drag her eyes away from her lithe run. Sixty-eight never looked so good.