Page 70 of The Ember and the Emerald

“Are the spears a common thing or rare?” I asked as the men draped a dizzying cloth over the spear tips, then strapped goat horns to a set of poles. Those horns produced a low, rich sound with every gust of wind.

“Very common.” He dipped his head closer to me. “I wouldn’t judge the time of a vision based on them, if that is what you are doing.” He motioned to the horns. “The noise grows loud when monstra approach. Their wings stir the air, even from a great distance.”

“Clever,” I replied, impressed with it all. More so? They completed their series of tasks in less than an hour.

When they finished, the soldiers sat around the flames, silent, sharing dried meat and drinking from canteens.

Nervousness sealed my airways. It was time.

My ribcage suddenly felt too small and too wide as I hooked my backpack over my shoulder, linked my hand with Jasher’s, and led him toward the river.

“Should I accompany—” a guard began.

“No,” Ahav interjected. “She’ll return, safe and sound.”

I didn’t miss his use of “she” rather than “they.” Because he knew what I planned, and he was allowing me to do it.

At the shore, a good distance from the others and hidden by thick bushes, I dropped the pack and clasped Jasher’s other hand. He kept his focus just over my head, unwilling to meet my gaze. The sun faded completely, pinpricks of white glittering brightly enough to cast him in ribbons of starlight.

“Look at me,” I beseeched, a soft rasp. “Please. If you want to.”

His body stiffened, as though fused with invisible steel.

Heartbeat, heartbeat.

Finally, he slid his gaze to mine. His eyes were as wild as a storm. “I know what you wish to say. But if you do this,” he all but growled, “I will leave you. I won’t stay.”

I inhaled as though I’d been underwater too long. I’d thought…hoped… “What about the Ember?” I moved my grip to his shirt. “Don’t you want to try to steal it from me?” What are you doing? Begging him to stay?

“You don’t understand.” Torment twisted his features. “I feel him. Ian calls to me. All the time, he calls. Demands.”

Desperation slashed my calm. “Jasher.” Yes. I was begging, and I didn’t care.

“Leave me in the chains, and I’ll stay,” he stated, and it was as if he summoned a thousand memories to the fringes of my mind.

I drilled my knuckles into my temples, reaching for one recollection, then another. Again and again, they danced away. But I knew. Regardless of Elowen’s taunt in Kansas, I hadn’t teamed up with different clones. Always, only Jasher. He’d not been some nameless, faceless member of the hordes. We’d stood here, done this, said this, before.

“I won’t leave you in chains, even to keep you,” I said softly. I couldn’t live with myself.

“So be it.” He gripped my wrists and forced me to lower my hands. But he didn’t release me. Not yet. “Remember this. You can trust nothing I say. I will betray you.”

“If I shouldn’t trust what you say, I should believe you won’t betray me.” Please. Pick me. I tried one more time to reach him. “We don’t have to be enemies.”

“We do.” He yanked me close, erasing all space. His heart raced against mine. “Pain stalks you, Moriah. It comes hot and fast. Be ready.”

He kissed me—fast, rough, and far too brief. When he lifted his head, he steeled his jaw. His eyes flashed regret. Anger. Hope. Longing. Drawn as tight as a bowstring, he finally released me. Stepped back.

He held up his hands, the cuffs glinting in moonlight. “You do not need to remove them.”

Loss burned through me, torching my composure to a thin husk. But I schooled my expression, revealing nothing. He’d made his choice. I wouldn’t beg for scraps. “If you want to keep wearing them, fine.” My tone sharpened. “That’s on you. Go.” I shooed him off. “Do it. Leave.”

A muscle jumped beneath his eye. “You thought you were my jailer.” With a few twists of his wrists, the chains unlatched with a soft snick and fell. “You were not.”

I watched it happen, shocked, confused. “How? When?”

“Since I used Ian’s trick coin to retract the spikes,” he said, unrepentant.

My discordant breaths became a soundtrack to accusation. “You spied on me. Reported to Ian.”