The Amulet Of Nicmir (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 1)

Chapter 63

They tried to keep themselves busy.

The grief still hung like a cloud.

Crynia hardly spoke. Sam tried to get her to eat, but it took three bites before she got up, left the room, and retched in the hall. Sam didn't see her again until that night.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Nyle announced at dinner, watching Crynia pick at her fish and dried fruit. "It'll do us all good to get away. There's been too much death here."

Broken brown eyes slowly rose to meet his. It wasn't a menacing lethargy; it was weary. Worn. Hurt. The muscles in Sam's jaw twitched, the tendons in his hands standing at attention as he clenched his plate so hard it was a wonder it didn't break. He was angry. She was hurting, and it killed to know the girl who'd hurt her was out there still.

Setting her plate to the side without touching a morsel, Crynia got to her feet. "I'm going to bed."

***

It rained nearly all the next day, making mud beneath the slender roots of the grasses, turning the ground boggy. Sam's boots sank two inches with every step. His legs ached. Bitter rain and sleet stung his face, coating everything in a thin layer of ice. The whole world was grey.

Beside him, Crynia stumbled, falling to one knee and catching herself with her hands. Her head was hung low, her hood hiding her expression, ebony hair frozen in ropes where it'd escaped her braid. Crouching, Sam lifted her face as gently as he could, smoothing back the strands from her cheeks. Her breathing trembled, but she didn't open her eyes, her brows drawn low, the shadows dark beneath her eyes. She hadn't slept. Hadn't eaten. Exhaustion rippled in slow waves from her cold skin.

Sam slipped his arms under her armpits, pulling her to her feet, lifting her under her knees so her frame was cradled against him. Then he walked. Ignored how the others were watching. Fought for every step as the ground pulled back at his feet.

His legs burned.

He kept going.

***

They stayed in a town that night, if one could call it that. It was ten huts, a brothel, and a rowdy tavern with a few rooms above it. When the bartender saw the money they offered, he kicked the current residents out and gave them the whole of the upstairs.

Crynia didn't know what time it was when she climbed the steps and shut her door behind her. The smell of whiskey and unwashed things made her empty stomach churn. She hardly made it to the latrine before she retched, nothing but acid coming up, scalding her throat.

She kept losing minutes to the numbness, sometimes an hour. The warmth of the water in the bath was all she remembered, the smell of the soap on her skin. The towel was rough, her clothes rumpled. Everything was a blend of pale colors, drab and dull. Except his eyes. The eyes of the boy who loved her.

He was colorful, standing in the doorway, golden skin and ruffled sandy hair and eyes like the sea in the sun. His shirt, as rumpled as hers, was white like fresh snow. The apple in his hand was bright red, the bread rich and brown, the glass clear. And his face...his face was the color of grief. Tilted eyebrows, a sad smile. He knocked on the doorframe, tapped the half-open door with his fingertips in a silent question.

Had she opened the door? She couldn't remember.

Stepping to the side, she let him in. He ducked his head under the low frame and set the food and glass on the table beside her bed. Then he turned and watched her.

"Hey," he said. Crynia stared at him and swallowed, brows drawing together. His hand reached out, fingers just touching her skin. She closed her eyes, a tremor shaking her fragile body. "Cryn?"