Page 144 of The Last One
“Is he human?” I ask.
Jadon crumples his eyebrows. “He’s Dashmala. They’re great warriors. Hard to kill. Like they’re made of stone and steel. They don’t use magic, but they are very intuitive. He clearly sensed something, which is why he was about to get off his horse.”
“Dashmala,” Philia says, fascinated. “He’s abarbarian?”
“That’s what people in Maford thought I was,” I say, remembering my one-woman invasion of that small, stinky town.
“Because his eyes are almost the same color as yours,” Philia notes. “But his are more muddy yellow than gold. It’s like…you came from the same field, but you had better soil and more sunlight.”
I search my memories for the Dashmala but come up blank. “Veril, you told me the Dashmala resented you for sending their soldiers into a chasm.”
Veril doesn’t answer. With eyes narrowed, he’s looking back in the direction of those soldiers. Finally, he pulls his gaze to meet mine. “What’s that, dearest?”
“You and the Dashmala have a history,” I say. “Battle of Riddy Vale, correct?”
Jadon and Philia say, “What?”
Veril meets my eyes, then turns to them. “We—the Renrians—faced off against them way back then. A number of Dashmala warriors fell victim to our enchantments. We were lucky the soldier riding beside Prince Gileon didn’t spot me. Dashmala hold grudges. Grudges are passed down by the Dashmala from generation to generation, inherited like cottages and dressers.”
Philia snorts. “He was one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen.”
I look back over my shoulder, in the direction the soldiers rode. “Should we…?”
“Should we what?” Jadon interrupts, frowning. “Go back and kill him?”
I hold Jadon’s gaze. “Maybe?”
“No.” His answer is immediate and final.
“Don’t worry, Lady,” Veril says. “That battle occurred long ago. I don’t know the man, never met the man, will never see him again. There’s no reason to do something so—”
“Preemptive,” I say.
Veril nods. “Correct.” He looks back one last time—there’s worry in his eyes.
“Let’s keep moving before we run into more men,” Jadon says.
As the road unfolds before us, I see a glint and a sparkle at the corner of my eye. An iridescent trail winks before me. “Look there.” I point, my heart quickening. “Do you see it?”
“See what?” Jadon eyes the gloom.
An eclipse of moths—red, gold, and blue—flutters above the trail, illuminating the darkness, leaving sparkling dust in their wake. One by one, moths leave the group and flutter forward, in the direction we’re traveling.
This means the soldiers we just passed don’t have the amulet. My pendant is not far off. Neither is Olivia if she’s still the person holding on to it.
“There’s a path,” I say, closely watching the sharp shimmer fade as the last moth flutters above the dust and then flutters away to join her sisters. “But it’s waning. The shimmer is dissipating. Let’s hurry,” I say, shouldering my pack. “We’re going in the right direction.”
“Because of this path only you can see?” Philia asks.
“I can see it,” Veril says, smiling.
“If you were magic, dearest,” I say to Philia, eyebrow arched, “you’d see it, too.”
In the distance behind us, a horse whinnies and brays, only to be quickly drowned out by a man’s scream.
I smile. A soldier dared to whip his horse.
Violence begets violence.
