The Last Red Year

TWENTY-TWO: Echoes

 The streets of Penncradle are empty.

Their horse's hoofsteps echo across the sleeping city, and they tug at the cloak fastened at their neck, its clasp hiding the newly-formed scar that Isri left. The city is far quieter than it should be, even this late at night, and the air is heavy, much too still. They dismount at the palace gates--someone comes to take their horse, gesturing for them to hurry inside without so much as a sound. They've been gone nearly a month--the ride to Serifoss was long, and the ride back longer, their injuries from the fight with Isri preventing their little party from traveling as fast as they could have. Something has changed. Something's different here. They aren't certain what.

Mauragan and Sorine run to their side as soon as they're in the palace, throwing their arms around them. "The fuck were you gone so long for?" Sorine demands as Mauragan takes their travel cloak--then stares at the scar on their neck, eyes narrowing. "Who the hell did this to you?"

"Isri," they breathe out, voice rough with disuse. They've barely spoken the entire ride home. Not even to Lilinore. "It's gone. Serifoss is gone."

Mauragan and Sorine just hold them, neither letting go for a very long time.

Sorine updates them on life in Penncradle--the only good news is that Kizlane is still alive. Their leg, badly mangled, became infected past the point of saving, but with it gone, they're recovering well enough. The real update is about the company of Mages that has settled to the north, right at the foot of the Golden Mountain. Nobody has been close enough to see the actual camp--even the Royal Guard won't venture that far into the foothills. Everyone in town has been on edge since they arrived, and a small party rode in from Felikai only a few days ago--the monsters there are being driven out of their homes too.

Kas goes to sit with Kizlane, needing some quiet. They're tired from the ride, and they don't want to think about the ominous clouds hanging over Penncradle. The Mages are driving monsters into Cappbryde from the far reaches of the continent, and Kas has their suspicions as to why. A concentrated population is easier to attack. They can still smell the smoke from Serifoss's last hours. The stench lingers in their memory like a burr in fabric. They're terrified Penncradle will be next.

"Kas?" Kizlane says, pushing themself upright. They look tired, thick black hair disheveled and deep circles worn beneath their eyes. "Hey, hey, c'mere, kid. You look worn down to the bone."

"We didn't get there fast enough," they say, climbing into bed and letting Kizlane pull them into their arms. They hate how much of a relief it is to sink against them like this--they've already lost Tallin and Hadling, and getting attached to Kizlane in the same way just feels like they're asking the universe to take them away from them too. "It's just gone. The whole city's gone. Just like Callocast. I tried, Kizlane, I tried, but--"

"Whoa, there. Whoa." Kizlane hushes them, running a hand through Kas's hair. "You're fightin' an impossible war. If you got one single person out of those flames, that's something to be damn proud of." They prop themself up with their pillows, rubbing Kas's back while they sob into their shirt. "Even if that person was yourself."

It doesn't make them feel that much better. They don't think anything could. "I just want my sibling back," they mumble after a long while. "I don't know what I did to make them so mad at me. All I've ever done is love them and they tried to slit my throat." They bring a hand up to the scar on their neck, feeling Isri's blade hot and sharp against their skin. "I don't get what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong. Not a thing. I promise you," Kizlane says, tucking a blanket around Kas's shoulders. "There's a reason the ol' Red Mage was tryin' so hard to stop all that nonsense about kids at the Magescourt. They were eight when they got scouted, you know. An' ever since they were stuck fightin' a war they never wanted to be a part of. I was seventeen when they got to me, an' that was by design. Ain't never a good idea, bein' a child spy."