Partisan - Book II

Prologue

The fire burns low, a small, smoldering thing that gives little light or warmth.

He readjusts the thick woolen cloak around his shoulders, clasping it tighter around his neck as the chill of the night seeps up under it.

They are all finding it difficult to stay warm anymore.

Pots and pans clang together as the others clean up, but neither of his companions bothers him. Part of it is a kindness toward him—he knows that—but they are lost in their own thoughts and wonderings too.

They all have been quiet since it happened.

The wind whips through their campsite, and Ben raises his head, feeling the icy blast against his face. He sometimes fancies he can hear a voice on it, low and melodious, and he thinks of Pai Luella, and, musingly, of ghosts and lovers past.

Of Allayria.

He wonders what he would do if he saw her specter walking the ramparts, looking for him.

He thinks about her a lot now, after everything that has been done. He doesn't hate her. How could he? With her bright, brilliant light, her careful and quick mind. Of course she would lie. Of course she wouldn't tell him what she was. He had told her from the start, hadn't he, what he planned to do to the Paragon? 

No, he understands. Her drive, her need to find a nonlethal way—it makes so much sense now.

And he had unknowingly propagated the façade too: he had humored her, helped her, despite knowing in his heart of hearts that all her plans would never work. He has always known, despite what he might wish now, that they couldn't accomplish everything he has dreamed of if the Paragon remained alive. These carefully laid plans he had sacrificed so much for—they all had sacrificed so much for, he thinks, his gaze darting to the empty sleeve pinned to Meg's side and the vacant patch of grass next to Iaves—would fall apart with her alive.

Skill or no Skill, the Paragon was... what had she unwittingly called it? "A symbol to rally to..." A figure to unite behind. How could Ben break the chains of this world if the anchor was still standing?

And deep down, beneath all the conviction, all this calm purposefulness that controls and guides him, a wistful part of him dreams about another space, another time in which she is just Allayria, the Smith-caller—no Nature-calling, no Beast-calling—and there's no duty, no higher demands requiring them to be pulled apart. But he knows with the steadfast certainty he has instinctually followed his whole life that even this dream is impossible. That woman wouldn't be Allayria.

But that club... the thought whispers in the chambers of his mind again, a familiar echo that conjures the image of that ice club cracking down on her head. I thought— I was certain...

And it seems to him like it is divine providence that she had to be it. Like the universe knew, and had one last joke, one last test for him. And the more he thinks about it, the more it seems so natural that it was her, the one he loved best.

It makes him think of offerings and sacrifices, but that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. This reduces her to a thing to be given up or thrown away, and she was never that. He thinks of her long, flowing black hair, the shine of her copper skin, and her constantly moving, always calculating gaze, the subtle way her body would shift and turn, emitting hints of the thoughts and feelings hidden beneath the polite smile. A cypher he thought he had cracked, but clearly had not. Even after these long months he still can't encompass what she meant to him, even now that she is gone.

He leans back against the tree, taking in the cool northern air, letting it swell in his lungs and expand in his chest.

He misses her. He will always miss her.

But he also knows, just as he did in that moment after when he watched her fall, his hands steady and eyes clear, that he made the right choice.