Page 84 of Brimstone
THERE WAS Acrack in the wall.
A tiny one, only an inch long or so.
I stared at it until my eyes played tricks on me and the marbling in the obsidian walls began to melt. Five feet away, in front of the fire, Onyx was curled into a little ball, snoring loudly.
Hedidn’t have any trouble passing out, of course. Life was simple for him. His brain didn’t have countless questions and concerns bouncing around inside it.
An hour passed.
Another.
I was ready to sob when at last my restless exhaustion finally pulled me under.
Falling asleep didn’t feel the same as it used to, though. This was more like . . . consciously stepping from one room into another. One moment, I was sitting on the floor of my rooms, resting against a mountain of cushions, and the next, I was somewhere else.
It was snowing.
The light was waning—the same kind of half-muted dusk that washed the walls of Cahlish a pale gray right before evening fell.The air was thick with pine and smoke, so cold that it stung the inside of my nostrils. I found myself overlooking a narrow valley blanketed with snow. A shallow stream cut through it, only a couple of feet wide, the water burbling and flowing swiftly.
On the hillside, halfway up the valley side in a clearing, stood a small cottage with white-painted walls and smoke trickling from its chimney.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
To the left of the house: a figure moving in a repetitive, jerking way.
Thwack.
It was Fisher. I knew it was him the moment I saw him.
I set off running without a second thought. The cold pierced my lungs and bit at my cheeks. I skidded in the snow, losing my footing again and again, but I scrambled up and kept running. I couldn’t breathe by the time I reached the pathway to the cottage.
Thwack.
Thwack.
He was there, up ahead. It was freezing, but my mate apparently wasn’t affected by the cold. His black pants were slung low on his hips, his feet bare. He was shirtless, too, black ink swirling across his sweat-slicked shoulder blades as he swung an ax around, one-handed, bringing it over his head and down onto a block of wood, splitting it into two.
Thwack!
His hair was damp—wavy and thick, brushing the tops of his broad shoulders as he kicked aside the split wood and collected another large piece from a stack next to the cottage. Setting it down, I watched the muscles in his back shift and move as hebrought the ax up and swung it around and down again, splitting that piece, too.
Thwack!
I spoke his name softly, inside my head rather than out loud.Fisher?
My mate stilled. His shoulders tensed, head angled slightly, tipped to one side, as if he were listening.Saeris?
I couldn’t help myself; I started to run again. When he turned—tattooed chest heaving from his exertion, cheeks flushed, eyes bright—a glorious smile spread across his face. But just as soon as it had appeared, it fell away again. In a heartbeat, his cheeks lost their color. He took a staggering step backward, the ax falling from his hand and thudding to the ground.
I stopped running. “Fisher? What . . . what is it?”
He seemed to draw himself upright, standing as tall as he could manage, and then he asked out loud, “Are you dead?”
“Why would youaskthat?”
