Sea of Shadows (18 page)

Thirty-five

“N
ow hush,” Gavril whispered. “Before it hears us.”

Though she was not the one who had instigated or perpetuated the exchange, she said nothing, which was usually the best course with Gavril.

The wingbeats grew louder. The beast seemed to be heading straight for them. Could it smell them? Did birds
have
a sense of smell? It wasn’t anything she’d ever needed to ponder.

Then it landed. They couldn’t see it—the cave mouth dipped down, and they were looking at rock. But she heard a thud that set the earth trembling.

The thunder stopped. The wind stopped, too. Then talons scraped against rock. A thump. Another one. The bird was walking, and the earth quaked with each footfall.

It stopped. Silence. Then the beast let out a deafening shriek . . . right outside the cave.

“No,” Gavril whispered. “No, no, no.”

His hands went around her knees, as if shielding them, yanking and tugging as he tried to shift backward, to get them farther into the cave. She could feel Daigo moving, too, trying to give them room. It was no good. They were in as far as they could go. And her legs were a hand’s breadth from the mouth of the cave.

Thunder cracked as the bird flapped its wings. The wind swirled up. Gavril kept pulling her, trying to shift her, get her off to the side. But there was no room.

She took out one dagger, gripping it, then pried his fingers from her knee and tugged his hand to the hilt of his blade. He hesitated as if, for one moment, he wasn’t sure what it was. Then he eased the sword from the sheath and up, over her lap, blade ready, if awkwardly held. Though he tried a few angles, she could tell it was no good—with Moria on his lap, he couldn’t do more than feebly jab.

Moria unsheathed her other dagger. They sat there, holding their weapons in the dark, sand swirling in as the bird beat its wings, each crack of thunder punctuated by an earth tremor, as if it was hopping more than walking, using its wings to help itself along.

It’s injured. Remember that. We hurt it and—

The bird stopped. Everything stopped.

A beak thrust into the cave, so fast that they both jumped. Gavril’s free arm wrapped tighter around her legs, but the beak was right there, so massive it barely fit through. It opened just enough to reveal rows of small, blade-sharp teeth. The beak slashed at her legs as the bird worked itself in farther, rock crumbling to give it room. Gavril tried his sword, but only succeeded in enraging the bird, making it fight harder, those tiny teeth slashing and biting Moria’s leg.

“Can you use anything else?” she said as she struggled to keep back from those teeth.

“I’m trying—”

“No, something else.” She twisted, gaze meeting his. “Do you know anything else? I’ll cover my ears. I’ll hide my eyes. If you know any magic—”

“I would use it.” He held her gaze. “Truly, Moria. I have nothing more to fight with than my blade, and I can’t get enough leverage—”

“Then we’ll have to fix that.”

She raised both her boots and slammed them into the bird’s beak. The beast let out a tremendous roar and fell back. As she rushed from the cave, she felt Gavril grab for her feet and heard him shout. She lunged out and leaped up, daggers still clutched in her hands. The bird was there. Right there. Towering above her—that head diving toward her, a head as big as a horse cart, beak opening, that massive beak with those terrible teeth.

I’m dead,
she thought.

The head slashed down, and she leaped at it. Straight at it. Blades raised. One made contact, slicing into the bird’s eye. It screamed then, a shriek that seemed to open the skies. Thunder and lightning and a sudden torrent of rain battered her as the bird yanked back, her blade coming free, her body falling, realizing only then that she’d been lifted clear off the ground by her strike. She hit the rocky ground so hard the air flew from her chest.

She saw a blur. Black fur raced past. Daigo launched himself at the bird. Then she heard a snarled shout and lifted her head to see Gavril there, in front of the bird, thrusting his sword up into its throat.

The bird let out a gurgling scream and whipped its head back, sending Gavril flying to the side, still clutching his sword. The thunder hawk’s giant wings lifted as it prepared to take flight, blood pumping from its torn throat. Moria squinted through the torrents of rain to see Daigo still hanging from the bird’s side.

“Daigo!” she shouted. “Jump!”

He did, but not before one last slash. He dropped, twisting and landing on all fours just as the bird took flight. It rose. Then it stopped and hovered there, bright, rain-soaked plumage shimmering as the sun pierced the clouds. Then it started to fall. Moria looked to see Gavril, still struggling to his feet, dazed. The bird was right above him, dropping fast.

“Gavril!” she shouted as she ran at him, sheathing her daggers.

He looked up and started to lunge. Moria caught him by the tunic and yanked. The thunder hawk landed, glancing off Gavril as it did, knocking them both off balance. Gavril recovered and raced to the bird, slipping and sliding on the wet rock. He raised his sword, ready to stab the beast in the breast. Then he stopped.

He stood there, rain pouring off him in sheets, the sun bright now, strangely shining through the rain, the light glinting off his sword. Moria could see him breathing hard, his green eyes seeming to glow as bright as his sword, bright with fury and determination and fear. Yes, fear. She could see that, in his face and in his stance, holding himself fast, gulping air, watching the bird, ready to strike the fatal blow. But it lay there unmoving.

Moria unsheathed her daggers as she walked over. Daigo followed her, creeping through the rain, head down, as if he could avoid getting wet.

She walked to the bird and looked down at its ruined eye and bloody throat. She kicked its beak. It fell open, but the bird didn’t move. Another kick, just to be sure, then she sheathed one dagger and turned to Gavril.

“It’s dead,” she said.

“You . . .” He looked toward the cave. “You just ran out . . . you could have been killed.”

She sheathed her other dagger. “Yes, it was foolish. Exactly what you expect, I’m sure.”

“No, not foolish. It was . . .” He seemed to search for a word, then looked down at the bird as if in shock. His gaze turned to her. “You don’t fear anything, do you, Moria?”

She gave a short laugh. “Oh, there was plenty of fear. I’m glad it’s raining, because I’m not completely sure my breeches would have been dry.”

A quirk of a smile. “A warrior isn’t supposed to admit fear.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not a warrior.”

“No, you are.” He paused, meeting her gaze. “You truly are.”

She felt her cheeks heat and covered it by kneeling beside the bird. The rain was easing now, and with the sun shining, the colorful plumage glittered.

“Sadly, I can’t claim the killing blow,” she said, ducking to look at the bird’s throat. “Good work, Kitsune.”

He didn’t answer. She could sense him walking up behind her, but she kept examining the bird.

“I meant what I said in the cave, Moria. I don’t know anything that could have helped.”

“I know.”

More silence. He was right behind her now. She swore she could hear him breathing.

“You were right. I don’t need to tell you that, but . . . yes, my family . . . ” He trailed off. “I only know simple things, though, like how to start a fire or close a wound.”

She nodded and then glanced over. He was frozen there, braced for a reaction, for questions.

“I’ll tell no one,” she said, and then she turned back to the bird.

She plucked out three feathers—smaller ones from the chest and one large one from the wing plumage.

“Trophies?” Gavril asked.

She gave him a look. “That would be dishonorable. A warrior—or a Keeper—is not supposed to take pride in the kill. It’s proof. Otherwise, no one will believe we met a thunder hawk.”

He nodded. “Here, I’ll carry the large one. My pack is bigger.”

He reached out. His fingers were trembling slightly. He gave a soft, nervous laugh. “As you see, you weren’t the only one frightened by that thing.”

“I thought a warrior wasn’t supposed to admit fear.”

He met her gaze. “I know you’ll protect my secrets, Keeper.”

“I will.” She pushed to her feet. “Now, let’s see if we can find dry wood somewhere to build a fire. Rain was perhaps the last thing we needed.”

“At least your face is clean now.”

“Perhaps, but it did absolutely nothing for this.” She lifted a handful of her knotted, soaked hair.

“We’ll get that fixed. Come on, then. Gather your pack and we’ll go.”

Thirty-six

M
oria had argued most strenuously for the obvious solution to her hair issues: chop it off. Gavril refused to permit it. Ashyn would be upset, and Moria would have to answer to the court Keeper and Seeker, perhaps even the emperor. Clearly, the emperor had far too little to do if he’d concern himself with a Keeper’s hair, but she ceded Gavril’s point. Or she did when he offered to help come up with an alternate solution.

The basic methods—a single braid or tie—were perfectly acceptable for daily life, but did not control her locks when battling anything of substance. Additional braids would help, but took time, and would likely give her welts when they whipped about in battle.

“I fail to see how you’d think I’d be an expert in this matter,” he said as she finished brushing out the snarls.

“You’ve been to court. You’ve seen the women’s styles.”

He snorted. “I’m not sure which is more amusing, Keeper: to think you believe I spent much time in court, or to think you believe I’d waste any time there looking at women’s hair.”

“True,” she said. “There are probably far more engaging sights if the rumors are true, about how little some of the court women wear.”

“The women of court are not to my taste.”

“You have a taste?”

A glare. “No, I have better things to occupy my mind, in and out of court.”

And that, she mused, was truly a shame, but sadly not unexpected.

He continued. “If I have any knowledge of women’s hair fashions, it comes from my mother, which won’t help you at all. Your hair could not be more dissimilar.” He paused, then hunkered down, tilting his head. “There is a style I have seen some men wear, those with your sort of hair. Men too vain to cut it short.”

“Vanity is not my issue. I would gladly—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Which is why I’m devising solutions. What the men do is braid the sides, perhaps a hand’s span of hair, then tie them together. The back stays untethered, but as long as the sides are held, it seems to work.”

“Unless I get caught in a thunder hawk’s talons again.”

“I’m trusting that’s a once-per-lifetime experience. Now, take the hair . . .”

“If you ever tell anyone of this . . .” Gavril warned as he worked on the second braid.

“Is that a threat, Kitsune?”

“Yes.” He tightened the braid. “Yes, it is.”

She’d attempted to do her hair herself, and thought she was doing a fine job, but apparently, it hadn’t been to his standards. After several fruitless attempts to correct her technique, he’d taken over.

“Given that I promised not to tell anyone you’re a sorcerer—or that you admitted fear in battle—I’m certainly not going to tell anyone you braided my hair. And truly, can you imagine any conversation in which the subject would arise?”

He tugged a braid and grumbled under his breath, but it was a good-natured grumble—or as close to good-natured as Gavril seemed capable of. They’d had to trek out of the storm-struck area to find dry wood for fire, and he hadn’t said an unkind word in all that time. He was still prickly, of course, and argumentative and difficult, but that was to be expected.

When he finished, he pulled back the braids and surveyed his work. “Now we need to find something to tie it with. You had a band . . .”

“Which came out when the thunder hawk decided to restyle my hair. I can pull a strip of fabric off my other tunic—”

“No, it’ll unravel.” He took one of his own braids and pulled off the band.

As he fastened it in her hair, she asked, “Why don’t you have beads, like other warriors? Is it a family custom?”

“No. I don’t see the need. Colored beads are for show. Like a peacock’s plumage.”

“Like those?” She gestured at his tattooed forearms.

A scowl, more mock angry than serious. “That’s not the same, Keeper. Those are—”

“Ancestral devotion markings for high-born warriors,” she said. “I know. I’m only teasing.” She shifted for a better look. As long as the subject was being discussed, it gave her the excuse. “I’ve heard it’s done with needles and ink. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“When I asked Orbec about them, he said it doesn’t hurt.”

“He lied.”

She laughed softly and looked up. “Truly?”

“
Very
truly. I am extremely glad they only do one section at a time, with many moons between.”

She smiled and shifted onto her stomach, her feet over Daigo. Gavril was sitting, leaning back on his elbow, letting her examine the tattoo on his left arm. His eyes were almost closed, as if basking in the fire’s heat. He looked more at peace than she’d ever seen him.

“When do you get the upper arms done?” she asked.

“Soon. They were supposed to be done on the eighteenth anniversary of my birth, but winter is hardly the time for travel in the Wastes.”

“Are you glad for the delay?”

He paused. “Not particularly. Getting inked is hardly pleasant, but . . .” He shrugged. “It means something that’s important to me.”

“It’s beautiful work.”

He hesitated. Then, “Thank you.” Another pause. “I’ll remember that when they’re doing the inking, and I’m trying very hard not to cry out.”

She laughed. “If you fell from a thunder hawk without so much as a gasp, I think you can handle inked needles.”

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the dark sky, feeling the fire’s heat against the top of her head. Gavril reached forward and she felt a faint tug on her hair. She tilted her head back to see him moving her hair away from the fire pit.

“Before it catches alight,” he said.

“See? It’s a menace. We may have escaped a thunder hawk, but ultimately, we
will
perish . . . killed by my hair.”

A chuckle. He settled in again, and silence fell, broken only by the snapping of the sparks and the crackle of burning wood. When the clouds shifted, stars lit up the sky, brighter than they’d ever seemed in Edgewood.

“I know you’re curious,” Gavril said after a while. “About the sorcery. You’re trying very hard not to ask about it.”

“Given how difficult it was for you to admit to it, I can hardly imagine you’d welcome questions.”

A few moments of silence. Then, “What I said yesterday, about the rumors of my father, how his enemies used that against him: it was true.”

“Except that they weren’t mere rumors.”

She heard his boots scrape the rock as he shifted. “That we can do sorcery? Yes, that was true. But they said he stole babies from their cradles, Moria, and cut out their hearts in dark rituals. Murdered children. Defiled women. Mutilated warriors. All the worst that has been said of sorcery, they accused him of doing to further his fortunes. The same rumors have dogged my family since the first Kitsune became a warrior. Is it any wonder we deny having powers? Admit to anything, however simple, and the rest would be presumed true as well.”

“So you use it for nothing more than lighting fires and closing wounds?”

Silence. Her tone had been curious, not accusatory, but clearly he seemed to have taken it that way. When she glanced over, though, he didn’t seem angry or offended, just contemplative.

“There is . . . more,” he said. “I haven’t the skills or the training for it, but there are more . . . martial applications.” He moved to look at her. “It is a skill we are born with, Moria. A gift from our ancestors. Like caste. Would you argue that a man born a warrior should not lift a sword against an unarmed enemy because it gives him an advantage?”

She considered that as she stared into the night sky. “But if your enemies do not know your skills, is that not unfair? If you are a warrior, other men see your blades and know not to challenge you or they’ll taste your steel.”

He said nothing for a long while. Then, “Perhaps. But we do not hide our sorcery by choice.”

“True.”

He paused, as if he’d been preparing to add further arguments.

“Will you learn more?” she asked.

“Yes. My training has been . . . slow. My mother blames sorcery for my father’s exile and wouldn’t allow my uncles to train me. So they did it in secret.”

“Against her will?” She looked back at him.

He shrugged. “I am my father’s only son. To deny my abilities would be an insult to our ancestors.”

She flipped over. “His only son?”

“You did not know that?”

“No. I was a child when your father was exiled. When you arrived, I only recall my father saying you were the child of Marshal Kitsune’s third wife. I presumed you had older brothers. Your father was not a young man.”

“True, but he was not blessed with fertile wives.”

“Oh, so clearly it was
their
fault. All three of them.”

He gave her a stern look. She reminded herself that in the warrior code, there was only one thing more important than loyalty to one’s emperor: filial piety. To suggest that a man’s father lacked virility was to ask for a drawn sword and spilled blood.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shrugged and leaned back, getting comfortable again. “I’m hardly an expert in such matters. I was told that his first two wives could not bear children, so he wed my mother. I’m his only son. Only child, as well.” A sidelong glance her way. “Which may suggest you’re correct about my father being the problem, but I did not ever say such a thing.”

“I still apologize.”

He dipped his head. “Thank you.”

“You were his only child, then. I can see why your mother would want to protect you.” She paused. “And why your uncles would wish you trained in their ways. You must have been close to your father. I suppose I hadn’t realized that. An only son is much different from a late-born child to a third wife. You must—” She stopped. “Now I am being too curious. I’m sure your father is not a subject you like to discuss.”

“I . . .” He stopped and stretched out on the rock. Daigo grunted as Gavril rested his bare feet against him. “I do not often discuss it. In court it is a subject best avoided. To most citizens, I am the son of a traitor. My father still has supporters in the army, though. Warriors who swear he did not flee that battlefield. To them I am the son of a martyr. Neither position is . . . comfortable.”

“No, it would not be.” She went quiet for a moment, then she said, carefully, “I know my father believed the empire had not done right by your father.”

“He was betrayed.” He spat the words, laced with bitterness. Quiet rage, too. “Accused of a crime he did not commit. Betrayed by men he thought he could trust, including the one he trusted more than any other, his closest friend, the emp—”

He clipped the word short. “I speak rashly. I apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize to me. I have no reverence for a man I’ve never met.”

“You should, Keeper.” His voice was firm. “Or, at least, have care enough to feign it. You cannot be careless in court. Ever.”

“I would prefer not to go to court. Ever.”

“I know. And I agree. But I fear, after this, neither of us will have a choice in the matter.”

“As long as it’s a short visit.”

He paused, then murmured, “Yes, let’s hope it’s a short visit,” and they lapsed into peaceful silence again.