She woke several times. Veshier had to stop and rest and in the pitch darkness, Linarra wasn't sure where they were. He told her it was an old, abandoned barn. The hay was rancid smelling, but soft enough, if a little bit damp. She fell back asleep right away.
Linarra woke again when Veshier gently prodded her and offered to carry her on his back. He thought it'd be easier for the both of them. Without food or any real water save muddy puddles here and there, she didn't have the strength to protest, let alone walk.
She noticed his steps were far slower, and he stopped to catch his breath more frequently. His face looked more gaunt, even more severe and angular than usual.
With her chin perched on his shoulder, arms around his neck, Linarra sighed. "How much longer can we go on? There's nothing. No food. No water."
He stopped, to shift her weight. He'd fashioned his cloak to tie around both their waists so he wouldn't drop her. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "Not much longer, but I do see the Temple from here. I know it's probably a day's walk at least, and at our pace, probably two days."
She squinted in the early morning light. It was another gray, hazy day with absolutely no traffic on the Path. She could see the harsh, black silhouette of the Mountain, but no Temple. She had no idea how he could see it.
"I don't see it," she told him.
"No, I'm sure you don't. I see the energy flowing from it. If there were anything else, any other life, maybe I couldn't, the lines would get tangled. They'd bleed into other things." He started walking again, breath labored. It wasn't fair, she realized, making him carry her.
"Just leave me. Go to the Temple. Maybe you can make it back to me in time. It will kill us both if you have to carry me. I'm slowing you down."
He scoffed at her. "No. The bond won't allow it. I'd just turn around and come back. Or worse, you'd die out here and then I would too."
She groaned. "And it's forever?"
"Forever," he said.
Head on his shoulder, she looked out over fallow fields and barren landscape. In the distance, across a field with scraggly, yellowed plants, was a farmhouse. No smoke rose from the chimney, but the windows weren't broken. "Veshier, do you see any life around here?" she asked, lowering her voice, anxiety making her quiet.
He stopped again and turned his head to and fro. "No. Why?"
"There's a house. It's not burned down. The windows aren't broken. It's not far. I think I can walk and lead the way."
"What for?"
"Maybe there's food. Water."
"You intend on breaking in?" he asked, scorn coloring his weary tone.
"Damn right I do. Now put me down."
#
Veshier had to force the door open, but once inside, the house was in decent shape. The bedroom doors were closed and Linarra insisted they stay that way. The house had a bad smell, and she suspected that they'd find the former occupants in their beds. She didn't want to see it or think about it.
In the back of the house was a small well that had enough clear, clean water to drink that she filled her belly until it sloshed. There was little in the way of food, but enough to scrape together a decent meal of oats and potatoes, a few soft carrots, an onion that had sprouted and some dry, cured meat. It grew dark again and Veshier seemed eager to leave.
"I'm going to sleep here for tonight. We can leave in the morning. Take what we can with us. Then you won't have to carry me," she told him, hoping to avoid another argument. They never seemed to agree on anything.
But he didn't argue. He just grunted and slumped in a chair, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles, finally taking off his cloak and pack and putting his blade on the floor. Veshier looked as miserable as she felt. His body probably hurt, his neck and back.
At some point, Priestesses were able to heal with touch. Linarra had never been taught how to do this. She was just supposed to know how intuitively. To admit that it didn't work for her or that the way to do it never entered her thoughts meant that her faith was lacking and the Mother never saw fit to bless her with the ability.
She rose from her chair despite her bones and muscles protesting and laid her hands gently on Veshier's shoulders.
"What are you doing?" he wondered.
"Trying something," she told him, guilt nearly smothering her voice. He'd carried her for an entire day, and she'd slept and been useless. He'd been right, if a bit harsh. This was their only chance at any sort of redemption.
Linarra closed her eyes and just wished that she could relieve his pain. She didn't know what words to say or what thoughts to think to appeal to the Mother, to prove to Her that she was worthy of such a gift, even if it wasn't for herself.
Veshier took in a breath, maybe to say something or make fun of her, but instead, made a soft sound of surprise. She could feel it, the warmth ran down her arms and pooled in her fingertips. Gently, she pressed a little harder, determined that the warmth flow from her into him.
She felt joy bubble in her chest. This was how it was supposed to be. This made the hymns make sense. She felt the love of the Mother, even if it seemed a little muffled, like someone shouting at you from a room or two over. It was there, though.
And just as soon as it arrived, it faded, the warmth and joy left her. Linarra frowned, opening her eyes and looking down at her fingers with their chipped nails and callouses. "Sorry," she muttered.
"No need. I feel renewed," Veshier said, a hint of something in his tone, maybe pride.
"They never taught me how," she said.
He arched a brow. "No? What did they teach you?"
She snorted and went to cupboards, looking in them again even though she'd done so half a dozen times. "Not much. We mostly sang hymns. We read the Teachings of Ishahn. Over and over until we memorized them. We made offerings to the Aspects." She found a bottle of wine, dusty, rolled in the back of a cabinet.
Taking it out, she cleaned it off with her sleeve. She'd had wine before, of course, but only a little. Using a rusty kitchen knife, she corked it, unsure of how to get the cork out so she just rammed it into the bottle. She poured them both a very generous cup.
"What did they teach you?" she asked, setting the cup down on the table so that it brushed his fingers.
He took it and drank it, pulling a face. He didn't complain though. "How to fight," he said with a wry grin. "How to serve."
The wine was dark and bitter, and she didn't like it much, but it made her belly warm and she hoped it'd soothe her nerves and help her sleep so she kept drinking it. "I never understood why a Priestess needs a Guardian."
He hmm'd. "It has always been this way. Since the time of the Prophet. Those that serve the Usurper would do you harm if they could."
She wouldn't have believed anyone served the Usurper unless she'd seen it with her own eyes.
"To sacrifice a Priestess would be a great boon. The Brotherhood has done it before," Veshier said.
The men in the dark robes, hoods covering their faces, all standing around a bonfire...were they waiting for her? Not her in particular, but any Initiate walking the Path to the Mountain? She repressed a shudder, both at the idea and the taste of the wine.
"Yes," Veshier said, as if answering her thoughts. "I considered it. The village that used to be there was once full of market stalls and traveling vendors, all for those who gathered to see the Initiates make the Pilgrimage."
"Did you just read my thoughts?" she asked, amazed and a little annoyed. It felt so invasive. Was nothing private? What if he'd been able to read her other, less flattering thoughts?
He shook his head. "No. Of course not. But I felt your sudden fear and I just thought...I don't know. I was thinking about it. Maybe that's why the Brotherhood chose that village." He rolled his broad shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, but she didn't feel convinced.
She refilled their cups, trying to picture her thoughts all huddled behind a stone wall. She wasn't sure if she had any control over the way the bond functioned or not, but she'd at least try. She didn't want him reading her thoughts, and she certainly didn't want to read his!
The moment she thought that, her feelings began to shift as she sipped her wine, used to the bitter taste, she drained her cup much faster. Wouldn't it be easier if she could know his thoughts, though? She'd know why he really disliked her. She'd know what he was really like, what he hid behind his stony exterior. While they did have the rest of their lives to find out those things about each other, a little help wouldn't hurt, would it?
She peeped at him over the lip of her cup. His expression was impossible to read. He merely looked worn and tired. Linarra didn't mean to, but she then thought of how he'd been fucking someone in the room next to hers the day before they left for this cursed journey. Warmth crept into her face, and she choked a little on her wine.
Veshier scowled and turned his face towards her. "What?" he snapped.
"Nothing. I didn't say anything," she said, wishing she could sink into the floor. She couldn't stop her thoughts either, looking at him, the way color rose to his pale face, his slight sneer.
He rose from his chair and stood over her, placing his hands on the arms of the chair, blocking her in. "What are you thinking?" he asked lowly. Linarra wasn't sure if he was threatening her or something else.
She shook her head. "Nothing," she muttered.
He gave her a mean, wolfish smile. "Liar," he said.
The way his face looked was different. Younger, more approachable. He was handsome before, but now, in the dim, dusty moonlight that crept in through the oily windows, he made her chest ache. He leaned in.
Linarra didn't know what he was doing, not at first, not until he kissed her, his hand moving from the arm of the chair to the back of her head. She gasped against his mouth, feeling lost and surprised.
She felt possessed. The bond acted and moved through her, lifting her hands, tangling it in his hair. She'd have fought if she knew how. She wasn't entirely sure if she wanted to kiss him or not, but that she very suddenly had to.
What did it hurt? She wondered as his tongue slid into her mouth. It was inevitable. But it wasn't how she wanted it. Not this way. Not half starved and exhausted, navigating a dying world and running away from a dangerous cult. She had to assert her own will again.
It was like trying to swim in hot molasses. Every flailing movement dragged her down deeper until she forgot to fight at all. The only sobering thought she had was just a question. Why? Why was he doing this? She thought he hated her. Was it just the bond?
Veshier broke the kiss, but he didn't pull away. His hand tugged her hair and his lips found her throat. It pulled a moan past her lips even as she thought to stop it all somehow. It was a lie. Even if it was a lie she liked.
With a sudden rush of cold, Linarra pushed him away, her face hot, her breath quick. "We shouldn't," she mumbled.
Veshier straightened but didn't move away. He still towered over her. "Why not?"
"We don't really like each other."
He laughed, though he didn't sound amused. It was more of a scoff. "That's not entirely true and you know it."
She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins, making herself small, wishing she were far away. "I don't know what you mean," she said, tone flat.
Finally, he stepped away, returning to his chair. "You fancy me a little," he told her, his tone as cold as hers was flat.
It made her stomach hurt, souring the wine she'd been trying to enjoy. She felt humiliated and wanted to sink into the ground. He didn't have to say anything, and she wasn't entirely sure it was accurate anyway. She'd liked him better before they'd left.
"Not really," she bit back. "I don't think you're particularly nice. You're handsome, but so what? Doesn't mean much if you're always so unpleasant."
He laughed, genuinely. "Unpleasant? You're no prize either," he said. "Always whining. Complaining. Never anything nice to say."
She glowered at him. "I think I've earned the right to complain."
He shrugged a shoulder. "If you say so."
#
She refused to talk to him anymore that night. Instead, she drank the rest of the wine, even if she'd be sorry in the morning and slept in her chair, her head lolled to one side.
Linarra didn't dream often, or at least, she didn't remember her dreams often. When she woke, the dream she'd had clung to her like sticky cobwebs. It was better to focus on than her headache or sore neck so she sat quietly and watched the sun rise.
She'd dreamed she'd been in a strange, subterranean place, the ceiling made of craggy rock, the floor slick stone. The air there felt hot and thick, heavy, charged with anticipation. When she looked down at her hands in the dream, they were covered in blood and trembling. She realized it was her blood and that she was dying.
"Please," a male voice had said, "Please don't..."
And that was it. She'd woken up with a soft cry. Probably all nonsense. Just regurgitated things she'd been disturbed by in the last few days. Maybe she harbored guilt about the girl she couldn't save. Maybe she felt anxiety about the rest of the pilgrimage.
Linarra wasn't sure, though. It felt important, like something she should pay attention to which annoyed her because it was just a brief flash. It didn't -mean- anything without context. She looked over at Veshier in the pale light. He still slept, his head rolled back. With his features slack with sleep, he looked less mean and intimidating. He was only a few years older than her, but he wore those years hard.
She still felt stung by the previous evening. She didn't want to think about it, but it was impossible not to. Linarra regretted it immensely. Her first kiss wasn't something she gave much thought to, but she was sure she would've liked it to mean something more.
Standing stiffly, muscles in knots, nerves in her neck pinched, Linarra gathered her things. She only had her pack and walking stick and her cloak which she'd used as a blanket. Everything, including her, stunk. Sweat and dirt, like the house where the possessed girl died. She desperately wanted a bath, but she wasn't sure when that was going to happen.
Feeling mean-spirited, she kicked the toe of Veshier's boot, and he startled awake with a snort, nearly falling out of his chair. Wordless, he stood, clearly just as sore as she was, but without any complaint. She could feel his irritation and bad mood. Not that he'd complain. He loved -not- complaining. He gathered his long sword and cloak and started for the door. Good, she thought.
She didn't want to talk anyway. It helped and didn't at the same time. The awkwardness between them was heavy, but it was nice not to talk about it.
Veshier grumbled about heading towards the swirling energy he could see in the distance. It wasn't far, he assured her. Linarra's legs were so stiff and sore, every step was agony. Though they'd had a little to eat and drink, it wasn't near enough and her stomach complained audibly. She wasn't sure she could walk ten feet, and she had no idea what Veshier's definition of 'close' was, but after their kiss, she would rather try than ask him to carry her again.
Strangely, after a few minutes, the pain in her limbs eased enough to continue. Maybe the little bit of food and sleep they'd had actually helped after all. She kept her eyes on Veshier's heels as he plodded forward and let her mind wander off. Linarra didn't think of anything in particular, but it helped pass the time and distract her from her aches and pains.
he had no idea how much time passed when she first heard excited voices and cheers. Linarra came out of her drifting thoughts jaggedly, stumbling, nearly falling into Veshier's back. He'd stopped, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword.
Peering around him, she could have cried in relief. "Wait," she said to him in a trembling whisper. "They're Priestesses. Monks."
They came to them singing bright and cheery hymns, throwing flower petals into the air. Even the land around them had changed. No longer was it fallow fields and bare, skeletal trees. Even the air seemed alive, humming with the sound of insects and tittering birds. Verdant trees were just ahead and the air smelled like sweet spring time right after the rain.
Veshier's hand stubbornly stayed put far longer than Linarra thought necessary, but she didn't chide him. She understood. They'd been through so much. Even though his hand fell back to his side, she saw the taut line of his body, the way his shoulders hunched and her relief was poisoned a little. Could he sense or see something she couldn't?
The acolytes and Priestesses danced their way to them, their arms extended, their happy faces radiating pride and excitement. She wanted to run to them, let them carry her away, but she waited behind Veshier, unsure of what to do and now feeling a little embarrassed at all the attention.
"Should we...go to them?" she asked him finally, voice low enough so that just he could hear her.
He hmm'd. "They wear the colors? The robes?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, confused. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head, brow furrowed deeply.
"I don't know," he said, and she could feel his honesty and fear.
Towering ahead of them was the Usurper's prison. She'd avoided looking at Mt. Hyn as much as possible. It unsettled her. But now she couldn't tear her gaze away. Maybe Veshier's unease was simply the proximity to the Usurper.
"That's not it," he said, answering her. "It's not the mountain. I don't know. Just..." He half turned to her and took her hands, face solemn. "Just be on guard."