Page 145 of The Last One
Next time, he’ll keep his hand to himself.
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We continue walking the trail in the opposite direction of the troop now headed to Pethorp. No birds sing in the darkness, but frogs croak from hidden spaces off the road. The odors of pine and clay are overlaid with the stink of stagnant water and old blood. If the vines, roots, and leaves weren’t so alive and thriving, I’d think this forest had perished long ago.
I’ve noticed something: the longer Philia travels with us, the stronger she looks. Her hair is shinier but not because of the buildup of dirt and oil. Her steps are certain, more solid than they were in Maford or even in the forests around Veril’s cottage. She’s less shrill and thinks before she speaks. There’s a light in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Philia Wysor is growing up right before my eyes.
As we walk, I decide to pull one of my questions from my teetering tower of queries. “Why did you oppose killing those soldiers?” I ask Jadon. “With our combined skills, we stood a good chance of taking them like we did back in Maford.”
The muscles in his jaw flex. “Because that was Gileon Wake.”
“So?”
“So… We can’t kill a prince and expect us—or Olivia—to live.” He looks over at me, his gaze assured. “Fortunately, the horses freaked out before Veril’s enchantment broke.”
“That was scary,” Philia says, eyes wide. “What got into them?”
“Igot into them,” I say, “and that’s not a brag.”
We walk on, retreating into our own thoughts. I’m glad for the silence—I’m trying to focus on the glittering trail of moths. Another light, though, catches my eye: the sharp yellow glow waxing from Veril’s knees.
The old man straggles behind, leaning more on his staff with each step. Strings of amber pain buzz from his knees, zipping down to his calves and up his thighs. I glimpse a gap around his legs: the vivid glimmer of enchantment and the lusterless matte of the true world. His lavender eyes are tearing up, and his fingers curl and cramp. Without the strength to maintain the enchantment in which he cloaks himself, his beard is bright white with age and his back is a series of misshapen knobs and bones.
Maybe there’s something in Veril’s bag that will help. “Let’s stop for a moment,” I say to the others. Then, to Veril: “Sit a moment. You’re not doing well.”
He steels himself before tottering to a fallen tree trunk.
I grab Veril’s satchel as Jadon and Philia join us.
“We need to keep moving,” Jadon says.
I dump bundles of plants from the satchel onto the forest floor.
Jadon watches the woods for danger as I use the old man’s mortar and pestle to grind plants under his instruction. Veril lifts his pants leg to reveal skin busy with trails of veins and scars, a thin calf, and a swollen knee. Bad shape.
Please let this work.I smear the poultice on both of his knees and upper calves, letting my hands linger on his kneecaps.
Once the yellow glow of his pain dims, we shoulder our bags and return to the trail.
The sparkling moth cloud is gone.
Disappointed, I droop, and my pulse ticks in my head, keeping time with the only thought I have.This is so fucked up.
“Okay,” Philia says, eyes on the ground, “four Dashmala kidnapped Livvy. One Dashmala rode beside Prince Gileon. Could it be possible that Gileon already has Olivia?”
“I don’t think he has her,” Jadon says.
“Hear me out,” Philia says. “If Gileon has Olivia, the woman who embarrassed him before the entire realm, who else would he be hunting right now? Shouldn’t we follow Gileon to his camp and rescue Olivia instead of going to Weeton?”
No one speaks.
Philia turns to Jadon. “Are you going to say anything?”
Jadon frowns. “I told you that I don’t think Gileon has Olivia, so I’m not gonna join in your hypothetical.”
Philia snorts. “My hypothetical?”
“She’s not traveling with him, Philia,” I say. “I would’ve sensed the amulet’s—”
