Our camp now consists of no more than thirty tents, and those include the tents that shield our provisions. I stare at the other canvas structures, the ones that house what’s left of War’s phobos riders. He hasn’t been replacing his riders for a while now, so his inner circle of fighters has been steadily growing smaller.

I don’t know what will happen to them, especially now that War has released his undead army. Will he ride into the next city with just his men? Or will he raise more dead?

I can see the same question in the pinched, unhappy expressions of War’s riders. None of them know what’s going to happen next. Their warlord didn’t release them with the rest of camp. What plans could he possibly have for them?

The question is all the more pressing since War has left no one in charge of running the daily tasks of camp. There used to be people who would wash your clothes, people who would cook your meals. Those who would weave containers and mend torn tents and sharpen blades and on and on and on. You name a need, there’d be someone to fill it.

To be fair, the horseman did try to recruit some of his dead for these jobs, but no one wants decomposing skin to find its way into soup (if the dead even know how to properly prepare such things), or for some zombie’s unmentionable parts to smear onto the clothes they’re washing.

That being said, there are still a few zombies left around camp; War likes having them patrol the grounds. He won’t chance them getting close enough to make me sick, but he clearly still has them around for the camp’s protection and—to a larger extent—my own.

As I stare out at the few remaining tents, two phobos riders step out of one, their torsos bare, save for the red sash they always wear around their upper arm. They lean in towards each other, chatting quietly. When they see me, one nods in my direction, and the other takes notice, the two falling silent.

The back of my neck pricks. Whatever they’re talking about, it’s not for my ears.

A short while later Hussain walks by, lifting a hand to me in greeting before joining up with the two other men. Together, the group of them head off, their heads bent together, their voices hushed.

They’re all obviously friends, and the sight of them together brings a sharp ache to my chest. I already miss Zara and the easy friendship we had.

Rolling my hamsa bracelets around my wrist, I head towards the outskirts of camp.

Off in the distance, I see Deimos grazing, and nearby him is War. The sight of the horseman still makes my heart flutter.

Like his riders, War is shirtless, and even this far away, I can see his olive skin ripple with his muscles. Standing there amongst Sudan’s barren landscape, he looks … different. Still fearsome in stature, but burdened somehow. It brings back that prickling, uneasy sensation I felt only minutes ago, though I don’t know why.

I make my way to him.

When I get to his side, he doesn’t turn to me.

“Wife,” War says, staring out at the horizon. Out here the world is all yellow, sandy soil and pale blue sky. “Where do you draw the line between those who are innocent and those who are not?” he asks, his gaze distant.

I shake my head, though I’m not sure the question was meant for me at all.

He turns to me, and his dark eyes unbearably tender. “I have seen it all,” he says. “There is no clear demarcation between good and evil. And who is to say that even the worst men can’t change?”

I search his face. I’m barely following his musings, and I certainly don’t have any sort of answer for him.

He stares at my lips. “I thought I could have it all—my wife, my war, and my sanctity. Instead, you have forced me to question everything—life, death. Right, wrong. God, man—myself. And I am not one to question, wife.”

He glances beyond me, looking at the horizon again. “I have spent so much time judging men’s hearts that I haven’t judged my own. Not until now. And wife, … I have found it wanting.”

Chapter 54

That night, War holds me close—closer even than usual. I feel his uncertainty and inner conflict in the desperate grip of his arms. He really isn’t the type of creature to question himself, and now that he has, it seems his identity is crumbling apart.

What is War without war?

The horseman searches my eyes. “I love you.” His voice is rough with his own emotion. “More than my sword, more than my task. I love you more than war itself.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I’m so sorry, Miriam. I’m so goddamn sorry for everything. For not listening. For your pain and suffering. For every last thing.”

War’s face blurs as I stare at him. There has been so much suffering.

“Why are you telling me this now?” My voice is hoarse.

He strokes my cheek. “Because I am making the decision to end the fighting.”

I love you but it has been destroying us both, the horseman had once said. I hadn’t realized that he might’ve meant that literally when referring to himself. War and apathy go hand in hand. To feel, to empathize, to love—that must be the beginning of the end for war itself.

Was he doomed the moment he laid eyes on me in Jerusalem? Or was it when I nearly died—or when I surrendered? I know by the time the horseman looked at me and wiped out the entire camp, it was there. He loved me then, though he had no name for what he felt; it was the burn of betrayal that set him off. But by then, the spark that set everything else into motion had already been lit. Sparing the children, then the righteous.

And now, War is considering stopping the destruction altogether.

It’s beyond my wildest hope, so I don’t know why I feel fear, but that oily sensation twists my gut.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

The horseman gives me a soft smile. “Always questioning my motives. I thought you’d be glad.”

“What will happen to you?”

I can’t bear to say, What will God do to you? But I’m imagining it all the same. The horseman is turning his back on his violent purpose. Surely there are some consequences to that.

War tilts my chin up. “Are you actually worried for me?”

My lower lip is beginning to tremble just the slightest. “Of course I am. I don’t want you to—die.” My voice breaks.

I know he’s said it’s impossible for him to die, but is it really any less possible than raising the dead or healing the wounded or speaking dead languages? Impossible no longer means the same thing it once has.

The horseman’s thumb brushes my lower lip. “And who says I will?”

“Tell me you won’t,” I say a bit desperately.

“My brother didn’t.”

I go still. “So Pestilence is still alive?”

War nods. “Do you want to know what happened to him?” he asks. “What really happened?”

“How he was stopped, you mean?” I say.

War’s fingers move to my scar, tracing the symbol. “It wasn’t violence that got him in the end. It was love.”

I don’t breathe.

“My brother fell in love with a human woman, and he gave up his divine mission to be with her.

Which is exactly what my horseman seems to be doing.

I try to keep my voice steady. “What happened to him?” What will happen to you?