His brow furrows. “There is a saying among the Fae. If you save someone’s life, that life becomes your responsibility. I believe that. I think we are all responsible for the lives of others—even beyond what the old saying requires.”
“I don’t know if I believe that,” I admit.
“I think you do; you just haven’t had to test your belief. If our situations were reversed, you would take responsibility for my life, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. Perhaps in the days ahead, while you rest and grow strong again, you will come to understand this better. Life with the Fae will offer you a different perspective. It will provide new opportunities and new experiences.”
Life with the Fae? He talks as if I am staying here, as if it is settled.
I shake my head doubtfully. “Again, I am grateful. But I am still not sure why you are doing all this. I am nothing special to you.”
He nods. “Nor I to you, save what chance has made us both to each other. Consider our relationship, Auris. We are newfound friends. We come from different worlds and backgrounds, yet we have shared an experience that transcends such differences. It impacts me as much as it does you, even if it might not seem that way. In time, I think you will come to understand this.”
He rises and says it is time to start out, so we do. Leaving Roughlin Wake and the camp behind, we set out for the interior of this new land, walking through woods and over hills, into and out of valleys and across streams. The day is warm and welcoming, and I feel reborn into the world. Birdsong fills the forest air, and small animals scurry to and fro. I find myself smiling just at the thought of being alive and well and free. I find myself crying, too, now and then—crying at the thought of my friends, lost to me forever, crying for those still trapped in the Goblin prisons, and crying for my parents who are likely forever gone. My emotions are a jumbled mess, and I cannot seem to persuade them to settle.
Harrow must notice; how could he not? But he says nothing and lets me indulge whatever my emotions demand of me. Now and then he explains something about the land and what lives on it, digressing into treatises about certain kinds of trees and forest life, about the weather and its vicissitudes, about sources of water and food, and about other minutiae he thinks I should be aware of. I listen dutifully—sometimes with half an ear, sometimes intently. I study him surreptitiously, still getting used to his arresting look; I am less distracted by it now than I was at first. His rare smile is becoming a welcome sight. I no longer find his pointed teeth off-putting. His lean form, long arms, and easy stride give him a catlike grace. His eyes miss nothing, and he draws my attention to everything he thinks I should see.
But it’s those amber eyes that I cannot stop admiring. I have never seen eyes like his. It is more than their size or color, which in and of themselves would be enough to draw anyone’s attention. It is their exceptional warmth. When Harrow looks at me, I am consumed by the intensity of it. I am made to feel as if nothing in the world is more important to him than I am. I know this is ridiculous and without foundation, but his eyes make me feel that way and I revel in the feeling. I want him to look at me like that forever. Those eyes make me feel good about myself in a way nothing ever has.
Stop it, I whisper in my head and force myself to look away. But before long, I am looking back at him again—gazing into those eyes.
We walk all day, and by nightfall are past the lowland forests and foothills and close to the edge of the mountains. We stop at their base for the night, again in a camp he has previously established, this time an alcove in the rocks that opens to the east. He builds a fire to keep us warm, clearly not concerned about alerting anyone to our presence. He hunts down and kills a rabbit and roasts it over the flames, and I have never tasted anything so good. He offers me a skin filled with wine, and I drink it without questioning its possible effect. It makes me grow sleepy, but I want to talk some more and press on to ask questions I have been pondering all day.
“How did you become a Watcher? Are others in your family Watchers, too?”
“Only me and my sister. You have to have an affinity for it. You have to be comfortable with yourself. And you have to cherish the solitary life it requires. It’s not often you spend time with others—and not at all while on patrol. There is a rootless quality to your existence—a sense of distance, homelessness, and separation—that you have to accept and master. There are many who could not manage such a life, but I am lucky. I have always wanted to live this way.”
“It sounds lonely. I don’t know if I could do it.”
He spares me a quick smile. “I don’t recommend it. In addition to everything else, you need to have a talent for mastering significant forms of magic if you want to survive.”
“But you were born with magic, weren’t you?”
“I was. But much of it is acquired and has to be learned. Magic is a large and complex skill set, and you have to devote time to mastering it.”
I think this through, trying to imagine how it would feel to be able to use magic. I could protect myself. I could protect others. I could have used magic back there in the prison to help us all stay alive. But would I feel even worse than I do now if I’d had the use of magic and still failed to save anyone? Is it better not to have it at all than to have too little?
I want to ask him this, but at the same time I don’t. Just speaking the words will hurt, considering possibilities that no longer matter.
“Tell me something about inish,” I suggest instead. “You’ve mentioned it several times now. How does it work?”
He furrows his brow and looks down. “It is not easy to explain. You have your body and then you have your inner self, the part of you that is physical and the part that is…I suppose you would say spiritual. The part that no one can see—even you—but that you can always feel. It moves you, speaks to you, debates with you. It is your inner self—the self that decides what you think and what you believe and how you see the larger world. Does that make sense to you?”
I nod. “Of course. Humans would call it your soul.”
“Mostly, inish determines who and what you are, though it can also govern your physical self and cause you to act in certain ways. Most people know it is there and that it affects them, but they have no idea there are ways to control it and to access the power it possesses. If you wish to use magic, you must learn this. Your inish will bring to life any strength you want to control and channel its use. But doing this is difficult. You have to be born with an ability to access and control your inish. Among the Fae, most are capable of this to some degree—mostly in small but useful ways—but not many can apply it in the ways that I can. That requires something more.”
“What?”
He thinks for a moment. “Strength beyond the physical. Strength of will, determination, and intent—you have to use all three to bring things that can’t be otherwise seen into existence. Magic is invisible until applied. It is hidden within you. To bring it alive requires mastery, so that you can shape it as you want.”