Page 52 of Hearts Lost

ALOSERIN

I’M FINE

Rowan really did map the void.

I watch him take some sort of a measurement with a silver tube-shaped instrument, then check the sheets of parchment Arryn’s holding out for him, and I try to feel something about this. Anything about this.

I’d heard rumors for years that Rowan of the World’s End claimed he’d mapped the ever-moving void, but I’d never believed them, partially because those claims conflicted with everything I’d ever heard about the void, and partially because I automatically dismissed everything anyone said about Rowan. Lythienne took those rumors seriously, though, which was why I’d been sent to the World’s End a half dozen times to have a half dozen arguments about why Rowan should come to the Crystal City and help King Galan instead of doing whatever the fuck it was he did in that miserable frozen backwoods village. Those lovely arguments were the beginning of my deep and abiding dislike for that man, a dislike that clearly ran both ways.

Now, as I watch him flip through parchment, point to something on the horizon, and then whisper to Arryn, I feel like I should have some response. I should feel something; anger, irritation, satisfaction. Maybe even curiosity. How about a flicker of interest?

But, no. I feel nothing, save an angry, throbbing ache in my arms and lower back from carrying Ithronel all day. Orryen had wanted to make a litter, to drag her on the ground, through the mud and the snow, but for some reason, that thought had filled me with blind rage.

So I carried her, feeling the threads of my magic pulsing around her mind with every step. Feeling her hair whisper over my lips, her soft weight press into my chest, her scent weave through the air. I’d wrapped the scrape on her knee with grim determination, changed the bandage every night when we stopped, pulled her cloak around her when the air turned cold, and taken step after step after step with her in my arms.

“It’s moving closer,” Rowan declares when he turns back to us.

His words rise in the air on little puffs of steam. The brutal cold of the Outer Ring tears at the inside of my throat, and I glance down yet again, making sure Ithronel’s face is covered in the folds of her cloak. Death comes easy in the Outer Ring.

“Shall we stop here for the night?” Orryen asks.

Some part of me notes how strange it is for Orryen to ask Rowan anything, for the two of them to be acting like part of a team, but I dismiss the thought almost as soon as it rises in my mind. Because who cares?

Rowan shrugs. “Not a bad idea. We’ll lose the glowsoft soon enough.”

“Still two days, you think?” Lythienne asks.

“Shit, maybe less,” Rowan replies, with a wide grin. “Maybe we’ll be home for dinner tomorrow. And maybe Aloserin’ll even start talking again.”

I blink as I slowly realize everyone has turned to stare at me. Orryen’s still watching me with that frown that suggests I’ve taken some sort of grave injury, even though I’ve insisted over and over that I’m just fine, and everyone else looks at me like maybe they’re worried I’m going to bite. By the time it occurs to me that perhaps I should say something to prove that I am, in fact, still talking, the group has scattered. Rowan and Arryn are setting up the cramped, uncomfortable canvas shelter, Orryen and Elanerill are off gathering firewood, and Lythienne’s setting out the supplies to make our dinner.

That just leaves me. Still standing. Still cradling Ithronel’s unconscious body in my arms.

I wait until the shelter is up, then crawl through the entrance and set Ithronel down gently on the snow beside the fire. Some part of me wants to tuck her cloak around her body, to make sure the little traitor doesn’t get cold, but Rowan and Arryn are still in here and the thought of them watching me adjust Ithronel’s cloak makes something bitter rise in the back of my throat. I’ll do it later.

I stagger outside, my arms and back aching and stiff, and accept a bowl of stew from Lythienne. Conversations ebb and flow around me, words swirling through the frozen air, making about as much sense as birdsong or the chatter of water over stones. Exhaustion tugs at the edges of my mind and drags my limbs toward the earth. Not for the first time, I wish I could turn my magic on myself. Think of how much easier this would all be if I were unconscious. If it were my body they were dragging through the mud and the snow.

“Aloserin?”

There’s a hand on my shoulder. I blink, shake my head, and turn to see Orryen sitting in the snow and looking at me with what’s probably intended to be a sympathetic expression. It makes him look like he’s eaten something that’s having a pointed disagreement with his intestines.

“How are you holding up?” Orryen asks.

“Fine,” I answer.

I glance around the fire. The glowsoft orbs have gone out, although I can’t remember exactly when that happened. Orryen and I are the only ones still outside, huddled around the remains of the fire where Lythienne cooked our dinner. Everyone else must be inside the shelter. And, fuck, it’s cold. I shiver inside my cloak. Orryen tosses another log onto the fire, then frowns at the flames.

“Fine?” he asks.

He does me the small mercy of not looking at me as he throws my own answer back in my face. I shrug, then pull my arms tight around my empty, hollow chest.

“I mean,” I begin, struggling for words. “How in the hells am I supposed to be?”

Orryen’s lips twist into a grim attempt at a smile.

“Arryn knows her,” Orryen continues. “The woman, I mean. Ithronel. Arryn says her sister is one of King Grathgore’s magicians.”

“I know,” I say. My voice sounds as empty and cold as the Outer Ring.