19

The sun was setting when Peter woke. He was sitting against the wall of Calaster's tiny living area, suffering a hardwood floor to warm himself by a dimming fire. Una was fast asleep beside him, cheek pursed against his knee; she was comical, snoring, as stunning as ever. She'd been smiling last he saw, eyes hooded and happy as she told a story that he'd never heard the end to.

"Clouds are moving in." Ozwell had taken a chair by the window, chin in hand. The ochre light of dusk threw bands of color over his hammered-metal face. "Looks like snow," he continued, sounding bored of it all. "Skellvik sees grass in summerdead. Grandine said so."

Peter blinked slowly at him. "Is Calaster around?"

"Upstairs. Eadric's with him."

"What about Ethos?"

"Ethos is sitting outside."

"How long has he been out there?"

"Don't know. A while, maybe. You know how he is."

Una stirred against Peter's knee. She stretched and smiled brightly at him. "Ho, handsome," she greeted, languid. "Why the long face?"

Peter touched her cheek. "Ethos is back from his meeting with Pathos."

"Oh?" She struggled to rise, stifling a yawn. "And?"

"He's still outside. Want to come with?"

The yawn won out. She waved him off. "Too cold," she said, and she scratched at her throat. "Just fill me in later. Don't be aggressive."

Peter used the wall to rise. "It's under control."

"You've been so patient these last few days," she noticed. "New tactic?"

"He'll crack when it gets bad enough. He always does."

Ozwell made a sound of disparagement. He glanced when he felt Peter glaring. "You don't treat him like an equal," he said. "You never have."

"Oh, aye?" Peter scoffed. "Then what do I treat him like?"

Ozwell held his eyes. "He's passing you, Peter. Why do you think you hate it so much?"

"He's not passing me, you little— "

"He is, and you hate it. You're afraid he won't need you."

Peter stared, but then furiously pointed at the window. "Is that what he thinks?"

Ozwell flashed a grin. "Maybe," he teased. "Gonna beat it out of me?"

The smile, the challenge, the swagger— he'd picked it up from Ethos. And it was then that Peter realized just how deeply Ozwell had been entrenched, just how mired he'd been since Farwell. But even the fact that he'd been a victim didn't dissuade Peter's loathing. 

Una stood with him. "You've got a really weird look on your face, Peter."

Ozwell was rubbing his eyes, disoriented. "Sorry," he mumbled. "He said it'd take some time to get my head back on right. I didn't mean to provoke you. It's not something I'd normally do."

Una gently turned Peter around. Her expression was faintly concerned, faintly puzzled. "Don't get bent out of shape over nothing," she cautioned. "What happened wasn't his fault."

Peter knew he was being ridiculous. "It's fine. Forget it."

She was trying to read his face. She suddenly smiled and reeled him in by his pockets. "Oh, I see," she leered. "You're jealous."

Peter sighed. "I'm not jealous, Una."

"It's true, isn't it. You even said my name just now."

"I say your name all the time."

"Nuh-uh. You always call me princess."

Peter bumped her forehead with his. "Alright, I'm sorry." 

Yet, as if determined to set him off, Ozwell loudly cleared his throat. When Peter irritably glanced his way, he did it again and asked, "What do you remember from the morning after Farwell?"

"I remember Ethos freeing my bait like some bleeding-heart humanitarian."

"And the fight?" Ozwell pressed. "What about the fight?"

Peter drew a blank. "What fight?"

Una's fingers entwined with his. Her amber eyes were smiling at him, gleaming, almost, imparting a world of soft affection. "Run some water out to Ethos," she suggested, fixing his hair. "He'll be of no use to anyone if he gets himself sick drinking snow. Okay?"

She was right, of course. "Yeah, okay."

Strange, how easily she could brighten his mood. The romantic in him thought it had to be love. So he bent to retrieve the haggard waterskin, kissed her cheek in passing, and withdrew from Calaster's dry, modest home. The raw evening air gnawed at his face. 

Ethos was seated against the leafless sycamore, knees drawn, arms folded. His head was sunken so far forward that his chin was practically touching his chest. He looked asleep.

But he glanced up at the sound of footsteps. "What's the situation inside?"

"It's pretty much what you'd expect it to be." Peter's hunt for a dry patch of land resulted in bitter disappointment. He sat, tossing the water. "How'd it go out there?"

Ethos pulled at the cork. "I'm a coward, turns out." 

"That's hard to believe."

He drank until he'd had his fill. He heaved a small sigh when he was done. "I didn't really get the full story, but the thing in the sky is my mother," he said. "They call her Alma. I could've gotten one up on Eadric if I'd just let her out on the world. Also, I think I cracked a rib."

Peter bullied a smile down. "Una will put you right."

"Yeah," he knew. "But still. I messed up."

"You sound like a kid when you sulk." Peter expected a scowlish retort, but none came. It read like a confession. "So how deep is this hole you've dug for yourself?"

His legs fell akimbo. "I'm not sure."

"Need a hug, then?"

"Course not."

"Ozwell thinks you do."

"I told you not to talk to him."

"It's a small house, Ethos."

Ethos quietly stewed in the elements. "I was stupid. Far from understanding the game, I thought that I could play it. Win it, even. But I can't." He suddenly looked up at Peter. "What do you really think of me?" he asked. "Be honest. I'm having some sort of identity crisis."

"I think you're out of line for putting me on the spot."

"I know, I know. Bad form. Sorry."

But Ethos neglected to take it back, and there were circles of unrest beneath his eyes. Someone had spooked him. "You're okay," Peter said. "As a person, I mean."

"Ah." Ethos smirked at that. "Thanks."

Peter sighed. He began listing things off. "You're smart. You listen. You stand the gaff. You're good on your toes and you don't begrudge." It was there that he shook a finger. "Now that's five I've given you," he said. "Any more and it'll go to your head."

"So I'm fine as I am?"

"Well, you rarely say what you're really thinking. But that's probably the only thing I'd change about you. The small stuff doesn't bug me like it used to."

He raised an eyebrow. "The small stuff?"

"Aye. Kicking me in your sleep and suchlike."

Ethos had always been an odd fish, but his reaction to that was odder still. He outright beamed and leaned in, charmed. "I'm a kicker?" he laughed. "I had no idea."

"You don't have to act so damn happy about it." Closer now, Peter could see all his new scrapes and bruises. He'd been fighting out there while Peter had slept. "You look like you've been dragged through a hedge," he said. "Can I ask what happened?"

Ethos dimmed, sheepish. "I tripped."

Drily: "You're bleeding."

"I tripped and fell."

"On what, a badger?"

"That's right. I fell on a badger."

A lie, of course, mildly amused and mildly scathing. Peter resisted another urge to laugh. "Let's head inside to get you treated," he said, rising. "It's fierce cold."

Ethos didn't rise with him. His falling eyes were apologetic. "I can't."

Peter stared down at him. "You can't?"

"I can't go in there."

"Aye, but why the fuck not?"

Ethos glanced, taken aback by his tone. "I have nothing left to bargain with," he explained, as if it should have been obvious. "Eadric's smarter than me. If I go in there, he'll win. People will die."

Peter wanted to ask what he meant by that. "What are our options?"

"There are no options. It's near in all directions."

"Near in all directions?"

"You told me that the night we met. Near winter. Near freezing. And me, near useless without my arm." His expression was calm, but his hands were nervous, absently turning the waterskin. "I'm on bad terms with the tono now," he said. "I misjudged how far I'd be willing to go, and they're all too old to remember what 'out of time' means." 

"What did you do?"

Ethos climbed to his feet. He returned the waterskin. "Nobody's ever treated me like that," he said, eyes drifting. "They resented me. They feared me. They told me that I had to be better, because violence turns people like me into monsters." His empty hands didn't know what to do with themselves, so into his pockets they went. "But I don't want to be better, I guess. Violence can sometimes be necessary. I reserve the right to fight back, same as anyone."

"Don't tell me you're planning to take out Eadric somehow."

"I'd put money on his body being somewhere in Oldden Stronghold. I'll tear the whole place apart if I have to."

"That's suicide."

"Then what would you do?"

"I'd tell you if I knew what was going on."

"Alma wants me dead. I want Eadric dead. Eadric wants Alma dead. Alma can't die unless all the tono are dead. And the tono…" Ethos paused. He smiled after a moment of silence. "The tono would probably love it if all three of us were dead, but they're too afraid to do anything about it." He glanced back up at Peter. "So what would you do?" he challenged. "Would you let Eadric use you to annihilate a species that resents you for being alive? Would you set Alma free? Would you run?"

Peter was still trying to process everything. "Give me a second."

"She's the Leviathan, by the way. From your stories."

"The one Redbeard fought at sea?"

"Yes and no. Apparently she isn't a swimmer."

Peter stared. "What do you even say to something like that?"

His eyes moved high in thought. "That was when I asked if she bled."

Peter's head spun. He'd have been better grounded at sea. "I'd run," he decided. "I'd be gone next chance I got, Ethos. I'd leave the whole rotten mess behind me."

"Where would you go if you couldn't go home?"

"Elsewhere's nice this time of year."

"Elsewhere? Is that a place?"

"Aye, back east. Near Muggin."

"That's probably why Oubi's never heard of it."

"I wish you wouldn't call him that. He's a stranger, an enemy."

Ethos gazed down the roadway. A tremor from the cold was starting to spread. "Running might be a pointless effort," he murmured. "Eadric has ways of finding people."

"You're paranoid. He can't have eyes everywhere."

Ethos shook his head. "He has Alyce."

Peter frowned. "Who's Alyce?"

"I don't know exactly."

"Then where'd you get the name?"

"I don't know that, either. But if I can see her, odds are high she can see me back. I imagine that's how he's been tracking us since Una turned on him back in Farwell."

"Turned on him?" Peter echoed. "Una wouldn't stoop to help a guy like that."

Ethos, however, deigned no reply. He studied Peter's face; remote, dispassionate. If anything, he seemed disappointed.

Unsurprisingly, Peter bristled. "What?"

"Nothing." Ethos kneaded his forehead. His gaze returned to the desolate roadway. "Nothing," he repeated. "It has nothing to do with you."

"Why did you come here if not to negotiate?"

"I came to say thanks, is all. Seemed like I ought to."

Respects before departure. He was saying farewell. "What if I tell you not to go?"

Ethos snorted at him. "Then I'd say you have a real funny way of begging."

Peter insisted, "You can't just leave me here with these people."

"You'll be okay, Peter. Una will always stand by you."

"She doesn't let me push her around like you do."

"Dignified people rarely abide bullying."

"You don't think you're dignified?"

"Nah. I'm too impertinent to be dignified."

"Impertinent. Did Ozwell expand on your language, too?"

Ethos just shrugged and neglected to answer. "It's easy to think less of him in his condition, but Oubi's still a soldier," he said. "I'm good at first aid now. I know the layout of Oldden." He discouraged Peter's protest with the same neutrality he held in reserve for enemies. "He's trained, Peter. He's taught me how to protect myself."

"Trained or not, you can't take on Oldden. It's insane." 

Ethos let his neutrality slip, unmasking exhaustion and wry amusement. "My mind's made up," he said, calmly. "I've suspected for a while that this wouldn't end well. I know it's not fair."

"You might not wish we were friends, but we are."

With a shake of his head, Ethos backed away. "I didn't come here to argue with you."

Loudly, Peter demanded, "What would Shima say?"

It was a last resort, but it made Ethos pause. It often did, if only for a moment. He turned away and continued at a gradual pace. "Shima's dead, so it doesn't matter what she'd say," he said. "At least she'll never have to see what became of me."

Peter circled him. "Just stop for a second." 

Ethos stared, annoyed. But rather than roll his eyes and brush by, he asked, "What is it?"

"You know the necklace that Una wears?"

"Her mother's."

"Aye, her mother's. She fidgets with it when she's anxious." Peter gestured at him. "And you," he went on. "You've gone and stuffed your hands in your pockets."

Ethos involuntarily looked at himself. "So?"

"You only do that when you're making an effort not to rub a lesion into your forehead." Peter was too far in to apologize. "I know you," he said. "And I know you're afraid, and that's okay. But it's no frame of mind to be making decisions." 

He'd struck a nerve. Ethos glared. "It's not a lesion."

Peter returned the glare, sternly enough and firmly enough to feel like an overbearing father. "You need to relax and trust us a little," he warned. "You're not proving anything by trying to shoulder these issues without us."

Ethos suddenly made a quarter turn and thrust a finger back at the house. "I'm not going in there, Peter," he said. "I'm not. I'll bite off my tongue if you try to make me. That crusty old highbrow snake can find someone else to play games with. I'm out."

Peter looked at him then, not as Ethos, but as Ozwell. Ozwell, who'd been raised in Oldden's Six Pass. Ozwell, who'd been crownsworn since fifteen. Because Ethos was different now, changed. There were strange little facets to his personality that hadn't existed there ever before.

Reminded, Peter asked, "Did we fight the morning after Farwell?"

He'd surprised Ethos again. Peter could plainly see him trying to remember what he'd planned to say if it ever came up. Flustered, perhaps, he began checking the ground as if he'd dropped something in the snow. "Sure," he said, avoiding eyes. "We sparred for a while by the water." 

Peter sometimes hated him. "What have you done?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Ethos, look at me."

He did so, blandly. "Hm?"

"Can you make people forget stuff?"

A startled laugh spilled out of his throat. "Me?"

Later, he'd think it was the laughter that did it. Peter seized the front of his shirt. "There's nothing funny about this," he snapped. "Look me in the eye and tell me what you did."

Ethos playfully put up his hands. "I didn't do anything, Peter."

"Liar. There's obviously something wrong with me."

Pop. Pop. Pop. Peter registered three rapid blows to the face. They were light, of course, what with Ethos being the size that he was and there not being much space between them, but a blow to the face was a blow to the face, and Peter wasn't prepared.

He landed in the snow, blood in his mouth, stunned. Ethos was staring down at him, he realized, hands at his sides. He didn't seem angry. He didn't seem anything.

Most absurdly, all he said was, "Eat your vegetables."

And then he was gone, vaulting treetops.