“Your army.” His tone was all awe.
“I know. It seems crazy to me, too.”
A sort of reverence filled his words, low and hopeful. “Is it really that strange? The way they follow you, the way they protect you. They’ve been acting like your army since the first time we saw them at the lab. They were guarding you.”
“I want to know why.”
“Me too.” He scanned the bank of a shallow stream and guided me toward a rock, big enough for both of us to sit on. “There’s a lot we need to ask the sylph.”
That was for sure. And not at all a statement I ever thought I’d hear coming from anyone’s mouth. Just a few months ago, we’d been wondering why they kept following me, and whether they were going to burn us up in our sleep. And now Cris was one of them. Now we were relying on the sylph.
“Thank you.” I held my flute case against my chest and waited as Sam swept snow off the rock and sat. I perched next to him and placed my flute across my lap, keeping as close to him as I could without sitting on him.
“For what?” He wrapped his arm around me and set down the lantern, illuminating our boots, water bubbling over pebbles, and pine needles. His leg pressed against mine.
“For understanding about the sylph. And not thinking I was crazy with the centaurs. I know everyone must have some history with them, but these—”
Sam turned and rested his other hand on my knee. His fingers curled around, and I could feel the heat of him even through the layers of cloth between us. “I trust you. You see the world differently from the rest of us, and I want to learn to see the world that way, too. You challenge us, inspire us. You inspire me. We were wrong about sylph. Maybe we were wrong about centaurs.”
I ducked my head, hiding a blush. “Maybe you weren’t wrong about sylph at first. Like you said, they do seem to like me. And their liking me doesn’t change thousands of years of violence between you all.”
He gave a weary chuckle. “You have good instincts. You’re right to question things, even when you’ve heard all our stories. If you hadn’t questioned reincarnation, we’d still be in Heart with no idea why Deborl had taken over the city, or what we were being made to build.”
“We might be happier not knowing.” That sounded like we weren’t happy now. But were we? I was happy with him, but all this getting shot at, dodging explosions, hiding in caves—that certainly didn’t make me happy.
“We’d have problems no matter what, Ana.”
“Oh.” That sounded even worse than what I’d said, but he was probably right. I could cause trouble by just breathing.
“No life is perfect. There’s always something that hurts, but it’s important to appreciate the good things, too.” He kissed my cheek, breathing warmth over me. “If it wasn’t the end of the world, it’d be something else. Maybe not this big or terrible, but there are always events in life that can make you unhappy if you let them.”
“Thinking about the end of the world makes me unhappy. I don’t think that’s just because I’m letting it.”
He laughed. “It makes me unhappy, too. All I’m saying—”
“I get it.” I only sort of got it, but he didn’t need to keep trying. “You make me happy, though.” It seemed vitally important that he know. I tilted my face toward his, all warm shadows in the winter gloom. “No matter what else is going on, you make me happy. And I want to let you make me happy. I’m not always very good at it.” My breath felt heavier, misted the space between us.
Music had always been my comfort, and Sam before I knew him. His compositions, his playing, his singing. But that happiness had been distant. Someone else’s life. I’d imagined a world away from Purple Rose Cottage, but it was the faraway imagining, knowing it would never be my life.
And then it was mine. Sam came, giving me music and happiness of my own. The life I’d always wanted suddenly happened, and trying to fit that with my old life was proving more difficult than I’d anticipated.
I kept expecting to wake up.
Like he understood everything I hadn’t said, Sam kissed me. His mouth was warm and gentle, and his fingers soft against the back of my neck. “I wish I could give you all the time you needed to get used to happiness. Lifetimes, if necessary. I’d wait eternity for you to figure it out.”
We didn’t have eternity. I hoped I didn’t need that long, anyway. I’d feel really stupid.
“You make me happy, too.” He kissed my lips. My nose. My chin. My forehead. “You make me feel—everything.”
My heart beat triple time when he kissed me again. With him, I could be happy forever.
Or at least for the single life I’d been given.
I drew back. “What if Janan actually were going to keep reincarnating people?”
Sam said nothing, but his silence was telling. He didn’t want to die. No one did. Because what happened after? Where did you go when you died forever? What did you do?
“Right before the rededication ceremony last year, you and Stef were talking about choices. You said you were glad you didn’t have to choose between Ciana and me, because how could anyone choose between two people they care about? You told me later that if you had a choice, if what you wanted counted for anything, you’d have chosen me.”
“I still mean that. I will always choose you.”
“I believe you.” I closed my eyes and let him embrace me, trying not to think about what he and the others had decided five thousand years ago, that they’d willingly exchanged newsouls for their immortality.
Five thousand years ago, they’d all chosen themselves.
“Sarit thinks Janan will keep reincarnating oldsouls because he’ll want people to rule over. What’s the point of being powerful and immortal if you’re all alone?”
Sam nodded. “I suppose anything is possible, but like Stef and Cris said: Janan wouldn’t share power.”
“But Meuric was desperate for the key. He said he needed the key to survive.”
“He was also crazy when he said that, wasn’t he? From pain? And being terrified of Janan? He’d been trapped in the temple for months.” Sam didn’t sound sorry for Meuric, but the knowledge of what I’d sentenced the former Speaker to was heavy. “Maybe,” Sam went on, “all he meant was that Janan would kill him if he didn’t have the key, because he’d have failed. Or if he had the key, Janan would heal him. Who knows what he thought would happen?”
I stared at my boots, sorting out thoughts and feelings, and how to ask for help without letting him see how torn my insides really were. “What would you do?” I whispered. “Only a few of us really understand that Janan isn’t going to keep reincarnating people once he ascends. Sarit said everyone else will see my actions as a choice between oldsouls and newsouls.”
“And?”
“What if it were a choice? What would you do?”
Only the burble of water over rocks answered. Sam stared into the dim forest as snow began drifting through the skeletal branches above.
“I’m not testing you,” I said at last. “I’m not looking for a certain answer. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for reincarnation or whether someone gets to live. You’ve lived so long, though. I was hoping you might have some wisdom to share.”
“I know your question wasn’t a test. I was just thinking about it.” He caressed my cheek, and his gloved fingertips came to rest under my chin. Soft wool brushed my skin, almost a kiss, and Sam leaned so close until all I could see were his eyes. His voice was low and rough. “I would choose you. Every time. No matter what.”
My heart thumped, suddenly feeling too big for my ribs to cage it.
“That’s probably a very selfish answer,” he went on, “but it’s the truth. When I consider the potential consequences of any scenario, I ask what would become of you, and could we be together? Any result that doesn’t involve at least one very long life with you isn’t an option for me. I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes, Ana. I’ve loved before, been lonely, ached for what I couldn’t have. I’ve always made sure to fill every lifetime with what I can, because I’ve seen others grow complacent and weary. I’ve seen them move from living to existing. I’ve been tempted down that path myself, because it sometimes looks easier than this constant caring and trying to grow and change and be more than I am.