Whisper (29 page)

A breath swelled in his chest. Pained? Guarded? Something that might make him squirm, in another life, but he just let it out again. “Nor do I care to,” he said, meaning it.

“They say I'm magnificent,” I attempted to entice him, lending elegance to my diction.

“I'm sure you're many things. But I'm afraid 'magnificence' is one of those things you're just going to have to pitch to me another way.”

Perhaps I should have let him see me that night in the shadows after all.

“So, what...” I turned a hand palm-upward in question. “You want me to come back to my joke of a cause behind the lines – trying to convince horses they're not afraid of the beast of fire? That's only a fraction of the real beast, Jay. I've seen them. I can make a difference out there – where I can actually actively influence the mount beneath me.”

“That's one mount, Alannis. It's not worth it.”

“It is if I'm the only one getting close enough to get a weapon in edgewise,” I argued, my tone rising.

“Oh – so, what, you're going to single-handedly slay the whole army?”

“I can make Char
dance
between them. Like it's child's play.”

“You're not a
killer
, Willow,” he denounced, his own tone harsh.

But the dust of tears pricked my eyes, and I quivered with the rebuking truth: “Yes,” I said. “I am.” I didn't know if I meant it shamefully, or with conviction, or...just as the fact that it had become. Sonya had told me not to count, but that didn't mean I didn't know the motions I had taken, and the consequences that came of those motions. “I am, Jay,” I repeated more quietly, and this time it
was
pain, clear and true, that lodged in his eyes, seeing me in a position where I did have to come to terms with that being some relevant form of truth. He ached for me, leaning against the fence there – and for himself as well, if he was human at all, mourning the loss of a part of me, part of who I had been to him in the past.

I let out a struggling breath, ducking my chin to my chest and fumbling with my hands. “It all gets blocked out, but...” Another shuddering breath rocked me, just short of a hiccup. “My hands still deliver the blows. You've never killed anyone, have you, Jay?” I asked flatly, knowing the answer. When I raised my eyes again to him, a tear ran down through the dirt on my face, leaving a clean streak of flesh across my cheek. He stared at me, jaw hard, eyes suffering – arms crossed over his chest, always there to keep his heart in its place. It would never do to have it getting out, would it?

Another fool tear spilled over, and my lips quivered to hold back the lump in my throat. With a pained breath I let it all out, though, bowing my head again as I stood there in a moment of burdened clarity. I didn't see or hear the transition, but suddenly Jay was there in the center with me, folding me against his chest. The dreams that I had of him echoed against this reality, doubling the warmth and affection that I perceived emanating from him. I let him cradle me, pressing into him like he was the greatest source of comfort in the world.

The horse I'd been working with moved forward to join our circle of affection, whuffing curious, concerned breaths into my hair at the nape of my neck. Goosebumps formed all down my arms from the tickling sensation, but the warmth of the animal's breath was comforting. Jay took a hand from my back to stroke the animal's inquisitive face.

In that moment, I felt the perfect opportunity to tell him; “I saw Fly out there, Jay,” I whispered into his shirt, and I felt the motion of his strokes slow.

“What?”

“You did it. You saved Fly, and he's fine. You were right – he's a trooper. And when I go out there, he's out there with me. He's the one that saved me, from the gorilla. I saw him.”

Jay didn't respond, at first, as if weighing whether or not I had fallen pray to some mirage – not altogether unlikely – or if, like after the incident with the gorilla, he shouldn't be surprised. And perhaps whether or not I was saying this because I was still set on making a case for myself, trying to provide proof of my ensured safety, of having fate's blessing. “You saw him?”

I nodded against his chest, absently chewing my lip.

Another stretch of thoughtful silence ensued, but I knew he had to think it just as amazing as I did. In the end, it simply didn't steer him off course. “Fly can't protect you against entire armies, Willow. If he's a guardian angel, out there, don't put him in a position where he has to try to save you where he can't.”

And he had a point. Another one. If Fly was dedicated to shadowing me and delivering me from harm, what would he aspire to do if he saw me charging into battle? He would end up immersed in precisely what I hadn't wanted for him, and the sacrifice Jay had made would be utterly wasted.

No case there, then. I sniffed, morosely coming back to square one. Sensing the cycle that was to be my way of coming to terms with things, there in his arms, Jay shifted slightly, getting comfortable to humor the process.

When I had pulled myself together, though, Jay efficiently packed up the brief display of affection. It folded neatly back into the jar he contained it in, and went back up on some high shelf that no one but him could access. He put a bit of distance between us, glancing over my shoulder at the gelding behind me.

“He's ready for you,” he prompted, and I sniffed once more, quietly, and prepared myself to get back to my session.

“None of them are ready, Jay,” I told him, but with less heart now. “For anything.”

“Then get them there.” There was matter-of-fact, undying faith in the charge.

“And what if 'getting them there' is all that I ever do? Get them to the place where Gabriel can have his way with them without challenge?”

“And you still propose you could be this missing force that 'challenges' him.”

“I was something to be reckoned with out there. Ask anybody.”

“Maybe you're asking all the wrong people, Alannis. Maybe it's not people you should ask.”

I took a reinforcing breath, clinging to the basis for my case, even if I couldn't win this round. Jay had made his point, but I was unable to simply be the perfect, docile charge under his wing, keyed to release whatever he saw fit. I shifted quizzically, though, wondering what he meant.

As he turned to leave, he finished the sentiment; “This is a God-given gift, Willow,” he said, with a small flick of his eyes to indicate the horse behind me – and I knew it included all the rest of them as well; was a tribute to all that I could do with them. “Use it as such. You don't need all that other stuff.”

The fantasies, and the gimmicks, being that 'other stuff'. All the things that I had endorsed in the name of my depraved escapades as of late.

Then he left me there to re-figure my angle, and my duty – and my destiny.

Twenty-Eight –

T
he raids brought in fresh horses, and scouts came and went with intel. New angles were being worked behind the military tents, and the seasons were changing outside. Toby and I worked as hard as ever fire-proofing the mounts, and Jay and I returned to being on speaking terms. It could hardly be called such, with how much speaking he did even on good terms, but communication was restored between us.

When I could bolster the resolve, I consciously retired as Char's rider. Recruiting a volunteer from the soldiers, I worked with him as my replacement. It was about time I introduced Char to the idea of other people sharing his back, anyway. He was not so sure about it, at first, but he'd had so much practice under saddle – or not, as it were – by then, that it was really only a matter of accepting that the weight atop his back might be a little heavier, might sit a little differently, and smell a little funnier.

It was emotional for me, handing him over to someone else. I felt as though I were abandoning him, and my feelings of responsibility for him did not rest well with the arrangement. I couldn't look after him out there anymore, couldn't maintain my half of the dependable partnership we had developed. I just knew that he was going to be shark meat the instant he stepped out on that battlefield without
me
there to have his back. But he was the best of the bunch, still. We couldn't not put him out there. He was still the go-to mount to put at the front of any battle.

I had to not think about it, or else I would never be able to accept the idea of parting with him, or going through with this treasonous business of dedicating him to another master.

Patting his neck with resignation, I signed him over to his new captain, and he stood there dozing patiently, trusting me, not understanding the full implications of the exchange. With tears lodged in my throat, I left the two of them to finish up their session together, trying not to cling to the idea that it should be me.

When next the soldiers marched, I watched him go by in the parade – a terrible mix of pride and heartbreak swelling in my chest. And then he was gone.

They were all gone. I had not been in the empty camp for so long, left behind with the select few who had the honor of staying to hold the shell of a place together, to hear their voices echo across the vacancies, to loiter in the loneliness wondering if the rest of them would come back. It was dreary. Timeless. A depressing, aimless prison. Uneventful mornings stretched into lazy afternoons, and quiet evenings by the fire. By night I even got bored looking for sleep in my tent, and roused myself to go for moonlit strolls, or to sit on the useless corral fences, just to make sure the pattern did not stretch on too long. It had to be broken at regular intervals, or we would all go insane. I was sure of it.

Cambrie spent so much time with Jay that, while for once I couldn't blame her, I found myself truly and thoroughly jealous. I would not have been so ready to admit jealousy any other time – even to myself – but with every other avenue of entertainment cut off, it drove me mad having my best friend occupied by another. The only excuse for a companion I boasted was the white stallion that flitted through my dreams.

As my henna tattoos faded away, so was my spirit whittled down a little bit more every day, until the only fantasies I could conjure were gray, wistful daydreams. The kind one might find standing on an overcast beach, looking out over the musky pane of the slate-gray ocean, as the colorless wind lapped at their too-thin sleeves, leaving them cold, desolate, and un-inspired. The only color was the blue that seeped into my numb fingers, the rosy tinge that spread across my chapped cheeks.

Yes, Jay,
I thought.
I can hear the ocean – it's like a huge pot of static, bringing nothing but the empty shells of dead things to the shore, the tide a recurring drone that harasses the tranquility any noble body of water ought to idolize
.

It echoed like a thousand lost whispers churned into tatters. A restless, mangled sound that failed to speak to me.

I lost a beloved, paramount voice of insight that day. Lost it to that great abyss itself which had somehow lost its erstwhile charm.

*

There was only one stubborn patch of henna lingering on my flesh when the seasons changed in earnest, and new patterns dawned in the hand we were dealt. Celtic tattoos gave way to charred patterns scarred into the ground of Safeguard – as an awe-inspiring prize was brought back with the return of the men. A prize in the form of a furnace on legs, with teeth and claws and a carnivore's temper.

Yes, they had brought one of them to Safeguard. Captured it and brought it here. A demon horse in the flesh.

The thing bellowed as it was hauled in, muzzled and controlled by a tether lashed to each ankle. Its cries drew all of us out of the woodwork, our interest piqued to behold this wonder. This horror.

The poor soul of a spectacle.

I trailed to a halt outside of my tent, looking on with a mix of fascination and dawning pity. The thing fought with everything it had in it, labored snorts of smoke issuing out through its muzzle, blood running from the tethered areas about its ankles. The rest of its charcoal coat was matted and sweaty, caked in places by dried blood and crusted, clotted mud. A gaping wound, concentrated and deep, left a painful-looking hollow in the creature's side.

Struggling with the spirit of the thing they had on a leash, the men wrestled it through the gates and down the arena fence. The beast fought them every step of the way.

Curious, I followed them to the pen they intended to hold the creature in. Half-pulling, half-cramming it through the gate, they slammed the barred door shut behind it and sprang from its company, leaving it to take its temper out on its new confines. Tethers, muzzle and all.

I knew they only meant to duck out of its perilous range as swiftly as possible, but I found myself pitying the thing as it rushed the fence with its neglected restraints still intact. Those had to be a grievance like none other.