Sea of Shadows (12 page)

Twenty-two

M
oria left Gavril there, reading Ashyn’s note. She got as far as the street before he came after her.

“Where are you running?” he said, striding up beside her.

“To find my sister, obviously. Find her, find the children, warn someone. That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

He swung in front of her. “It’s not a half day’s jaunt, Keeper. Night has fallen. It will be just as dark until morning, so there’s little point in rushing. We’ll need more lantern oil, fire-starter, warmer clothes. . . . My cloak is in the barracks and you need yours. If you can recall where you dropped it.”

“I know exactly where I
dropped
it. At home, where it lies in my dead father’s hand. It’s still there, I’m sure. Where he tried to kill me and I had to kill him. I will freeze before I go back for that cloak.”

As she spoke, the annoyance fell from his face and by the time she finished, she saw . . .

Empathy. Shared pain and understanding and contrition. She saw that and she turned away.

“I’ll find something at the barracks,” she said.

“Can you go into your father’s shop?” His voice was low, the undertone of compassion making her anxious, and she wanted to brush it off. Make him angry again.

You fault him for being unkind in your grief, and you fault him for being kind. What do you want, Moria?

“If you don’t feel you can go into his shop, I will,” he said. “But that is the best place to find supplies.”

She answered by veering in that direction.

Gavril suggested she tell him what she needed from the shop. His tone said he would see it as no sign of weakness if she stayed out. She still saw weakness in the choice. Moreover she saw a lack of respect for her father.

He’d been proud of his shop. Proud to be a merchant. The empire would have let him take on a higher-ranking position in Edgewood. He was the father of the Keeper and the Seeker. He ought not tend shop. Yet he did, and while Moria knew he enjoyed his profession, it was also a quiet rebellion. The empire had cost him his wife and could have cost him his children. Now they’d “allow” him to rise from his caste-bound occupation? No, they would not. He wouldn’t risk rebelling loudly, as Moria would, but he did so with a quiet resolve that seemed so much braver. She would honor that bravery by going into his shop for the last time.

The mental wall stayed up as she went in, and she was glad. It let her look around the familiar tables and shelves, inhale the familiar scents, and commit it all to memory. She started gathering everything they’d need along with packs to put it in.

Her father’s entire selection of clothing fit on one shelf. There was a separate room given to the raw materials—furs and leathers and fabric and buttons and clasps and threads and baubles. The people in the empire viewed ready-made clothing as emergency wear only. It might be cheaper, but only because the tailor fashioned it from ends and scraps. The one cloak they found was for a man—too large, made of patchwork leather without fur.

“You’ll need a sleeping fur if you take that. Otherwise, you’ll freeze. The deeper you go into the Wastes, the colder it gets at night.” Gavril looked around. “Does your father keep orders anywhere? Perhaps something waiting to be picked up?”

He did. While it might make sense for a person to buy the raw material and take it to a tailor, that wasn’t how it worked. A tailor was an artisan, two castes above a merchant. He ought not soil himself with matters of trade. So the merchant gave him the order and materials, then sold the finished item back to the customer, and returned a portion of the cost to the tailor. Which meant that the tailor was still
selling
his goods—just to the merchant instead of the client—
and
losing money in the bargain. A ludicrous arrangement to Moria, though it seemed perfectly reasonable to everyone else.

She took Gavril to where her father kept commissioned goods awaiting pickup. There were no cloaks. Nothing that could substitute either. She was about to take the plain leather one when Gavril said, “Moria?”

He held out a parcel wrapped in paper. On the top of it, in block writing, it read:
This is NOT your Fire Festival gift, Moria, so do NOT peek in it.

It was her father’s writing. Gavril put the parcel in her hands. She opened it carefully, as she’d never opened a gift in her life. First the string. Then the paper. She laid the parcel on a table and opened it to find . . . a cloak. A magnificent butter-soft leather cloak with a removable fur liner.

As she lifted it, a note fell to the table. In her father’s neat, precise handwriting, it read:

Fire Day blessing to my Fiery Child

I know you haven’t quite outgrown your old one yet, but it is starting to look rather ragged. Please do try not to get any dagger holes in this one. And tell Daigo the hem is not for claw sharpening.

All my love, always,

Father

Moria read the note twice. Then she dropped to her knees and she wept. Finally, she wept.

Ashyn

Twenty-three

A
s Ashyn climbed the pile of rock, she banged her knee—the same one she’d banged twice already. She hissed in pain as tears sprang to her eyes. Tova whined from the base and put one tentative paw on the rocks, but she motioned for him to stay down and then waved to the others, assuring them she was fine as they made camp.

The outlook was man-made, rock piled by an age of travelers along this road, using a rare rise in the landscape for a base and adding to it. The stones were volcanic, like everything around them. Sharp as broken glass, if you grabbed the wrong piece. Ashyn already had a cut on her hand to prove it. But she kept going until she reached the top. Then she found her footing and looked out.

There was little to see. One could argue that these lookouts were a tribute to the endless—and foolish—optimism of the human spirit. Or to their equally foolish determination to conquer everything in their path, including nature itself.

In the Wastes, nature won. There was no contest, truly. Ashyn stood on that pile of rock and looked out at . . . more rock. In places the land was smooth and swirled, like a quiet river. In others, it was as rough and choppy as a stormy sea. There were patches, here and there, of scrubby trees and moss, improbable islands of life. Yet most was rock.

They’d been walking for two days now, and every time she saw a possible lookout, she’d run ahead. After the first day, she no longer even needed to search for them herself. Tova would see one and bound off with a bark.

While she was scouting for danger, she was also looking for Ronan. At first, she’d scoured the landscape, furious with him for abandoning them. Then, as her temper had settled, she’d begun to look with less anger and more hope. By the second day, though, the hope had vanished.

He was long gone. She tried to understand that. Given the way the village had treated him, she couldn’t blame him for leaving. But it still hurt. She took one last look around, then scrambled down to rejoin the others.

Ashyn crawled from her sleeping blanket. She could hear the soft snores of Wenda beside her. Beatrix was on Wenda’s other side, and the two men were about five paces away. Only Tova was up, having woken as soon as she did.

Ashyn followed his pale form through the rocks, stumbling as she went, her body aching from a third night sleeping on stone. She shivered as she walked. Even her fur-lined cloak did little against the bitter nights. If her bladder weren’t full to bursting, she’d have stayed in her blankets until the morning rays warmed the rocks. By midday, she’d be cursing that same sun. It was like living in an oven, nestled among stones that were bitingly cold until the flame made them unbearably hot.

Tova was anxious to return to bed, too, and they’d gone barely ten paces before he found a place to lift his leg. When Ashyn continued on, he grumbled.

“You can go back,” she whispered.

His grumble bordered on a growl, annoyed and offended that she would suggest such a thing. Normally, she’d have patted him in apology. But their even tempers were both fraying out here in the Wastes. It wasn’t simply the poor sleep or the inadequate food, or the heat or the cold or even the boredom. They were lonely. They had each other, but that was no different from having your arm or your leg. You couldn’t imagine life without it, but it was, after all, a part of you. They missed Father and, even more, they missed Moria and Daigo. In sixteen summers, they’d never spent more than a night apart.

When Ashyn insisted on finding more privacy, Tova laid down as if to say,
I mean it.

“Wait there, then,” she said.

His grumble warned her to come back and argued she didn’t need to go so far. As the distance between them grew, Ashyn could feel it, like a rope going taut. She
was
being unreasonable.

Ashyn turned. “I’m just going there, behind those rocks.”

Tova chuffed and pushed to his feet. As he padded toward her, Ashyn jogged to the rocky outcropping, swung behind it, and—

She heard the sound of something scratching against rock. She wheeled, and it was right there, perched nearly at eye level. A scorpion. Or so her eyes told her, but it was unlike any scorpion she’d ever seen. In Edgewood, they were less than a hand long. This one was a leg’s length from clicking claws to raised tail.

As she stood there, paralyzed, Tova tore around the corner and the scorpion rose up, claws waving, tail poised. She could see the stinger now, as long as a finger, venom glistening on the tip.

She took a slow, careful step backward. Her gaze stayed fixed on the creature as she prayed to the goddess that it would let her leave, just let her—

It sprang. She tried to twist out of the way, knowing it would do no good, seeing Tova leaping forward, knowing that wouldn’t help either. The scorpion was coming right for her and—

My dagger.

Her hand shot down and hit the folds of her cloak. Yes, she had her dagger—uselessly hidden under her cloak.

Her hands flew up to ward off the scorpion. It struck her, knocking her off balance, its armored body ice-cold against her fingers, and then—

It gave an earsplitting shriek. A spray of something cold and wet hit her. Venom. It wasn’t simply going to sting her. It had sprayed her with—

Fingers wrapped around her arm and hauled her upright before she hit the ground.

“Where in blazes is your dagger?” a voice said, sharp with irritation.

She looked up to see a dirt-smeared face and blazing brown eyes.
Ronan
.

She stared at him, then down at the scorpion. It was cut in half, still twitching on the rock. She stared at it and felt not relief but shame. She was armed with a dagger and hadn’t even had the sense to draw it when walking into the Wastes at night. She might be her sister’s wombmate, but clearly they shared little beneath their outward appearance. That’s what he must be thinking.

Moria would have huffed that she’d been relieving herself, which did not usually involve being attacked by giant scorpions. Ashyn said, “You’re right. I ought to have had my blade out.”

“Yes, you should have. And your hound ought to be at your side, not lying ten paces away like a stubborn mule.”

Tova whined and moved closer to Ashyn, butting his head under her hand.

Ronan sighed. “You need to be more careful, Ashyn, but I lay most of the blame at the feet of that guard who accompanies you. I’m starting to wonder if he’s a farmer who stole the sword and boots. He ought to be arranging a nightly watch schedule and choosing safer campsites, preferably ones with a pissing spot nearby.”

“A guard isn’t expected to lead. I’ll help him.”

Ronan motioned her away from the rocky outcropping. “You’ve been through a great tragedy, and I ought not to have left. That shames me, Ashyn, but I hope to make up for it now.” He looked into her eyes. “I was worried about you.”

She blushed. “I understand why you—”

“No, there was no excuse. I told myself I was doing the right thing, going ahead to send help back, but you needed me. I failed you. I have barely slept these last three nights, thinking of what I’d done.” Another look, deep into her eyes. “Thinking of you.”

Ashyn felt her insides flutter. Was this not the stuff of bards’ tales? The maiden who captured the heart of a rogue, who inspired him to rise to the role of warrior, devoted to her protection? Such pretty words. And they would be so much prettier if she didn’t hear them in that same soft voice he’d used when he’d meekly thanked Moria for helping him get locked up in a dungeon cell.

“Do you play the lute?” she asked.

He blinked, that soulful look evaporating. “What?”

“The lute. Lies and false flattery go so much better with the strains of a lute. You ought to consider becoming a bard. You have a certain rakish charm. An eye patch would help, too.”

His face darkened.

“Yes, definitely an eye patch,” she continued. “You can concoct some tale of tragic bravery to explain how you lost your eye. Wait—I know one. You were maimed when you rescued a Seeker from the ruins of her ravaged village and escorted her through the Wastes. Then you heroically delivered her to court while expecting nothing in return.” She paused. “You do expect nothing in return, I presume?”

“More gratitude and less mockery would be nice. But yes, if you insist, I will admit that I do hope for something. I hope to survive the Wastes, and I realized we both stand a better chance of that together.”

“And that is all?”

“You may not wish to believe I came back for you, but I did, Ashyn. I was concerned. For you. A Seeker is a very valuable member of the empire.”

“Valuable?”

“I meant important,” he said. “It’s the same thing.”

“Not quite. You came back because you realized you had walked away from an opportunity that could turn you from pauper to lord, from exile to hero.”

“I came back for you, Ashyn.”

He said it with breathtaking sincerity, and she looked at him there, silhouetted against the pale moonlight, sword in hand, a scratch across his dirty cheek only making him seem more raffish.

Truly, Ashyn? Truly?

She heard her sister’s voice and imagined Moria shaking her head. Ashyn silenced her. Just because she was admiring the scenery did not mean she would step blindly into the quicksand.

“Yes, I’m sure you did come back for me,” she said. “Except I would word it differently. You came back for the
Seeker
. And I don’t care. If you get me to the nearest town, you deserve that reward.”

He eyed her, wary now.

“I mean it,” she said. “I understand your situation. You might return to the imperial city only to be thrown into another cell, awaiting a fate as dire as the forest. If you return with me, and I say that you rescued me, at the very least you will be free. You would also likely receive some sort of more tangible reward. I don’t begrudge you that. I would simply ask that you are honest with me.”

He paused, still searching her face, as if for a trick. Finally he said, “I apologize.”

“Good. Now, I’ll need to explain the situation to the others. That would be best done in morning’s light.”

He bent and wiped his blade on the sand, cleaning it. “While I understand why you don’t wish to frighten them by disappearing, I’m not sure that discussing the matter will help.”

“Disappearing?”

“With me.” He stopped. “You expect me to
join
them?”

“I will say that you are my chosen guard. Gregor cannot argue with that.”

“It’s not arguing that concerns me. You can’t continue at their pace, Ashyn. The woman and child are slow enough, but the old man? I left Edgewood just ahead of you, and I had to walk back half a day to find you.”

“I’ll not leave them.”

“I know you feel responsible, but I also have respons . . .” He trailed off and resumed checking his sword. “I wish to get back to the city as quickly as possible. I’ve been in the Forest of the Dead for four moons. I’d like a soft sleeping mat and clean clothing, and I’ll not get that out here.”

“I understand, but the matter isn’t open to discussion. My duty is to my village—those few who still live. If you wish to join us, you may. Otherwise . . .” She looked up at him. “I hope to see you again someday.”

He shook his head. “I’ll not join them.”

“Then that is your—”

“I can’t. The guard won’t stand for an exiled convict bearing blades. It would be disruptive for no purpose.” He returned his sword to its sheath—he must have taken one from the bodies in Edgewood. “If you insist on staying with the others, I’ll do what your guard does not—watch out for you. Would that be sufficient?”

He meant would she still vouch for him, to say he “rescued” her. Someday, perhaps, a young man would give her that soulful look and not want anything more than her kind regard. Ronan wasn’t that young man. But he was what she needed right now. So she agreed and returned to camp with Tova.