Reign of Shadows (17 page)

I
SAT AT
the table in Mirelya's small kitchen, listening to the busy sounds of the village outside coming to life. A cart rolled past and in the distance children played, their laughter ringing out. The woman next door beat at a rug in steady whacks with her broom.

My hands wrapped tightly around a mug of tea made from the kelp leaves that Fowler was out there risking his life harvesting. It had grown cold in the stretch of morning, but I still sipped at it. If it had nutrients and healing properties as they claimed, then I would take my fill. The journey ahead wasn't going to be easy. Especially since I would be doing it alone.

I squeezed the bridge of my nose between my fingers and released a shuddering breath, trying not to dread the prospect with every fiber of my being. It wasn't making the journey alone to Relhok City that filled me with dread. It wasn't even facing the man who murdered my parents and would now murder me. In some ways, that was long overdue. No. It was never seeing Fowler again.

I picked my mug back up and downed the last of the tea. I'd slept restlessly, if at all, thinking of Fowler somewhere on that lake. I knew he would be gone this long. They did runs back and forth to the lake only during midlight, but that didn't stop the worry. Midlight was close. I could smell it on the air.

Fowler's promise to come back played over in my mind, offering some solace.

Despite the heated words we'd had before he left—and despite that soul-searing kiss—I'd made up my mind to go to Relhok City. Where it all began. Where I would end it. And yet that didn't change that I wanted him safe. Before I left, I needed to know he was well.

A familiar thump sounded on the wooden deck outside Mirelya's cottage. The flap that acted as a door shifted, a hand shoving it back. Somewhere far off a horn blew that reminded me of the one that sounded when we'd stepped off the lift the first day.

Mirelya entered and the door covering fell back in place with a slight whisper on the air. “Hello, there,” she greeted, dropping a basket on the table.

“What's all the commotion outside?” I asked as she made her way to the table where I sat.

Despite her frail form, the chair creaked beneath her weight as she lowered down into it. “Another visitor arrived.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Unsavory-looking sort, but they let him up seeing as he's just one. I'm sure they'll send him out on the boats next. They always need volunteers for that.”

Like Fowler, he was someone to be sacrificed.

I shuddered and attempted to shake off the thought.

“Don't fret, girl. Your man is stronger than most. One look at him and you can see that.”

“He's very strong.” I nodded in agreement, recalling the sensation of his body, muscled and honed from years of hard living. “He'll be back.”

Sitting there, her words ran over in my mind. One look at him and you can see that. Yes, I could feel him. But I would never have a look at him. I understood the notion of beauty. Some people were more pleasing to the eye than others. Such superficiality didn't matter to me one way or another, but I was curious at how others perceived Fowler . . . and me. Sivo and Perla only ever sang my praises, but here was a woman who had no personal stake in cosseting my feelings.

“Mirelya? Am I like other girls?”

“You mean your appearance?”

Heat crept over my face.

“You're asking for that boy of yours?” She cackled. “You're
wanting to know how he sees you? Whether he finds you comely?”

I shook my head, feeling foolish. “N-no.”

“Don't deny it now that you've put the question out there. I don't expect you to know that you're comely enough. Not a great beauty, mind you, but passing fair, as I expect that boy would agree from the way he stares at you. Quite free with his stares he is, knowing you can't see him. Watches you like you're some tasty pudding he would like to sample.”

The heat in my face turned to scalding.

“And what of him?” I asked before good sense came over me. “What is he like? I already know he's tall and strong of form—”

“Aye, his face is fine enough to draw the female eye. Not that there are too many your age left to admire him.”

At that sobering reminder, I pressed my mouth shut. How could I worry about such trivial things when the world was what it was? When girls were being murdered because of me? When he was out there risking his life for us? When even if he did make it back, I would be leaving him?

Outside, steps approached the front of the cottage door. The leather covering rippled once from the movement. I tensed, relaxing after several moments when it became clear it was just a passerby. Mirelya had been helpful, keeping me out of sight so I didn't rouse curiosity. But it couldn't last forever. I was bound to come face-to-face with others again.

The chair creaked as Mirelya rose to her feet. “You should rest. I could hear you tossing all night. Take a nap. By the time
you wake, midlight will have passed and Fowler will be back.”

It was tempting—the idea of closing my eyes and opening them again to find Fowler before me—but it would be futile. I wouldn't be able to sleep until I knew he was back.

“Go on with you,” she pressed. “Have a rest.”

Deciding against arguing, I rose and slipped into the room where I had spent the night alone. Curling up on the bed, I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and waited for midlight, begging silently for it to come and then fearful that it would. That it would and he wouldn't arrive with it.

Moments slid into long minutes. I couldn't be certain how much time passed, but then I heard Mirelya talking to someone. I sat up with a lurch, excited with the possibility that Fowler was back.

I swung my legs over the bed, but then paused. The other voice was unmistakably male, but too reedy to belong to Fowler. Standing, I inched toward the door.

I moved to the door covering, my hand hovering in midair, some deeper sense stopping me from pushing the covering and going through.

“I don't care who told you that. They were confused,” Mirelya was saying.

“Perhaps you're confused, old woman.”

That voice. Anselm.

My breath locked tight in my lungs. I held myself immobile, my fingers curling into knotted, bloodless fists, my nails scoring into my palms. I recognized the voice. I'd never forget it. Not
mere days after he had attacked us. Not years from now.

“I'd know if I let any strangers into my home,” Mirelya snapped, her dislike strong in her voice, but there was something else. She was speaking loudly, stalling obviously. Everyone knew she had taken me and Fowler in. Any random passerby could confirm the truth. Or he could search the cottage.

I understood her purpose with sudden clarity. She was warning me. Giving me time to prepare. Hide. Run. Turning, I moved quickly, slipping my jacket over my tunic and snatching up my dagger and sword.

“I was told an older boy went out on the boats, but a younger boy stayed with you.” Footsteps sounded and I knew he was moving, circling the room, coming closer to the flap covering. “These two sound like they could be my friends.” His voice took on a silky quality that Mirelya didn't mistake.

“If they're your friends, how is it you're not with them?” she challenged.

“We got separated running from dwellers.”

I inched away, still straining to listen as I came closer to the window. When I felt it bump my back, I turned, reaching for the edges of the tarp covering. I loosened the ties anxiously, my fingers tripping in their haste as I untied the fabric from the knobs at the window's edge. Securing my cap snugly on my head, I swung a leg over the sill and slipped out of the cottage.

I settled my weight carefully on the wood planks, trying not to make a sound. There was only stillness at this back side of the cottage. I didn't sense a flow of people like in the front. I inhaled
and smelled only trees before me, the crispness of leaves fluttering softly in the breeze, the pungent musk of the centuries-old bark.

I pressed myself along the exterior wall of the house, not straying far from the window, still listening for sounds within. My ears separated their voices from the other noises around me. I waited, hoping, my lips moving in silent entreaty for him just to take Mirelya's word and turn and leave.

A crash carried from inside the cottage. He didn't believe her.

Mirelya's voice rang out, “You can't go in there!”

I pushed off the wall, knowing he would see the open window with its dangling cover. He need only to stick his head out and I would be discovered. One look at me—disguised or not—and he'd recognize my face.

Breathing raggedly, I moved, skimming a trembling hand along the side of the house until I rounded it and came to the front. My feet flew, relying on my memory combined with instinct as I followed the path that wove between trees and homes, bypassing villagers.

I had not gone very far when I heard a bellow. I froze for a moment before resuming my pace.

The cry came again and it was distinctly male and closer. Reedy and thin, it wrapped around me like a closing fist.

“Stop!”

My heart lurched. The heavy beat of his footsteps followed his cry. He was coming after me.

I ran. Desperate fire burned through me. My ears strained, listening and feeling with my skin, with my every nerve and pore and muscle. It didn't even matter if I fell. If he caught me I was dead anyway.

No one would stop him.

I bumped a woman's shoulder. She snapped at me in annoyance. I rushed ahead. There were more sounds behind me. He wasn't being careful in his pursuit of me either.

Someone stepped into my path before I could stop my momentum. We collided. I fell over him in a tumble of limbs. I staggered back to my feet, gasping out an apology as I continued ahead.

I reached the bigger thoroughfare that we had walked down when we first arrived. It was bustling with people this time of day. The fresh aroma of bread and dried meat filled my nose and made me ache for home even as I was running for my life. Perhaps because of it. The thought of Perla flitted across my desperate thoughts. My warm bedchamber. Sitting with Sivo before the fire as he sharpened weapons.

Someone grabbed at my arm, but I dodged free. The end of the lane approached. I heard the chains of the lift rattling in the breeze. I stopped before the ground dropped down to the lift platform. I hopped off, tottering on the edge of the platform, arms wide at my sides for balance. One wrong step and I would plummet.

I could hear his panting breaths and curses behind me. My pulse hammered, drumming in my neck.

I arrived at the far side of the landing. My hand groped at a giant tree there, finding and seizing a curling branch. I circled my arms around it and leaped, scooting up until I reached its trunk. From there, I scaled a little bit higher, grabbing another branch, then another. Fortunately, the branches were as big as I was and strong enough to support me. My arms burned as I climbed, no clear direction in mind except away.

I heard Anselm below, climbing up after me, cursing and gasping for breath as his shoes and hands scuffed against bark.

My arms worked, straining, pulling me along. I reached for another branch, this one extending from another tree. It was a little too far. My shoulder screamed as I stretched harder for it. I knew it was there. I could sense its presence, hear its creak on the wind. Please, please . . .

I choked with relief as I grasped hold of it and swung, crossing over into the neighboring tree, finding footing on a lower branch.

My mind raced ahead, trying to strategize beyond the idea of merely getting away from him. I needed a plan.

If I made it down to the ground below, I could lose him in the forest. There was no rescue coming. This was all on me.

Following that logic, I started to reach for lower branches, at times even scaling the tree trunk itself, sliding down against the rough bite of bark that rubbed my skin raw in places. My arms quivered from exertion, whimpers escaping me.

My fingers dug deep, nails cracking and splintering from the abuse. My boot lost its foothold and I dropped several feet before
I hit another branch. The impact stopped me—and shot pain to every fiber in my body.

Panting, I held still for a moment, fighting for breath.

My heart pounded as I took a moment to assess for injuries and to regain my breath. All of me hurt, but I could still move. I had to move. I tested my limbs, turning and stretching to my full height, my spine flat against the tree.

The smell of my own blood reached my nose, and I lifted a shaking hand to my face. I flexed my fingers. Slick blood coated my palms, the coppery scent filling my nose.

I could hear Anselm crashing above me. A fresh dose of panic washed through me.

Move, move, move!

I started down again, ignoring the pain. I tried not to think about the dwellers below. I'd take my chances with them over Anselm.

“Come back here before you fall, girl!”

I whimpered at the sound of his voice. He was directly above me. Close. I moved faster, anxiety pushing me. I had to be close to the ground. I had to be. My legs and arms moved quickly, one over the other, taking me down the tree.

My speed cost me. My hand slipped from a branch. My hand flailed wildly, seizing only air.

Crying out, I plunged, banging my way down. My knee collided with a branch and I shouted, tumbling in a whirl of flailing limbs and spinning leaves.

I hit earth. Flat on my back, I didn't move for a moment.
Didn't breathe. Pain greeted my body in sharp needles, poking and stabbing me everywhere.

I groaned and rolled to my side, gasping into the dirt, leaves crunching under me.

Sounds above jerked me to life. He was still coming. I sucked in air, letting it fill and lift me up. With that breath swirling through my nose, the familiar musky aroma of dwellers assailed me.