The Poison Season(35)

Fortunately, they were too absorbed in their conversation to notice him. He exhaled as quietly as he could and slid out of the tree, doing his best to avoid scraping his damaged leg. He had no idea if the poison would work the way it had on the rose, traveling throughout the entire flower until it was dead. If that was the case, then hiding wasn’t going to do him any good. But there was still a chance he might live, and if it meant getting back to his father and sisters, then he had to try.

When the pain and exhaustion proved too overwhelming, Jaren crawled through an opening in some dense hedges and sat down. He hoped he was hidden here. He needed water desperately, but he had no idea where there was a safe source on the island, so that would have to wait.

Gingerly, he peeled his trousers away from his damaged skin. The fact that he’d only been splashed on one leg was a miracle in itself. He took a deep breath, bit his lip, and looked down. It was worse than he’d feared. The poison had burned straight into his shin in several places, through the skin, muscle, and sinew, down to the bone. Fortunately, the bone itself appeared intact, although he’d have felt a lot better if he could have rinsed the wound with clean water, or better yet, alcohol. But he didn’t have anything with him, not even a waterskin.

He tore off the part of his trousers that had been soaked, just in case any more poison made its way through the fabric. He used a strip of tunic to bind the wound, although the bleeding seemed to have stopped on its own. Lars had said that when Maggie’s father died, it was because he had literally walked into the water on foot, drawn by the song coming from the island. He had been so entranced that he hadn’t even flinched as the poison began to burn off his flesh, and he had ignored the screams and shouts from his friends on the shoreline. They had never recovered any of his body.

Jaren felt a stab of guilt for laughing at the idea of magic. He owed Maggie an apology, if he ever made it out of here alive.

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he heard someone coming through the undergrowth. He sat up, feeling feverish and disoriented, the pain in his leg excruciating. He peeked through the bushes and saw something pale flash in the trees. He took a deep breath and willed his heartbeat to slow, though it pounded so loudly in his own ears he was sure he’d be discovered.

As the person drew nearer, he gasped. It was the girl with the silver-blond hair again. The girl he’d seen at the festival, and the girl who had hauled the boat to shore. He peered through the brush. She was clad in a tunic and trousers, just like he was. Her hair was braided, a few loose strands framing her heart-shaped face. She was looking at something on the ground, her brow furrowed in concern.

Blood. She’d been following his trail this entire time. He swallowed thickly, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. She was still alone, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t here to harm him. Perhaps she’d come to finish the job, not wanting to risk the lake before. Lupin had said most Endlans were good people, and she had seemed harmless enough the day of the festival, waving when she could have raised a weapon or opened her mouth in song.

But he was exactly what the Endlans feared most: an outsider, likely bent on destruction, as it didn’t seem anyone came to this island for sightseeing and a picnic. He glanced at his leg again. He had two choices: remain hidden, pray that his wound didn’t kill him before dark, and attempt to repair the boat...or take a chance on this stranger. He winced, the effort of moving causing stars to dance in his vision. He would never make it back to the mainland on his own.

The girl crouched down and put her fingers to the blood. She raised her hand and sniffed. And then, like a hawk narrowing in on its prey, her head swiveled to his hiding place. Their eyes met through the screen of branches.

They rose at the same moment.

“Hello,” he said, and fainted.



Chapter Twenty-Two


As she stared down at the unconscious outsider, Leelo couldn’t help studying him. It wasn’t that his clothing or appearance were so different from an islander’s; it was the realization that she had never seen a face like his before, and she knew all of Endla’s faces. In a place like this, you came to recognize the cut of a jaw as quintessential Stone, or the arch of a brow as undeniably Johansson. Even if she hadn’t watched him cross from the mainland with her own eyes, Leelo would know him for an outsider. She hadn’t seen this jaw, or this brow, in her life.

The man’s eyelashes started to flutter, and she moved into shooting stance, an arrow notched so fast even Sage would be impressed. He was badly injured; he likely wasn’t a danger to her in his current state. But she wasn’t taking any chances.

As his eyes blinked open, Leelo noticed that his irises were the gray of storm clouds. His chestnut hair was thick and tousled, full of leaf litter from the Forest floor.

His fingers scrabbled in the dirt next to him, like he was trying to gain purchase on an object.

“Stop moving, or I’ll shoot.”

The man looked up at her and held something out. It was a feather, long and striped in shades of brown.

“You dropped this,” he rasped. It was one of the hawk tail-feathers she collected for arrow fletching. It must have slipped from the buttonhole she had tucked it into earlier.

Leelo hesitated, unsure how she was supposed to proceed. This outsider—this man, or young man, she supposed—didn’t seem to mean her any harm. He’s an outsider! Sage’s voice hissed in her ear. But he seemed as confused as she was.