Malachite instantly lopes away, drawing his sword off his back. I wipe my mouth on the hem of my tunic and straighten with a smile at Fione.

“He’s right, though,” I say. “We can talk about it all we want. We can debate it. We can weigh the tentative pros and unknown cons. But at the end of all things, we either do it or we don’t.”

Her fingers find the waterproof pouch at her hip, her nails gripping a corner of the hard book cover within. The book that holds an answer. Or at least I hope it does. For all our sakes.

“If destroying the Trees will save Varia, then I’m with you,” she finally says.

“And if it doesn’t?”

Her periwinkle eyes search mine. “Then I’m against you.”

It’s a serious moment. I shouldn’t laugh. But I do. I do, because I know if the roles were reversed, if it were Lucien and me, I’d say the same thing. Over and over again. Always. Because I know now, like she does. I know what love means.

I know what loss means.

I know what a heart means.

She and I have to follow our hearts, no matter where that takes us. So many untranslatable concepts. So many important things that would take years—whole libraries of books—to say. To even explain. That’s why, when I stand up and grab a sailor’s sword lying on the deck and walk toward a waiting Malachite, all I say back to her is:

“Good.”

16

16

THE BENE’THAR
AND THE
STARVING WOLF

The clamor of swords echoes on the empty ocean. Empty of everything but the horizon, our ship, our breathing, our crowd of sailors who’ve suddenly gathered to watch the friendly duel. I blink sweat out of my eyes, the hazy cloud covering the sun doing nothing to mitigate the summer heat. It swelters all around us. The pleasant sea wind died somewhere between our first blade-swing and now. There are no shadows on the ocean to hide under, no shade, no trees. And frankly, I’m thanking the gods. Sick of the things.

Malachite has me backed into a corner, the low roar of the sailors watching a welcome sound, considering Mal’s not once said anything to me. He just launched into all-out fighting the second we bowed to each other. His ruby eyes flicker dark lashes, surreptitiously watching my feet for hints on my next move.

“I know they’re pretty, but you don’t have to stare that hard,” I tease. “They aren’t going anywhere. Except perhaps up your arse.”

“You talk too much,” he finally says, hand tightening on his hilt.