Page 118 of The Last One
“Tell me what I did wrong,” I plead, then pound my fist in my palm. “Specifically. Tell me! What did I—?”
“You destroyed Chesterby,” she says, the lion’s face speaking now.
That’s the town Jadon and Olivia mentioned when we first met. The one destroyed by earthshake. I gape at her in confusion.
The battawhale wheezes loudly again, and Sybel hurries back to his side. “He’s dying.”
My mind, though, is no longer in this cave.Chesterby.
“Kai!” Sybel says, interrupting my thoughts. “He’s dying.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what more I can do or say,” I say. “Can’t you heal him?”
Sybel blinks at me with eyes that shift color with every inhalation. “No,” she says, stepping back.
“No,what?” I ask.
“Either you do something to keep him alive,” she says, “or you let him die. Step closer to your own doom if you dare. This creature didn’t ask to be brought here. Yet here you are, at the very bottom of this cavern, invading his home to kill him. I can’t tell you who you are. You must discover that for yourself. But if you want tofeelagain, to understand again, if you want to know the part you play today and tomorrow, what part you played before, you must make amends.”
How will I make amends for my failures?
Her previous words fill me with anger. I don’t know how to heal the battawhale. I don’t know how to make amends for failures I can’t remember.
“It’s not too late,” Sybel whispers. “You’re still missing so much of yourself. You’re still missing the piece of you that will answer all your questions.”
I look up at her through angry tears. “My amulet?”
Sybel nods. “Your amulet.”
My hands are filthy, and so I won’t touch my skin where my amulet should be. And now I feel its absence. Iciness across my collarbones has replaced the rhythmic warmth on my chest.
“Kai,” Sybel says, her gaze still leaden. “You are so much more than a fighter, than a destroyer. But you’ll never discover the breadth of your being until you reclaim your amulet. It’s here in Vallendor. I feel it—but it is not mine, so where it sits, exactly, I do not know. What I do know is that if you take care of this poor creature, you will take an important step toward recovering your amulet and reclaiming who you are. You will not discover your purpose or true self without it.” Before she turns away, she adds, “This time, choose to take the correct path.”
“I’ll heal him, then. That’s the correct path, yes? Where do I find medicines for him?” I ask, my voice broken, desperation threading through each word. I drop my head, push out a breath, and look up again. She’s gone.
“Sybel,” I cry, whirling around. “Where did you go?”
The battawhale is still here, though, and his breath continues to rattle in his chest. He’s dying, and I can’t let that happen.
35
Behind me, the battawhale’s wheezes sound like an inverted roar, not bursting out of the mouth but pushing down into his gut.
I hurry toward the closest passageway.
The cavern, as bright as a garden in springtime, goes from vast to narrow as I scan the wet walls around me. My heart thunders in my chest, fear and adrenaline pressing me to keep going until I find—
That!
Tufts of elk hair spring from the dirt.Works as a bandage. That!Red flower. Sanguine hyssop. Stops bleeding.Pain relief…pain relief…I know this. I’ve done this before! I hurry down the corridor, fingers pointing at this plant and that flower, browsing as though I’m shopping at a market.
A rowdy bunch of green plants with purple blooms grow around a pond the size of a quilt. How do these flowers exist in this dark space? Perhaps, like hearing thoughts, this garden is a gift from Sybel. I don’t know. But as memories pop to the front of my mind, Idoknow that the plant at my feet is deadly nightshade. Too much brings death. Just enough brings relief.
I coat my hands with mud from the small pond and then cover them with dry dirt to form a shell around my skin—protection from handling this delicate and dangerous plant. With my dagger, I cut a few sprigs. With one rock as a pestle and a flat rock as a bowl, I grind the plants I’ve collected into a pulp, using water from the pond. When I have enough of the poultice—I don’t even know how much is needed—I take it back to the biggest room. The creature is still there, wheezing in the dark. When I look behind me, the entrance to the garden cavern is gone.
“I’m here,” I say, hustling to the battawhale. “I’m so sorry for hurting you.” I kneel beside the battawhale’s bleeding leg. “Here we go,” I whisper. After taking several deep breaths, I scoop some of the poultice off the rock and apply it to the gash on his leg.
The battawhale quivers, his wheezing quickening. But the green blood no longer oozes from that gash, and the creature stills.
