Obsidian and Stars (Ivory and Bone #2)(8)

“It’s not over yet,” I say, easing my knife from my belt. “I need to pick the small pieces out with this.”

“I’ve been through worse before. When Urar and Ela cleaned the wounds from that saber-toothed cat. Remember?”

“I could never forget that,” I say. I leave out that I thought he would die that day.

“Besides, I know you won’t hurt me.”

But I will hurt him. Though I begin to suspect that Kol won’t mind, because he’d rather lie here and have me dig gravel from his knee with a sharp knife than join the mourners outside. Not because he didn’t love his father, but because he did.

I know how he feels. I understand the desire to draw away from people when you’ve lost someone, to refuse to let anyone help.

Even with the lamp set right next to his leg, it’s difficult to see the gashes. They split the skin across his knee, gaping open with the slightest movement. In places, the skin stretches and swells around bits of rock wedged into the wounds. These must come out.

I slide the tip of my knife into the first cut, and Kol stiffens. Blood pours around the blade. Twisting it no more than I must, I work a chunk of rock about the size of a child’s tooth out from under his skin. His fingers dig into my shoulder, but he doesn’t make a sound.

“That was the first one—”

“I’m fine—”

“There are several more—”

“I’ll be all right. I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.” He quiets, and I think he may be listening to the voices of the singers coming from the other side of the wall. The drum continues, joined by a rattle made of beads attached to a wooden rod, but I don’t hear the flute that Kol’s brother plays.

“Is Kesh not here?”

“He’s at the Bosha camp, with Shava and her mother.”

“So he doesn’t know yet.”

“I’ll go in the morning and tell him,” he says.

I work another piece of stone loose, and Kol winces. The song ends and another one begins. This one is sung by a single female voice.

“That’s my mother,” Kol says. He lets his eyes fall closed and turns his head toward the wall, though I’m not sure if he is turning toward the sound or turning away from me. I set to work on the next piece of stone. It comes out quickly—a tiny bead—almost like the beads of ivory in my hair. I start on the next one, but it’s wedged more deeply in Kol’s flesh. So much blood flows from the wound, it’s impossible to see. I blot his skin. I can feel the fragment of rock move beneath my fingertips. Gently, I work it free.

“When my own father died,” I say, speaking in a quiet voice that I hope will soothe him, “I was almost twelve years old. Old enough to know what death was. To understand the permanence of it,” I say. I pause, looking for clues from Kol as to how he feels about me talking like this. He doesn’t answer, so I go on. “I loved my father, but I was fortunate. I have an older brother. Chev slid easily into the father role in my life. He looked after me in the same way my father always had. He still does.”

Kol’s mother’s voice rises as the words of the song plead with the Divine to show favor to the one who died, to give him a comfortable hut beside a hunting ground rich with game. The melody is so sad, I feel the weight of Mala’s grief pressing down on my chest. My hands still.

The song ends, and Kol turns toward me. The light of the lamp catches in his eyes, but they stay dim and cold.

“But when my mother died,” I say, swallowing hard, forcing myself to continue, “that was different. I felt like I’d died, too. I didn’t feel sad. I felt empty. And I didn’t want anyone to try to change that. I wanted the emptiness. I cherished it like it was something solid. It was proof that she had been there. I wanted the pain so I wouldn’t forget.”

Another song begins, this one in unison like the first. “To your land, to your land,” the chorus repeats. “Bring him safely to your land.” I think I hear the voices of Chev and Seeri joining in.

Kol sits up and raises my hand to his lips. His fingers are still cold, but his mouth against my skin is warm. “I’m sorry for what happened to your mother—”

“That’s not why I’m telling you this. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to do what I did. I shut everyone out after my mother died. Partly because I needed to be strong for my sisters. Partly because I didn’t want to share even the smallest piece of my grief with anyone else—I wanted to keep it all to myself. But shutting all that pain inside let it eat away at me. It chewed at my heart until I felt like my heart was gone.”

Kol raises his eyes to meet mine. “But your heart isn’t gone.”

My breath catches in my throat. “No, it’s not. But it almost was. Don’t let that happen to you. Don’t hold yourself apart from the people who love you. The people you love.”

There’s an emptiness in Kol’s eyes, and I know I’m right. I know he’s trying to protect that emptiness. But then he lets his lids fall shut. When he opens them, the corners of his mouth curl up just a tiny bit. Not a smile, but acceptance. “You’re right.” He lies back down. “They need me, and I need them, too. Just for a little while tonight, I think I needed you more.”

“I need you, too,” I say. I bite back the words I want to say. Tonight is not the right night.