Page 115 of In Her Own Rite

He will find her,Lena’s spirit said.You can’t save her. Andagaayu, I know with everything in me that she was right. I can feel it in the ether, somehow—that this was how the ancestors wanted it. That whatever grand and horrible thing is unfolding for her in that ring is the way it was supposed to be. Without me there to defend her.

No. I sprint faster, harder, trying to outrun time. Somewhere in the back of my mind I register Seb and Saga shift far behind me, both running towards the cliffs, too. There may be more behind them, but they’re too far for me to register, and Iwill notstop. I can’t. I know I can’t save her, but I have to try.

As I run, faster and harder than I ever have, for lack of anything else I can do, I pray. I pray to theagaayit, the gods to who made her, who knew her before her soul had a body, who watched every day of her life and every moment that led her here. I ask them for time. Not just for me, to get to her before she’s hurt. But for more time with her.

I reach the first, then the second bend in the path to the cliffs, and it’s only then that I realize the sky is dark. Thekiyyulitwere out earlier, weren’t they? They had to be, for her rite. The realization of their absence sinks into my bones like a bad omen.

You can’t save her, Lena said.You can’t save her. You can’t save her.

For every time I hear those words, I make myself remember what Emerson whispered to me:We have time.We have time.We have time.

I want it, need it to be true. I need more days with her; more mornings waking up together, pulling her close to me in the early hours, when the sky is still pink and there’s a mist over the hills. More winter evenings sitting next to her by the fire. More summers under the sun in the back garden, hearing her laugh. More and more and more, a thousand moments. A thousand arguments, even. All the time she believed we could count on.

We have the rest of our lives, she’d said. And I beg theagaayitnot to cut hers short.

The exhaustion is starting to set into my body, but I make myself keep going, and that’s when I see it. Somewhere far ahead, coming down from the ring, is a shadow. It walks deliberately, but I see a weight in the gait that doesn’t match the way Emerson walks.

Agaayu,agaayu,it’s too late. I couldn’t get there in time.

As I get nearer, the shape of the shadow becomes more clear. And then I realize: it’s someone holding a body. As I get close, the smell of blood hits my nostrils, then the scent of something else. Sickness, sweat.

I snarl, barking.Get your goddamn hands off her body, I want to shout. I want to kill him. I want to tear him limb from limb. I want to make good on the promise I made Thalia weeks ago, before all this: that there won’t be enough of him back to send to the southern isles in a box.

But as I get closer, it registers somewhere in my wolf’s mind before it hits mine: it’s not Emerson’s blood I smell in the air. And as I get close enough to make it out, I realize.

It’s Em walking down the hill. And the body she’s carrying is her father.

Her hands are bloody, and I can see the sweat and determination on her face. The adrenaline in me is too high to give form to happiness or relief. As I reach her, I shift back into my human form, panting.

“Em. Oh my God, Em. You’re okay. What—oh my God.”

I look down. The wolf in her arms is massive but skeletal. I realize he’s still breathing.

“He’s sick,” she says, her voice betraying the strain in her voice. “But he’s gonna be okay.”

“Em—I—what the fuck?” I ask. I’m still gasping, trying to catch my breath, and my brain can’t quite catch up. She’s walking forward, careful with every step. “I… what? Did you fight him?”

“I fought a version of him,” she says. “But then the lights—I don’t know. They were all around me, and I heard my mom’s voice. And then they disappeared and he was there in the ring. The real him.”

I put an arm out to stop her, but she shakes her head and keeps walking. The wolf in her arms groans, and I find myself filled by a wave of loathing.

“He’s not in his right mind,” she says, noting me looking at him. “There’s not enough plants to eat up there, to survive, and he’s eaten a lot of unprocessedkattaka. I gave him water, and it must have activated some of it. He probably can’t even hear us right now.”

“Is he dying?” I ask. He reeks of infection.

“Not anymore. When I got there, yes. He has a bad back injury and an infected wound, and he’s starving and dehydrated on top of that. He wouldn’t have made it another day. I healed him enough to carry him back to the infirmary, but I needed to save enough of my own energy to bring him back down.”

“I… but Em. Stop. Why would you save him?” I ask. “This is the man who killed your mother. Who hurtyou.”

“Because he needed help,” she says, her voice labored. “I don’t care what he did. It could have been anyone. I wasn’t going to let him die up there.”

She shifts his weight in her arms, and I see the strain in her face.

“I… Here, let me help you,” I say, reaching for him.

“No,” she snaps. “No. I need to do this. I have to do this myself.”

I’m surprised at the tone of her voice, but I see it in her face. She has to do this.

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