Page 96 of Crown of Iron
I call his gift to me, and the fire moves to my hand. Without another word, I descend into the darkness as he slides the tomb's lid into a place.
It's a tough hike through the tunnel. Papa stops often, unaccustomed to exerting himself in such a way. I do my best to encourage him, sharing stories of my siblings and helping him recall his favorite traits of my mother. At some point, I drape his arm over my shoulder so he can use me as a crutch while I continue to carry our only source of light.
My body aches and despite the freezing temperatures below ground, I'm hot and sweaty. Every step we take brings us closer to dehydration and fatigue. We can't stop and risk falling asleep and extinguishing Kyron's flame, so we forge on.
As much as I hate Kyron, I should want to destroy anything which reminds me of him. It’s tempting, but the heartbroken dreamer inside of me wants to keep this one last piece of him a little longer. It’s a small reminder of the man I thought him to be, an ember of the life I thought we could have.
My father stumbles forward, and I yelp, discarding the flame to catch him. We both fall to the ground, kicking up dirt. The dust coats our already dry mouths and eyes. I struggle through the pain to prop him against the wall before sliding down at his side.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“This is a lot for an old man,” he answers.
I nudge him with my shoulder. “You're not that old.”
He chuckles, and I can't help but to laugh with him. It’s good to hear his voice and be in his presence again. This is the medicine I needed for my broken heart.
“How much trouble am I going to have to get you out of with Micah?” he asks.
“A lot. I've not made life easy for him since they took you.”
I tell him the story of how I snuck away to find his soldiers and how they accepted me as their own after a bumpy start. He relates to my stories at Basecamp and shares some of his own with the people I grew to love. I even enjoy his memories of Kyron, picturing him as I did before today.
We doze off a couple of times, and it’s not until footsteps approach that an anxious energy rushes through me, and I'm alert. I shake Papa, saying, “Someone is coming. Get up, we have to move.”
“I don’t think I can, Raelle. I’m in no shape to keep moving. You must go on without me.”
“No.” I stand and yank on his arm, fighting to get him on his feet, but I might as well be lifting a boulder. With no other choice, I drag him along the dirt. We move at a snail's pace, but I don't give in even as our pursuers draw closer.
“No, no,” I repeat, and with tears running down my face, I reach for my dagger.
It's gone.
I rush back to where we were sitting, whispering pleading words to the Statera. I beg for its divine intervention. A light or draw to my weapon, anything that won’t leave us at a disadvantage. Falling to my hands and knees, I dig my fingers into the dirt and feel for my knife. When light andshadows stretch along the wall, I rush back to Papa and pull him again.
I change tactics with the Statera and pray for strength. I strain and grunt, dragging my father. My panic subsides for just a moment, and I realize I'm not sure if we are going in the right direction anymore.
Using the Eporri, I call to any nearby gifts. My hands shake in front of me, grasping at humid air and nothing more.
No Kyron.
No Statera.
No dagger.
I ball my hands into fists, ready to fight with the only thing I have left. Coiling my muscles, I stand ready, my eyes focused ahead. Their light shines around the corner, and I squint against the bright rays. Blinded, I stagger back and place myself between them and Papa.
“Raelle?”
“General Mansi, are you all right?”
“Leif?” I say.
An arm wraps around my shoulder and something presses to my lips. “Drink,” Leif commands, and I swallow, leaning into him.
My eyes adjust, and I find Ulric tending to my father. Two more figures step into the light and Greer asks, “Where's Kyron?”
I shake my head. “He stayed.”
