The heat settled into her clothes as she left the shaded protection of the tent. It was foolish to be outside at such an hour, when the sun was the highest and the heat the strongest, but then again, so was their errand. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she wiped it away with a willowy hand.
Armand kept his easy pace next to her, hands in his pockets, like he couldn't be bothered with the sun. Her parents could chastise her all they wanted, but they couldn't ban her from him. In another life, their friendship might have been more acceptable, but Armand's brother's wings were more curse than blessing. They'd doomed him to a life spent as a mercenary, here or somewhere different, but it didn't really matter. The fact that they were half-brothers spared Armand that fate--even if he scarcely appeared to appreciate it--but according to her parents they were one in the same.
"Do you think he lived? He looked pretty bad." Wren's stomach turned, thinking about it. Maybe that's why they'd brought him through the center of the caravan, he'd lost too much blood. She shuddered.
Armand shrugged. "Sometimes they don't. We'll find out when we get there, I guess."
The sparse collection of supply crates and wagons and livestock pens disappeared as they crossed into the heart of the caravan, swallowed up by a dizzying array of tents. They pitched in every direction, made of every kind of fabric, in every configuration one could imagine. But the tents never forgot who they belonged to.
The rich merchants in the center of town, if you could call it a town, had towering tents made of silk, pitched on sturdy wooden poles in arrangements that made sense. Their banner flags flapped in the breeze, heralding to anyone that would listen how important the person inside was.
Wren snorted. Her family had two rooms made of cotton, and it was all they needed, much as her parents thought otherwise.
"He couldn't have been older than fifteen. I feel a little bad for him," she said. "If he's still alive, I mean." She uncapped the canteen hanging around her neck and took a long draw from it. It tasted like sand and heat, but it made the burning in her throat go away. She handed it back to Armand, who took a swig and capped it without asking her what she meant.
"We pick up people in the desert all the time. It shouldn't surprise you since you were one. Still haven't heard the story behind that, by the way." Armand didn't look at her as he spoke, but Wren's face flushed. Her mind raced when she thought about the day she left the village. Their empty stares and angry looks or even worse, indifference. She shuddered.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You never do."
"I told you, our crops died and we ran out of money."
She sighed with relief when Armand simply shrugged, and didn't ask anymore. He'd asked enough times that he should know by now, that he wouldn't get a good answer from her. But it never did stop him from trying.
"Okay." Armand sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. "I don't like it when you lie, though."
Wren stared limply at him for a few moments, then smiled like she'd just won a prize. "I'll tell you as soon as you tell me what is going on with your brother. I saw him leave this morning and you're still here. Again."
Armand's face flashed anger, all creased eyebrows and darting eyes, like a fire on a bright day, but in an instant it was gone again. He looked away from her and rubbed at his elbow.
"Then we're not talking, I guess," he said. His eyes iced over and he stared into the distance, mouth set in a hard line. Wren deflated. She'd only wanted him to stop asking. She turned her gaze back into the maze of tents, toward the large patchwork one near the horizon that held sick people and their healers.
"Let's just go," she said, less grateful for the quiet than she'd expected. She let out a sigh of relief when he fell into line beside her instead of staying behind to sulk. Armand could not be more different than his brother, and she was thankful for that, at least.
She stayed away from Griffon as much as she could. He was the opposite of Armand. Tall, angular, and built like a brick, with electric blue wings that cascaded down his back and did nothing to make him look less intimidating. He was eleven years older and had a face set in a permanent scowl that made her uncomfortable. She was glad he had gone for the day so they wouldn't run into him.
By the time they got to the medic tent, both were dripping with sweat, heaving with exhaustion, and eager to get out of the sun. A man peeked his head around a makeshift desk as Wren pushed the thin tent fabric aside. The smell of antiseptic and blood tendriled up her nose.
"Armand. Are you looking for someone? Who's your friend?" the man asked.
"Not in particular," Armand answered before she could. The man's voice spoke a silent she shouldn't be here, and Wren thanked him for not answering the second question as she scanned the room. Several people lay in beds, sheets covering their faces, evidence of the last raider attack. Wren tried not to look at them, though it was harder to ignore their smell.
"What happened to the kid from this morning?" Armand asked.
"He'll live. He's patched up and asleep," the man behind the desk answered, looking up for a moment from the book he held in his hands. "Did you know him?"
"No," Wren answered, perhaps a little too quickly.
The only person awake and moving sat on the edge of a cot on the other end of the tent. A great pair of red wings sprouted from his shoulders. Tattered strips of bandages wound around his torso, ragged around the edges and stained pink from the blood and bits of flesh they held back from his fledging.
He picked things off the tray in front of him. A bowl of stew, a cup of water. A small container filled with a murky purple liquid. He picked it up as Wren drew closer. His eyes lifted from the tray and locked onto hers, and his eyebrows raised in surprise. Wren could feel her hackles rising as she took his face in.
"Wren?"
Bile rose in her throat. He reached for her for half a moment, and Wren fell back like a startled cat. If she had known Rannok was here, she would have fled until her feet left earth and left this place. She never could have forgotten his face, not for an instant. Not for an entire lifetime, even if she tried.
"Are you okay?" Armand's voice barely cut through her thoughts. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Her eyes stung. They'd run away to get away from him, and here he was, an unwelcome ghost of her past.
"Let's go," she said.
"Wait." The man on the gurney rose to his feet, knees shaking, face pale. "It's been three years. I can't believe you're here."
"Four," she replied, voice terse enough to cut through steel. Four years wasn't enough to forget what he'd done. It wasn't enough for her to give him the chance to ask her forgiveness. He didn't deserve it anyway.
Armand looked between them for a second, then blinked and gently touched Wren's upper arm. "Who is this guy?"
"I'm leaving." She tore away from him and left as quickly as her feet would carry her, without looking to see if either would follow. Her blood pounded in her ears. Breath caught in her chest, ragged as a storm breeze, and rushed out again with a hollow gasp. She crawled inside a supply tent, behind a box of spices that clogged her nose and made her eyes sting more. Her arms hugged her knees.
He couldn't be here. Not now. Where would she go next? The cities wouldn't take her, not without a husband. But she wouldn't be able to stay here, either. Not once everyone knew. Not once they learned about the horrible things she did and--
"Wren!"
Armand's voice floated through the thin fabric. Wren didn't move. Angry tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She wiped at them with her sleeve, but it only made more of them. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. Another ragged gasp caught in her throat.
Armand's footsteps drew closer. He lifted the tent flap and stepped inside, his shadow falling over her as he moved beside her and sat down.
"What happened?"
"I'm fine," Wren responded. She turned away from him and wished she could disappear into the boxes. He shook his head.
"No, you're not fine." he said. "I'm not gonna force you to tell me but you're not fine. How did you know him?"
Wren's fingernails bit uncomfortably into her palms, and she wiped at her eyes again. He reached an arm around her shoulder, and she fought the urge to shrug it off so she could keep crying and feeling sorry for herself.
"I lied when I said our crops died and we ran out of money," she said.
He laughed, in a way that was more resignation than making fun of her. "I'm not an idiot, Wren. I know."
"No," she said, her voice wavering. "You don't."
She closed her eyes and tried not to remember. It was hot that day, and they were fifteen. The village marketplace wasn't like the one in the caravan. It was quiet. It allowed for sneaking around. It hid them when Rannok most needed it. And she was a good kid. A kid no one suspected something so terrible out of.
"I mean, I could stop bothering you but it's so easy."
"Stop asking," she replied. The muscles in her shoulders tensed. She could still smell the gunpowder from the fireworks she'd purchased, and he'd helped her plant. She could hear the tremendous roar as the market stall collapsed and the old man fell.
"I'm not asking, I'm just saying if you—"
"I knew him from home."
Armand blinked and withdrew his arm from around her shoulder. He picked at the cuticle on his thumb and didn't look at her.
"Oh."
"There was an accident. I don't want to talk about it."
Her stomach rose into her throat again. She remembered that day so clearly. Rannok had asked for her help setting fireworks under one of the market stalls. What Rannok had done was supposed to be a harmless prank, penance for having turned him in the week before for throwing rocks at his camels.
Cain had been old. If the market stall had collapsed on someone younger, perhaps they wouldn't have died.
But she couldn't bring herself to tell Armand. She'd lose her only friend because of Rannok. It would be all his fault, again. Just like it was his fault when he ran and hid around a corner and left her for everyone to stare at.
"I wasn't trying to hurt anyone," she said, though that didn't change anything. It didn't change that they took away someone's grandfather. It didn't change that no one wanted to talk to her anymore. It didn't make the villagers treat her and her family like less of a pariah.
Armand's body uncoiled, stretched out between the boxes and the tent fabric, his eyes barely visible in the filtered light. A breeze rustled the tent fabric and stretched the silence between them.
"What happened?"
Wren's shoulders sank. It stung more than she wanted it to. More than she realized it would. She leaned away from him a little.
"He blackmailed me. I stole a scarf the week before. He threatened to turn me in and I was only fifteen and I didn't want to get in trouble, I just didn't think and I tried to stop him but I didn't and it was so stupid and I'm sorry. I just couldn't. I—" She didn't know what else and collapsed into a fit of crying instead.
"Stop," he said. "It's fine. Look. I don't want to know."
She looked up at him. His eyes were cool, and it made the muscles in her chest relax. He wasn't angry. He didn't care. She didn't know which she preferred.
"My parents still haven't forgiven me," she said. "They act like it's okay, but it isn't. They kicked us out of the village right after."
He snorted. "Griffon's still mad because I set fire to our tent by accident when I was six. We all do stupid things. You didn't hurt anyone on purpose."
"You don't mean that," she said. She played with her thumb some more and stared into the wall. His shoulders were tense still, and he wouldn't look at her. She swallowed hard and did not move.
"I'd be pissed too, he got you kicked out of your home."
She looked over at him and furrowed her eyebrows. His wrists flexed. His back curved into one of the boxes, shoulder tensing like he wanted to hit something. He put a hand on his arm and he stilled. Tilted his neck to the side until it cracked.
"I hope he leaves."
Armand nodded. "I do too."