These Broken Stars

TWENTY

LILAC

TARVER DIDN’T TELL ME that it would be colder in the mountains. Maybe it’s always cold on mountains, I don’t know. Maybe he thought it was common sense.

As we leave the river for the foothills, I find myself thinking about the girl in the salon. The one who flirted as easily as she breathed, the one who dodged bodyguards and stayed up all night gossiping. I bear so little resemblance to her now it’s as though she no longer exists.

And as hateful as she was, I find I miss her. She knew where she stood. She knew what she was meant to do. She had a father who’d stop at nothing to protect her, a world that arranged itself to fit around her. She never had to care about the opinions of one lowly soldier. And it never used to matter when someone lied to her, because that’s all anyone ever did.

What had looked like clouds in the distance are, now, clearly snowcapped peaks. The mountains lie between us and the wreck of the Icarus, and Tarver says to go around would take more time than we can afford. And so through we go, regardless of the temperature and the threatening sky, to shelter in some crevice overnight and hopefully make the valley beyond in the morning.

The pass he proposes to cross is not white with snow, but as the day wears on, the temperature drops and the clouds gather low in the sky. Even Tarver glances up at them, restless, picking up the pace so that I stumble and bang my knees on the rocks. My hands are too numb to break my fall.

I ought to be surprised when the first flakes begin to fall—the closest I have ever come to snow is watching the Christmas specials on the HV—but I have no energy left for surprise. Some other Lilac, the one in the salon perhaps, would have found the snow beautiful.

With the sun retreating behind the clouds, the temperature is dropping faster the higher we climb. The snowflakes linger on my cheeks before they melt. The mechanic’s suit provides little warmth, but the tight weave of the fabric gives shelter from the wind. Thanks to these cursed boots, my feet are the warmest part of me.

At least I know I’m no longer going mad. No, I’m being haunted. Is one better than the other? I’ve been the cause of death before. Why can’t I dismiss the faces of those five lost souls?

If I hadn’t seen Tarver’s face when I described what I’d seen, perhaps I could go on believing I was hallucinating. But his expression was that of a man who’s been mortally wounded, frozen in the few shocked seconds before he falls. He knew I had no way of knowing whom he buried. Perhaps he believes he’s helping me in some way by leading me to believe I’m mad. But Tarver is not given to lying, and he doesn’t fool me.

Maybe it’s not the Lilac in the salon that I miss. Not the Lilac on the plains, or even the Lilac before she saw the Icarus fall.

I think I miss most the Lilac who trusted Tarver Merendsen.

“What?”

“Major?”

“I stopped listening there for a moment. What did you say?”

“I suggest you make every effort to keep listening, Major. You seem tired.”

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Could I get something to drink?”

“We’ll arrange that in a moment. Are you ready to continue?”

“Of course. Eager to provide whatever it is you’re after.”

“We’re after the truth, Major.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve given you. You’re looking for something else.”