“’Tis for the best, Kresten. We must go our separate ways now before doing so becomes more difficult.”
She was all but admitting she had feelings for me too. I ought to be glad of it, but I couldn’t abide the thought of going even a day without her. How would I go forever?
“I shall be miserable if you deny me the chance to see you again.”
She tugged at one of the crab apples in her basket, plucking off its leaves. “You will eventually forget about me.”
“Never.”
“You must.”
“I won’t be able to, so please don’t ask it of me.” My chest began to ache in an unfamiliar way. I pressed my hand to it. Was this what it felt like to have one’s heart broken?
“Forgive me, Kresten.” Her eyes turned luminous with unshed tears. “I knew I should not allow false hope to spring up between us, but I ignored the warnings in my heart.”
“What if it doesn’t have to be false hope?”
“We can never have more.” She spun and slipped into the brush.
“Wait!” I stalked across the clearing. I couldn’t let her get away. Not without making her understand that we could have more. Because we could, couldn’t we?
Jorg’s words rushed back into my conscience: “It isn’t fair to allow her to think there could ever be anything between you.”
As she disappeared into the foliage, my steps faltered. “We can never have more.” Her declaration echoed Jorg’s. And deep inside I knew them both to be true.
For as much as I loathed having to stand there and let her leave for good, I had to respect her wishes, even if I might not understand her need to sever our ties. And I finally had to accept the truth of our situation—I would hurt us both if I allowed our feelings to develop further only to leave at the end of my Testing. This parting was difficult enough, and putting it off would cause even greater heartache.
’Tis for the best. I watched the forest grow still where she’d been moments earlier. The throbbing in my chest pulsed into my limbs, rendering me immobile. The throbbing also made me realize something I’d never understood before—just how selfish I was.
If she hadn’t walked away today, I would have done this to her in less than two months. I would have walked away, leaving her confused and nursing a broken heart. And the very thought that I could have been so calloused filled me with a sense of shame. How many women had I hurt? How many young ladies had experienced despair on account of my insensitivity?
’Twas no wonder Jorg had been quieter than usual the past few days. Although he hadn’t spoken words of condemnation as he had after the first meeting with Rory, I’d sensed his judgment anyway. I’d attempted to ignore it with extra jesting and frivolity. But I understood now that he’d seen the selfishness I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.
I stalked back to the wooded area where he was waiting for me. He’d already dropped from his perch in one of the gnarled yews, where he climbed most mornings to stay hidden from Rory and yet still act as my guard. Now he regarded me with wariness. No doubt he assumed I would attempt to follow her and drag him along in the process.
I brushed past him. “You were right. I’m a selfish idiot.” Without waiting for him to agree, I forced myself into a jog, heading in the direction of the ravine.
As he fell into step behind me, my shoulders tensed in readiness for his “I told you so.” If he so much as hinted at pity, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from slugging him. I didn’t easily engage in brawls, but at the pain radiating from my heart, my fists balled with the need to hit someone or something.
By the time we reached our territory, midday had passed and so had a large portion of our workday. My gallivanting with Rory had already cost us a great deal of our workweek, even though we labored at our woodcutting far into the evening to make up for starting late each day.
Wordlessly, we picked up where we’d left off, collecting deadwood, brush, and twigs that littered the ground, which we then formulated into bundles of approximately six feet long by three feet wide and high.
We had yet to start on our white fuel quota, which consisted of the laborious process of stripping hardwoods of bark. Once we finished that task, Walter required us to coppice a certain number of trees per week, as the process of pruning the trees helped with new growth and prolonged the forest’s productivity.
While I’d gained strength in my muscles and had increased my endurance since the first awful week as a woodcutter, the work was still difficult and tiring. And each night I went to bed hungry and exhausted.
Certainly I’d learned to appreciate the lowly paupers who spent a lifetime at the job. And certainly I’d grown in my ability to empathize with those who owned nothing except what they carried and had no home save the forest floor.
I’d also started to learn the lesson of my Testing, spelled out by the engraving on my sword: Deny thyself. Over the months of analyzing the charge I’d been given, I’d learned the words came from the Lord himself in Scripture, from the Gospel of Matthew: “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself . . . for whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.”
I’d always valued my material possessions and comfort. I could admit I loved rich foods, fine garments, and servants at my side. And I could admit I’d put too much emphasis on my wealthy life. To be sure, my Testing was teaching me to have a better perspective, to deny myself pleasure and to live sacrificially. I would return home a better man for all my experiences.
Even so, my father and the Lagting had given me the easiest Testing. They’d sent Vilmar to be a slave in the dangerous gem mines of Warwick, and they’d relegated Mikkel to Norland’s Isle of Outcasts, where he would have to survive amongst brutal bands of warring exiles.
Yes, I was poor and hungry. And yes, the basilisks and boars posed a threat. But mostly, my everyday existence had been uneventful, even boring. And now with the loss of Rory, my last days in the forest stretched bleakly ahead of me.
Though I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the truth, this Testing had proven it—my father viewed me as the weakest of his sons. He didn’t think I could handle anything harder than woodcutting. And at times, I feared he was right.
Chapter
6
Kresten
The workweek ended too rapidly, and we didn’t reach our quotas, which was no surprise. Regardless, on our day of rest, we started the trek to Birchwood with bundles of wood piled high upon our backs.
An hour into the trip, Jorg halted suddenly.
With my head bent under the loads upon my back, I nearly bumped into him. “For the love of the saints, Jorg—”
“Basilisk.” His tone was low and urgent.
He didn’t have to say anything more. The one word was all the warning I needed.
I followed his attention, peering through the foliage to a blackened patch of earth that appeared as though it had been destroyed by a wayward campfire spark or lightning strike. A reptile-like creature stood at the center of the area on its thin legs, its head raised and its crest rounded and full.
No bigger than a hunting dog, the beast hissed, its long, forked tongue flicking out as though to warn us to stay away.
“Cover your mouth and nose.” Jorg ripped off a strip of his tunic.