Page 160 of The Moon's Fury
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Theairinthenarrow corridor was thick and musty, clinging to her skin like damp cloth. It wasn’t the same passage that had led them into the hidden depths of the Grand Libraries, but it reeked of the same secrets. Her torn tunic fluttered, wrist still pulsing with pain—a dull, persistent throb that marked the toll of the past three hours.
They slipped into the night like wraiths, silent and swift, putting as much ground between themselves and the Grand Libraries as they could. She’d watched in awe as Zarian wrapped his injured arm, stemming the bleeding while darting through alleys.
They reached the inn and crept into the stables. Zarian had the foresight to saddle Najoom with their belongings before leaving earlier that night. Zarian gently grasped her arm, inspecting her wrist. Sharp pain jolted through her, and she struggled to muffle her pained cry.
Zarian sucked in a breath through his teeth, a muscle feathering in his jaw. Retrieving liniments from his pack, he quickly wrapped her wrist. “This should give it some support.I’ll splint it properly when we’re out of Thessan. Keep it close to your body.” He pulled the cloth tightly, and she winced. “We’re a few weeks from Baysaht—”
“Baysaht?”
“There’s another library there. We can find more—”
“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head. “No. I don’t want to go to another library.”
“We need to. To get your powers back.” He studied her face. “So you can reclaim Alzahra,” he said slowly.
Layna looked at his bright, hazel eyes and remembered the fear and rage that had filled them less than an hour ago.
She remembered his anguish and desperation.
She remembered what he’d been prepared to do to protect her.
She remembered himbegging.
Layna shook her head again. “Fuck Alzahra. I don’t care if the moon and sun never shine their light on it again. Let the sands swallow the palace whole. They don’t want me. There’s nothing left for me there.”
He grasped her chin, tilting her face up. “We don’t have to decide now. We can—”
“I’ve already decided. The Medjai will be waiting for us at every library on this fucking continent. And I can’t risk losing you. Not like this. Not again.” His mouth set into a grim line, but he remained silent.
In a way, they were lucky it had been Ruslayn. A smarter Medjai, a less vengeful one, would have slit Layna’s throat and been done with it.
“I’m tired of running, Zarian. I’m tired of fighting.”
“Where do you want to go, love?” His thumb brushed her cheek in a tender, concerned caress.
“Somewhere safe. Where we don’t have to hide anymore.”
His gaze searched her face.
And when he found whatever answer he needed, he nodded.
“I know where we can go.”
Najoom’s every stride jostled her aching wrist. Layna clutched it close to her chest as he trotted through Thessan’s cobblestone streets. Zarian kept a steady pace, the weight of his arms comforting against her hips. His eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, never lingering, always searching.
He froze, bringing Najoom to a halt.
There was a group of orphans—or at least, she assumed they were orphans since they were out on the streets alone in the middle of the night. Zarian dismounted and crossed the road.
They eyed him warily, some of them taking a few steps back. Most had no shoes.
The leader of the group, a boy of about ten, crossed his arms and spoke to Zarian, though she couldn’t make out what he said. Zarian handed him a small pouch, gesturing to the rest of the group, at their bare feet. The boy accepted the coins, looking decidedly less wary. He gave Zarian a salute.
Zarian returned, remounting Najoom.
They left Thessan behind.
