We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 2

T here’s no worse feeling than watching someone you love die. The helplessness slices you into pieces. And grief sets those pieces on fire. Until you’re nothing but ash.

My brother’s coughs rip through the early morning silence. Wheezy, pain-filled, exhausted coughs.

I push the door shut behind me and reach for the salve, the tonic, the crystals. Stumbling into the wall, I curse and reorient myself, aiming for his door—left open while he sleeps for exactly this purpose.

Evren’s already sitting up in bed when I reach him, his thin body shuddering as he fights for each breath.

“I’m here.”

Pushing his shirt open, I spread the salve on his chest and neck, give him a crystal to hold, hand him the last of the lung tonic, and begin chanting.

He reaches for the tonic, his eyes miserable.

“We can’t … afford … this,” he gasps out.

“Shhh. Drink it, Ev.”

Evren swallows. I keep chanting, urging the crystal to glow just a little more. To eke out just a little healing power.

I rub his back, and his coughing begins to ease, each breath deeper than the last.

“That was a bad one.”

“I’m sorry.”

I ignore that. “Do you think you can rest a little now?”

He nods, eyes already drooping. When he nestles into his pillow, I’m lightheaded with relief. These attacks are coming closer than they ever have before. And we can’t afford not to have more lung tonic on hand.

An image of Bran’s face fills my mind, making my head pound with barely suppressed wrath.

Poking my head into the next bedroom, I find owlish brown eyes staring back at me. “He’s fine,” I tell Gerith.

His mouth twists. At fourteen, he’s already reached the age where he will no longer let me see him cry, but his eyes are still swollen some mornings.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him.

Gerith shakes his head. But he moves his leg aside. Hiding a smile, I enter his room and sit on the side of his bed.

Long, thin fingers brush his woolen blanket. “Do you ever wonder what our lives would be like if Uncle hadn’t taken your winnings?”

Every fucking day.

I can’t look at the table in our kitchen without seeing the note my uncle left. The words I’m sorry just as hollow as the empty space in my closet where I’d carefully hidden the money we needed for a better life.

Less than a day after I’d won the Sands, our uncle was gone. And so was our future. A healer for Evren. A small but comfortable house on the coast in Nesonias. Fresh seafood every day. Vegetables from the small garden I’d learn how to tend. An education. Not just for my brothers … but for me too.

“There’s no point looking back.”

“I’m not looking back. I’m looking forward.” His chin juts out. “One day, I’m going to find him, and I’m going to kill him.”

“You won’t be able to,” I tell him, mock seriously. “Because I’ll find him first.”

Gerith smiles, but it’s shaky. “How could he do it? I just … I don’t understand.”

Of course he doesn’t understand. I don’t understand.

“Ger—”

“You risked your life to win that money. We had everything we needed.”

“I don’t like to talk about that time,” I say.

His eyes are solemn. “Because of her. And because of him.”

Grief rips into me like a talon, stealing my breath. He’s not talking about our uncle now.

Occasionally, I think I’m doing fine, that I’m moving on with my life, and then I hear her name. Or I’m reminded of him .

“Yes.”

Gerith studies my face. “One day, when I’m big, I’ll fight in the Sands. We’ll get enough money to cure Ev. And we’ll all leave.”

My smile freezes on my face.

I’ll die before I let my brothers step foot in any arena. Every move I make is with the goal of getting both of them far from Senthara, where the emperor’s delights are no more than a distant memory. But I know better than to say such a thing. As the twins have grown, so has their male pride.

“Time to get up.”

He nods, and I leave him to dress. Pulling off my boots, I keep my sword strapped to my back, still … perturbed by my vampire visitor.

Perturbed is a good word. It implies I’m feeling slightly unsettled. A little uneasy. Not dry-mouthed, slick-palmed, and dizzy with fear.

The lung tonics from Nesonias are keeping my brother alive. What else is Bran willing to do to make me fall in line?

I push the thought away. I’m used to being on the defensive. I do it every day while guarding the kinds of people who make enemies simply by breathing. I don’t enjoy being reactive, but I know better than to wring my hands, worrying.

If I travel to Mataras this morning, I’ll be back within a couple of days. The apothecary there will have the tonics we need. I’m sure of it. I hate the thought of leaving Gerith and Evren, but I doubt the vampire cleaned out the apothecaries in nearby towns.

Padding into our tiny kitchen, I open the cool box. The crystal inside is dull, and the aether keeping our meager food chilled is a faint hum. After I replenish Evren’s lung tonics and pay the emperor’s ever-increasing taxes, I’ll have just enough to fill the aether crystals. Gerith desperately needs a new pair of boots, but they’ll have to wait.

My chest pangs. He’d never complain, but I know his feet became soaked last time it rained. I heard Evren and Gerith murmuring about it when they thought I wasn’t listening.

The milk ran out two days ago, so I make the porridge with water, seasoning it with a pinch of salt in place of sugar or honey.

The twins are grumbling at each other in one of their rooms, their voices muffled by the door. Neither of them enjoys mornings. By the time they slouch into their chairs at the table—Evren pale and drawn, Gerith wincing at the sight of the thin porridge—faint sunlight streams through the window. The first light of dawn makes Gerith’s blond hair glow, while Evren’s hair is so dark it seems to swallow the light. Born just minutes apart, they couldn’t be more different—in both appearance and personality.

When Gerith turns his head, pale ribbons of sunlight brush his gold sigil in a flicker of brightness that fades when he shifts out of the sun. My lungs squeeze, and I force the fear away. My power may not have woken, but that doesn’t mean my brothers will face the same devastation. They won’t be like me.

Sigilmarked are born with latent powers, our potential revealed by the color of our sigils, and how much they grow over time. All sigilmarked children gain a handful of minor abilities like basic shielding, conjuring a spark with a flick of their fingers, purifying small amounts of water, or quickening the growth of plants. Between the ages of eleven and fifteen, their true power emerges—sometimes two if they’re exceptionally gifted or blessed. A rare few receive power granted by the gods they worship.

“Arvelle?”

Forcing a smile, I drag my gaze away from Gerith’s sigil. “I need to go to Mataras today. Remember—”

“We know.” He rolls his eyes with a grin. “Come straight home, don’t talk to anyone.”

A knock sounds on the door. Gerith gets to his feet, but he knows better, and I slide past him. Visitors this early are rarely a good thing. My right hand reaches for the handle, my left drifting close to the hilt of my knife as I open the door.

A small, thin girl stares up at me. Blond curls tangle around her gamine face, and I catch a glimpse of a bronze sigil beneath the strands covering her forehead. Her sigil has extended slightly, which means she’s likely older than she looks.

Fifteen, maybe sixteen.

I open my mouth to tell her she has the wrong house, but her gaze sweeps past me, blue eyes sparking with light.

“My name is Sarai,” she announces. “I’m here for breakfast.”

My eyebrow shoots up. “Oh, you are, are you?”

Her mouth turns down. “He didn’t ask?”

I heave a sigh, sending a narrow-eyed stare over my shoulder. It’s impossible to tell which “he” she’s talking about, since both my brothers are thin-lipped, gazes on the ground.

“Come in,” I tell her.

She sails past me before I can change my mind, sitting next to Gerith, whom she gives a dark look.

He meets my eyes. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“Never mind. It’s nice to meet you, Sarai. I’m Arvelle.”

She beams at me, all embarrassment forgotten, until the rumble of her stomach cuts through the silence.

Her cheeks heat, and all of us pretend we’ve lost our hearing. I hand her my bowl. “You’ve chosen a good morning to visit, Sarai. I’m not hungry.”

Sarai’s food disappears within moments. I don’t ask her where her parents are, or when the last time she ate was. But her thin arms wrap around my stomach when I remove the empty bowls.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Within minutes, they’re ready to leave. Both my brothers share a tutor with sixteen other children. While the tutor has no training, he completed a few years of study himself, and one of our neighbors suggested pooling a few coins each month for his time.

This might be their only chance at any education at all. In just a few weeks, their hours with the tutor will be replaced with hours training for the Sands. Unless I can find a way to get us away from this empire, they’ll be walking into the emperor’s arena in just a few years themselves. Only after they survive the Sands will they be able to begin learning a trade.

My mouth turns dry. Evren is so weakened by his condition, he can barely lift a sword.

Pushing the thought away, I open the door. “Thanks, Velle.” Gerith grins at me. “I’m sorry I forgot to ask about Sarai.”

“It’s fine. Go learn something.”

Evren follows the others. He hasn’t said a word, but his cough has lessened, and I know he’ll ignore any suggestions to stay home and rest, so I press a kiss to his forehead. “Be good.”

He attempts a weak smile, his gaze dropping to the ground. Regret floods me. They were the last words I said to him the day the mine exploded, killing anyone nearby. Evren was far enough from the explosion to escape with his life, but not his health. His lungs were scarred, and he’s crippled by the knowledge that he shouldn’t have been anywhere near the mine.

It wasn’t his fault. He was only eight years old, and our mother had promised me she would keep both of them safe. But nothing I say or do lessens his guilt.

I watch them go, shoving and wrestling as they disappear into the Thorn.

The crystals in the shower are out of aether, so the water is cold. I grimace through it, refusing to wash my hair until I pay for the crystals to be replenished later. After, I pull on leather leggings, a fitted shirt, and my boots. Weapons are next, followed by a thick cloak.

Thankfully, the lock on our door still holds enough aether to keep the apartment secure. Not that we have anything to steal. I turn it, step outside, and immediately begin to shiver in the chilled air.

One day. One day, we’ll go north. To warmth and humidity. Where my brother can breathe easier, and no one knows who I am. Where they can get a proper education. Where I don’t see ghosts around every corner. Where we can start fresh …

In the meantime, Fallon is waiting in the Thorn’s small training arena. And if I’m not there to make disparaging remarks about her knife skills, she might become overconfident before it’s her turn in the Sands.

I’m grateful for my cloak, even with the sun on my face. The sun will burn away the worst of the chill within a few hours, but the dampness will remain, as it always remains in the Thorn.

A T LEAST TEN people are training today, all of them carefully ignoring one another. Nothing reminds you that you might end up killing your neighbor quite like practicing next to them each morning for years.

I don’t know why I work with Fallon every damned day. She once told me she wants to win the Sands and join the Praesidium Guard. She may have the skill, but she’s not a natural killer. And the Sundering rewards ruthlessness.

I sigh. I train her because if I leave her to her own devices, she’ll bounce into the emperor’s arena with the enthusiasm of a puppy. And she’ll die.

Her footwork is improving, but she still hesitates when forced to use her left hand to swing her sword, as if her body is screaming at her that the movement is unnatural.

“You’re doing it again,” I call.

She spots me and curses. “I’m almost as fast with my left hand as my right.”

“Almost isn’t good enough.” The words are bitter, and I force myself to take a long, slow breath. “Show me your mixed drill.”

With a nod, she turns, her long red hair flying with the motion. Her sword sweeps through the air as she nimbly switches her hands, holding her right arm at her side as if it’s now useless. She pants, gazing at me.

“Better.” I nod.

“Want to spar?”

“I would, but I need to go to Mataras. I’m only here today to remind you that you’re still too slow.”

She glowers at me, and her knuckles turn white around the hilt of her sword. But when her gaze drifts behind me and her cheeks heat, it’s not difficult to guess who she’s looking at.

Carrick.

He’s leaning against the wall at the edge of the training arena, and for the barest moment, I see another man in his place, a hint of a smile curving his lips as he watches me train.

I blink, and it’s just Carrick once more, the silver of his sigil glinting in the sunlight as he pushes tousled blond-brown hair off his face.

“Work on that mixed drill,” I mutter to Fallon.

“I thought I’d walk you home,” Carrick says as I cross the clearing to him.

“I’m not going home.”

He folds his arms. “Then I’ll walk you wherever you want.”

“Carrick.”

“Another body turned up. Heart missing, just like the others. It’s not just mundanes, either. Three sigilmarked have been killed in three weeks. Two of them went missing in the middle of the day.”

I chew on my lower lip. That makes nine bodies since the first death less than two months ago. I’m not surprised Carrick is paying close attention. He knows everything that happens in the Thorn.

“Evren and Gerith—”

“They’re with a group of friends. Those who went missing were alone.”

“Fine.” I turn, striding toward the road. He effortlessly falls into step beside me.

Who would want to do such a thing to the people here? Taking their hearts would suggest there’s some ritualistic purpose to the murders, and yet it could merely be a final insult from a deranged killer.

Carrick nudges me with his elbow. “What are you thinking?”

I tell him my thoughts, and he casts me an appreciative look. “I’m leaning toward the first option. Taking someone’s heart is time-consuming. Messy. But the wardens refuse to investigate.”

“Shocking.” I take a left, marching past Perrin’s apothecary and heading toward the main thoroughfare. Years ago, Kas and I used to pick flowers in her garden and sell them to nobles along this road as they traveled back into Lysoria.

“So,” Carrick says, and I ready myself for his next words. He’s so predictable at this point that I could almost mouth them along with him.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“You know I’m not.”

“And don’t you think that’s a shame?”

We’re walking past a bakery, and the warm, inviting aroma of freshly baked bread makes my stomach howl.

Unsurprisingly, the hunger pangs don’t improve my already dark mood.

I narrow my eyes at Carrick. The only reason he’s continuing this line of questioning is because I’m the only woman he knows who doesn’t blush and stutter when he’s around.

“No.”

Ignoring Carrick’s wounded expression, I consider my route to Mataras. The Thorn’s residents rely on a system of favors and debts to get what we need. Leofric owes me a favor, and since Harriston owes Leofric a favor—and Harriston also regularly travels to Mataras to trade for leather—I’m hoping Leofric will get me a ride in Harriston’s cart.

“It’s been years , Velle.”

And just like that, Carrick has crossed a line. My nails cut into my palms and I force my hands to unfist. “Stop.”

Carrick shakes his head at me. “I know you both liked to think you were fated or something. A great love story. All I can see is that he left you, and instead of moving on, you’re frozen in time.”

His words slice and slash, carving away pieces of me. The pieces I need to function.

Of course it would be today of all days when Carrick decides on a full-fledged attack. I pick up my pace, barely avoiding a horse and cart as the owner curses at me. If I don’t make it to Harriston before he leaves, I’ll have no way to get to Mataras.

My head spins as Carrick pushes me back against the closest wall. “He is never . Coming. Back.”

I shove him in the chest. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“I think part of you still hopes for it.” His expression is agonized.

“Then you don’t know me at all.” If I ever saw Ti again it would take everything in me not to kill him.

Knocking Carrick’s hands away from me, I pivot, stalking back down the street.

“Did you ever think maybe I don’t want anyone ? I’m doing just fine.”

He lets out a hoarse laugh. “Fine? I haven’t seen you smile for six years. You’re hard and cold. You can’t just push everyone away for the rest of your life.”

My breath shudders out of me. Carrick takes hold of my wrist, a shark smelling blood. “Life doesn’t have to be this difficult. Marry me, and we’ll leave. We’ll take the twins and go somewhere warm.”

He could make it happen. His father is one of the wealthier residents of the Thorn, but Carrick has never relied on his family’s money. No, he’s worked since he was old enough to dream of getting out of this place.

He’s offering me everything I want. Except I used to fantasize about hearing those words before—long ago, from another man.

I shake my arm warningly, and Carrick lets me go with a rough curse. “I won’t wait for you forever, Arvelle. I want a family someday. I want it with you, but if you’re determined to waste away in this place …”

I stop, pushing a strand of dark hair off my face. “Enough.” My voice comes out weaker than I expected. The problem with Carrick is that he knows me too well. He knows how much I hate it here. He knows I’ve always longed to see the markets of Hillian, the fortress of Direcliff, the Sirensong Isles.

But I can see exactly how this will go. I’ll put my trust in him. Worse, I’ll trust him with my brothers too. I don’t have another heartbreak in me. When it falls apart, I’ll fall apart too.

“I’ve got to go.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You’re making a mistake.”

Probably. Sometimes it feels like all I do is make mistakes. Why should this be any different?

“Goodbye, Carrick.”

He frowns at me, opening his mouth.

“Velle!”

I whirl. And the slow, sickening sensation of doom slides over my body as I meet Gerith’s eyes. His face is so pale he looks gray, his cheeks streaked with tears. He’s panting, leaning over, out of breath from running.

“It’s Ev.”