If the Wardens’ Empire were an orchard, the Embers would be the fruit at the top. Red and ripe, most revered, the four wardens crowning at height.
The Dusters, we’d be the fallen apples, bruised blue, the color of our blood. Weavers, field workers, laborers, and griots too.
The Ghostings, like their translucent blood, they cannot be seen, they are down below, the roots of the tree. Deep under the earth, but essential to the empire, here to serve in their beige attire.
And so is the way of the orchard of all.
But don’t forget. Keep in mind.
The apples at the top have the farthest to fall.
—The Orchard of All as spoken by Griot Sheth on the third Moonday of the year
Sylah’s fist flew through the air before she knew what she was doing—partly to test her theory that Jond wasn’t an apparition, but mostly to cause him pain. A fraction of what she’d felt when she’d lost him.
He let her punch connect with his face with a thud. She struck him just above his sharp jawline now dusted with the shadow of a beard. He was smiling, despite the blossoming of a bruise marring his face. Her hand went slack and fell to her side.
They looked at each other for a heartbeat. Like Sylah, Jond had always been muscular, but in their years apart his body had broadened. If it wasn’t for the lopsided grin, he’d look dangerous. As it was, his good looks were near fatal instead.
His dark eyes bored into hers, and she let him assess her, enjoying the feel of his gaze lingering on hers. Then they were skidding into each other’s arms, the sand beneath them lifting in a gust of wind and engulfing them in a blue tornado. Jond held fistfuls of Sylah’s tunic as they held each other.
He held her at arm’s length, and she let him take her in. “How’s it hurting?”
Sylah dipped her head and pressed her ear against his chest.
“What are you doing?”
“It works. It really works.” Her hair brushed his beard as she stood, the tight curls entwining with one of her braids.
“What?”
“Your heart, it’s actually beating. You’re alive. Jond, you’re really alive.”
“I hope so.”
“I don’t understand.” The impact of the ground meeting her ass knocked her teeth together. The truth was too heavy to stay standing.
Jond crouched in the dust next to her. He was smiling. Jond was smiling, and it wasn’t a dream.
“Yes, I’m alive.”
“Hello, alive-Jond.” She gave him a watery smile and wiped her nose on the edge of her tunic.
Jond squeezed her hand.
“You didn’t die?”
“No, Sylah. I didn’t.”
“Does Mama know?”
“No, but I’ll go see Lio later.”
“Who else survived?” Joy blossomed and spread its tentacles through her body, rushing between the hairs on her skin.
His neck twitched, his eyes downcast. It was all she needed to know. “Just me.”
The joy was snuffed out by grief, as fresh as the day her family had died six years ago.