Ice Country

My arm drops when I see her.

Skye.

Blood-spattered and fierce-eyed andhere. The bodies of dozens of guards are scattered andbroken on the floor behind her. She came. She came for me—for us.For Jolie and me.

She looks at me, at the king, at Jolie’sbody, taking it all in.

The king groans and I turn back. One of hiseyes is slitted open and he’s staring at me. His hand lifts, slidestoward me as if beckoning for help. Instead I raise the knife oncemore.

“No,” Skye says, suddenly by my side, takingmy hand, taking the knife. My fingers don’t protest as she uncurlsthem. I am powerless against her. “Go to your sister.”

My whole body numb, I manage to stand,unsteady on my feet, shaking, stumbling my way over to Jolie,seeing moving bodies around me, barely able to recognize them asthe others. Siena, Circ, Wilde, Feve. They’re all here, all foughtthrough the hordes of guards to get to me.

But they’re too late. We’re all too late.

Right where I left her, Jolie sleeps.

That’s how I want to see her—asleep—justresting, a child in her bed, dreaming a child’s dream.

My eyes play the trick, and play it well, butwhen Feve rushes to her side, coated in a thin layer of sweat, hismarkings glistening in the light, the truth returns.

Jolie, broken. Jolie, lying in a pool of herown blood. Jolie, covered in red and black, a knife sticking fromher…from her beautiful…from her beautiful little body, and I can’tspeak, can’t think, can’t remember another word about her, becauseit hurts too much, and I’m by her side, like I floated there,because I can’t remember walking, and I’m cradling her head in myarms and I’m crying into her hair, and there’s nothing left in thisworld.

Nothing.

And then Feve opens a leather pouch at hisside, removes little glass jars and skins of herbs.

And then he reaches for the knife, the knifein my sister’s back…

“Don’t!” I shout, my voice husky and heavy,grabbing his hand, stopping him, meeting his eyes. “Don’t touchher,” I say.

“Trust me,” Feve says. He puts a hand on myshoulder. “It’s her only chance.”

Siena kneels beside me, says, “Feve’s savedme ’fore. Let him save her.” Coming from her, it means everything.She’s the one who doesn’t even like him.

A dead girl doesn’t have a chance, but myshoulders slump and I release Feve’s arm. He couldn’t save Wes, butperhaps my brother’s life was too far gone. Maybe the Marked havemagic. Maybe they have miracles. But I won’t hope for it; my heartcan’t be broken twice.

Feve’s hand goes back to the knifehandle.

I hold her limp head, brush her sweat-damphair away from her face.

“Cloth, Circ!” Feve orders, and then takes adeep breath, adding a second hand to his grip on the handle. I hearcloth tearing behind us and it sounds like the rending of my ownheart.

“Oh, Joles,” I murmur under my breath,touching my forehead to hers. “You can’t go. Please stay.” Butshe’s not breathing, not moving, not sleeping like I want tobelieve.

Circ slides next to us with a panel of cloth.He uses a blade to cut it into long strips. Feve looks at him. “Youready?” Circ nods. “When I pull it out, hold some cloth firmly onthe wound. You’ve got to be quick, she can’t lose any more blood.”Circ nods again.

“One…”

I kiss Jolie’s head.

“Two…”

I close my eyes.

“Three!”

Jolie’s body shudders and my eyes flash opento Circ covering a deep stab wound with cloth, holding it in placewith the heel of his hand. Jolie gasps suddenly, coughing in myface, her eyes shooting open, wider than the base of themountain.

“Jolie? Jolie?” I say, holding her, but hereyes drift closed slowly, her head heavy once more. Lifeless.

But wait.

Wait.

Please, wait.

Her breath’s on my face. It’s weak, sofrighteningly weak, but still there.

Feve pushes in next to Circ, lifts thebandages, which are already tinged with blood, pours clear liquidacross the wound, refolds the cloths, and presses them back down,closing Circ’s hands on them once more. He looks at me. “To helpclose the wound,” he explains.

I want to know more, how he knows to do whathe’s doing, how he’s going to save Jolie’s life, but not now. Now,all I want to do is feel her breath on my hand, on my face, as Iwatch her sleep.

Really sleep.

Chapter Thirty-Three

She hasn’t woken upand I haven’t left her side, sitting in an uncomfortable woodenchair that hurts my back and my arse in equal measure.

Three days have passed with her little chestrising and falling, rising and falling, but other than that, shehasn’t moved more than a whisper, not even stirring for the darkdreams that surely plague her sleep.

Mother’s oblivious to everything.

I’ve held Jolie’s hand for hours and hours,just in case she can feel it and draw strength from me. And in caseshe can hear me, I speak to her, tell her memories of growing uptogether, when Father and Wes weren’t dead, when Mother wasn’t aghost of a human. Good stories. Stories I can’t tell withoutfeeling melting snow in my eyes.

Feve comes every day, gives her herbs in adrink that we dribble on her tongue, both for strength and forhealing. I help him replace her bandages and watch as he sprinkleshis strange medicines on her wound. Every day I hope it’ll lookbetter, but it never does.

And every day I get ple

Skye comes by more than anyone, at least sixtimes a day. It’s weird, seeing her on a daily basis outside of theprison, outside of the woods, outside of battle. She can be sodifferent when she wants to be. So much less strong, more tender.Sometimes she holds my hand while I hold Jolie’s, and I can almostfeel her strength ru

She might never wake up.

I think it all the time, but I won’t say itout loud, even when Feve cautions me that it’s a possibility.“There’s no way to predict how a body will react to something likethat. And she’s so small,” he says.

“She’s strong,” I reply back, but still thethought is in the back of my head.

(She might never wake up.)

I’m so tired, so freezin’ exhausted, bothmentally and physically, that all I want to do is curl up in a ballnext to Jolie and sleep forever with her. But the bed’s too smalland I’m too big and I’m afraid of crushing her in my sleep.

For the third night in a row and with tearsin my eyes, I drift away into an uncomfortable sleep filled withdark riders, burning houses, and the king stabbing my sister.

I’m still sitting in my chair.

But I’m still holding Jolie’s hand, too.

~~~

I awake with tearstains on my cheeks and Buffpunching me in the shoulder.

“I brought you breakfast,” he says, and hedoesn’t even call me a sissy-eyed snowflake-lover for the tracks ofwhite salt on my face. That’s how I know everything’s changed.

“How’s your gut-slash?” he asks, and I knowwhat he means. It took him asking me that three times before Irealized he was asking about Jolie, not me. After all, Jolie’s thegut-slash that hurts me the most, deep under the surface, in thepit of my stomach, worming and gnawing away.

“No worse, no better,” I say, my standardresponse that I hope will change one day soon.

He nods and we’re both silent for a moment,just watching Jolie sleep. “So, uh, you said something aboutbreakfast?” I ask. I’m not hungry but I need something to distractme.

“Rolls again,” he says. “Harder than rocks.Less tasty too,” he adds with a grin. He hands me a hunk of breadfrom his satchel. It really is like rock.