Sea of Shadows (20 page)

Thirty-nine

A
s hard as Ashyn tried, she could not quite shake the lingering hurt over Ronan’s . . .
betrayal
certainly wasn’t the right word. Even
abandonment
felt too harsh. Just
hurt
, then, not so much that he was leaving, but that his agreement seemed to come so easily.

Still, she’d help him. That was the honorable thing to do. Assist him in any way she could. Be happy that at least one of them escaped.

She suggested a plan and he agreed to it. After breakfast, he gathered what food he could carry and took a makeshift bag he’d devised. Then he went up into the rafters while she took Tova to the door.

She rapped on it. The guard heard her—she’d knocked loudly enough—but he didn’t answer. She rapped harder and said, “My hound requires meat.”

The door opened then, the guard peeking in, his face screwed up as if he’d misheard.

“There was no meat with breakfast,” she said, “save some pickled fish.”

His face screwed up more. It didn’t help that she’d spoken softly. Intentionally so, though her voice was never loud at any time. Now she stepped back and motioned at Tova.

“He cannot stomach pickled fish. He requires meat. Preferably fresh, though he’d settle for anything you have. Even fish, if it’s not pickled.”

The guard was one of the villagers. A warrior, given his dual blades. Not a high-ranking one—he bore no tattoos—but that was to be expected from a village guard. He was perhaps as old as her father, and she’d like to think that when he looked on her, there was kindness in his eyes, as if he might have a daughter her age. The kindness was, of course, rightfully tempered by caution and a touch of sardonic humor.

“Let me guess, Seeker,” he said. “You would like me to go and fetch you some meat, leaving the door unguarded.”

No, I want to hold your attention while Ronan escapes across the roof.

She smiled. “That would be nice, but I know you won’t be so foolish. I simply want meat for my hound. His stomach has been grumbling, and I’m concerned. He requires more exercise than he’s been receiving—and, no, I’m not asking to take him for walks. I understand our limitations. I only request that when the girls come to take our breakfast trays, you tell them to bring meat.”

“All right, then, Seeker,” he said. “Since you’ve asked nicely and haven’t played any tricks—”

The guard pitched forward. He fell into Ashyn, and something hit the floor on either side of him. Pieces of a roof tile. Ronan stood behind him holding a second one, ready to smash it over the guard’s head, but he was already on the floor, unconscious.

“Haven’t lost the knack,” Ronan said with a grin. “Come on, then. We need to pull him inside and go.”

Ashyn stared at him.

“I saw an opportunity,” he said. “Now quickly. Before someone comes.”

Ashyn helped him drag the guard the rest of the way inside. They went out and closed the door.

“That way,” Ronan said, pointing to a building across the way. “I could see from the roof and it’s clear over—”

“Going somewhere, Seeker?”

Barthol rounded the corner, two of his men flanking him. Ashyn wheeled to see two more coming in the other direction. She looked straight ahead, where they’d planned to run.

“Go!” she whispered to Ronan. “They want me.”

Before Ronan could run—or decide not to—one of Barthol’s men had him with a blade at his throat.

“Oh, I think we want him, too, Seeker,” Barthol said. “To keep you in line. Now, tell your cur to stop growling or we’ll give him cause.”

Ashyn laid her hand on Tova’s head, but he stopped even before that. If there’d been a chance of overpowering the men, he’d have attacked already.

“Good girl.” Barthol moved in front of her. “Turn around and go back inside your pretty little cage. I will count to three, and if you are not inside, the boy dies. One . . . two . . .”

She flung the door open, with Tova at her side, both of them stumbling over the body of the unconscious guard. Barthol shoved Ronan in with her, then strode over, lifted the guard by the front of his tunic, and slapped him hard enough that even Ronan winced. The man jerked awake.

“So . . .” Barthol said. “You let the Seeker and her brat boy escape.”

“What?” He looked around wildly and when his gaze settled on Ashyn, she saw accusation there, and felt it, too, even as she told herself she’d done nothing wrong, that they were clearly the victims here.

“They bashed you on the head and escaped.”

“I—”

“Are you going to tell me you let them go? That your conscience would not permit you to hold a Seeker captive?”

“No, of course not. I—”

“The alternative is that you were stupid enough to be fooled by two children. I would suggest, as a warrior, you stay with the first excuse. At least then you’ll die with honor.”

“D-die?” The guard scrambled to his feet.

Ashyn leaped forward. “It was my fault, not his. Please don’t—”

“Silence, Seeker, or your boy dies. Back up three paces, or your boy dies. Do anything to displease me and your boy dies.” He met her gaze with a chilling smile, silver teeth flashing. “Is that clear?”

She backed up. Ronan took her arm and tried to lead her into their quarters.

“No, boy,” Barthol called. “She stays and she watches what she’s done.” He turned to the guard. “Take out your dagger, warrior. You know what to do with it.”

“No,” Ashyn blurted. “Please—”

She stopped as one of the other mercenaries stepped toward Ronan, his blade raised. Ronan put his arm around Ashyn, moving up behind her and whispering, “Keep your gaze on the wall beside him. Look, but don’t look. Think of something else.”

As Ronan whispered, the warrior pleaded.

“Please. I have a family. My wife, my children. My parents are aged, and I’m their only son. Give me any punishment, any at all. Please.”

Barthol’s men flanked him, one on each side, pressing down on his shoulders until he sat cross-legged, in the proper position. One took out the guard’s dagger and put it in his hand.

“Do you know the point of ritual suicide?” Barthol sounded bored. “I may not be a warrior, but even I know it. You take your own life with honor, not beg for it like a dog. You want another punishment? All right. I’ll take you into the village square, for all to see, and execute you. Cleave off your head in front of your wife and children and parents, so they may—”

The guard didn’t even need Barthol to finish. He thrust his dagger into his stomach and sliced it open. Ashyn fell back. Ronan’s arm tightened around her and he kept whispering, “Look to the side, Ashyn. Look to the side,” but even if she did, she could see the blood and smell it and hear the man, still alive, breathing hard and panicked as he died.

“Finish it,” Ronan said to Barthol, his voice a growl. “Finish the ritual.”

“Finish?” Barthol sounded confused.

“The killing blow,” Ronan said between his teeth. “That is how it’s done. As soon as he plunges in the blade, you cut off his head. Show him mercy.”

Barthol screwed up his face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Barthol turned to the others. “Have any of you heard that part?”

They smiled and said no, they had not. Ashyn looked at the big man and she knew he understood the ritual full well. Writhing in agony, the guard whispered, “Please, please.”

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” Barthol said. “This does seem slow. We’ll be here all day.” He glanced at one of his men. “Finish him off.” He paused. “Drag him outside first, where it will make less of a mess. Leave the door open, though, so our Seeker can watch.”

Two men dragged the dying guard out. Ronan kept whispering for her to not look, but she was still staring at the bloody floor when the killing blow came. She pressed against Ronan, breathing deeply, trying to keep calm and upright.

“There,” Barthol said. “It’s done. We’ll drag him into the village square now, so the others may see what happens to those who neglect their duties.” He looked at Ashyn. “I hope that was a lesson learned, Seeker. The same fate will befall anyone who assists your escape or allows it to happen. Go back inside with your cur and your boy, and be thankful I don’t make you clean up the mess.”

Forty

A
shyn was playing capture-my-lord. The game was going nowhere and had been since they began, not because they were both astoundingly good players but because, frankly, neither had any interest under the circumstances.

It was an act. After what happened to the poor guard—and after Barthol threatened Ronan—Ashyn knew they had to convince their captors that they had settled in and would cause no trouble. Even now, as Ashyn moved her pieces, her fingers trembled, remembering the guard.

“Don’t,” Ronan murmured. “Don’t think about it. You ought not to have witnessed that.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she said.

“You ought not to.”

“It’s not just seeing it. I feel as if I caused—”

“You didn’t,” Ronan said. “He chose to join them. Perhaps he had no option. Perhaps his family is here, and they threatened them, but even if I give him the benefit of the doubt, it was still his decision to hold a Seeker captive. And it was mine to use him in our escape.”

“I don’t think it would have mattered,” she said softly, gaze on the board. “Even if you escaped, Barthol would have killed him as an example.”

“I think Barthol just likes killing,” Ronan muttered. “And having others watch. He’s a sadistic—”

Tova leaped up. Ronan rose, fingers slipping to his side, reaching for his missing blade. His hand clenched, empty, and he moved forward, gaze fixed on the door. It opened.

Something raced through the open door. Something long and black, and Tova bounded forward with a happy bark. The black blur hit him and took him down, and they rolled together, light fur and dark, as Ashyn stared.

It looks like . . . It cannot be . . .

She lifted her gaze slowly, almost not daring to look back at the door, certain she would not see what she—

Moria walked through.

There were others with her. Ashyn didn’t see them. Her mind stopped there:
Moria walked through
.

She saw her sister’s face, sweat-stained and hard, her blue eyes blazing fury. Moria spotted her and her rage evaporated in a flicker of shock. Then she raced across the stone floor.

Ashyn threw her arms around her sister. The fierce hug lasted a moment before Moria pulled back, holding Ashyn at arm’s length, frowning again as her gaze traveled over her.

“Are you all right? Have they hurt you?”

Ashyn shook her head and started to ask the same of Moria, but her sister had already turned to the men who brought them in.

“Where’d the other one go?” she said. “The man in charge. I want—I
demand
to speak to him.”

The mercenaries laughed and began to leave.

Moria started after them. Ashyn tried to hold her back, but she shook her off.

“You!” she said to the men. “Do you know who I am? In the name of the goddess, I demand answers.”

“Then ask your goddess for them,” one said as he continued toward the door.

Moria lunged. “Do not—”

A hand caught her by the shoulder. Ashyn hadn’t even seen anyone standing there—she was too focused on her sister. She glimpsed the young man’s face, curtained by braids as he leaned over, whispering to Moria.

Gavril.

Ashyn braced for her sister to throw him off, too, and march after the departing guards. But she only grumbled and Daigo snorted, both of them glowering toward the guards. Then Moria did pull from Gavril’s grasp, but only to march back to Ashyn.

“You’re all right?” she asked again.

Ashyn nodded.

“And Tova?”

“He’s fine.”

Moria’s gaze flicked to Ronan. She didn’t ask if he was injured, but he seemed to understand the implied question and said he was fine, too.

“What happened?” Moria said. “And what’s going on here?”

They sat to talk. Moria said she’d found Ashyn’s letter, so she knew how they’d left and why. Ashyn skimmed over their journey through the Wastes, except to say that Beatrix, Gregor, and Quintin were dead. She did not tell them how the first two perished. Stories of death worms could wait. Finally she explained about Wenda.

“Spirit possession?” Moria said. “Yet she was not dead? Not possessed by a shadow stalker?”

Ronan answered. “Not unless they can keep a corpse fresh for six days.”

He didn’t mean it seriously, but Moria considered before saying, “No, the stories say possessed corpses rot slowly, but you would have noticed. It sounds more like . . .”

As she trailed off, she glanced at Gavril. Did he look uncomfortable? Or simply annoyed with the diversion? With Gavril, it was impossible to tell.

Ashyn went on to tell them about the children and the men who had control of Fairview.

Moria took a moment to digest it. “So it appears as if mercenaries were responsible for what happened in Edgewood, presumably working with”—she paused—“men of magic. They unleashed the shadow stalkers, among other things.”

“Other things?” Ronan said.

“We saw a thunder hawk,” Gavril said.

“We
fought
and
killed
a thunder hawk,” Moria corrected.

She explained. Then Ashyn told them about the death worms.

When Ashyn finished, Moria fixed Gavril with a look. “Shadow stalkers, thunder hawks, and death worms . . . all just coincidentally appearing in the Wastes at the same time?”

“I agreed that the shadow stalkers suggest the arcane arts. But conjuring thunder hawks and death worms . . . ?” He shook his head.

“It would be the same principle, wouldn’t it? Raising something that supposedly doesn’t exist?”

Gavril paused. “I suppose so. It does seem unlikely the Wastes would be home to two legendary creatures and we see both shortly after the shadow stalkers.”

Ashyn tried not to stare. Seeing Gavril and Moria speaking—without insults and barbs—was surprising enough. But exchanging ideas and actually listening to each other’s opinions . . . ? Moria rarely did that with anyone other than her sister and father. And Gavril never seemed to do it with anyone at all.

“So the mercenaries appear to be responsible,” Moria continued. “They unleash the shadow stalkers, take the children, and herd us here. Why not capture us at Edgewood, too?”

“Because it would have been sacrilege,” Gavril said. “They may pretend they don’t care about the spirits, but obviously they do.”

“Or someone does,” Ronan said. “Whoever the mercenaries are working for.”

Moria and Gavril turned to Ronan, looking surprised, as if they’d forgotten there were others there.

“He’s right,” Moria said. “Someone has hired them. Someone who respects the spirits enough not to lay hands on the Seeker and Keeper, but not so much that he fears holding them hostage. So they have us, and they have the children, and they’ve slaughtered the village of Edgewood. To what purpose? Have they told you?”

Ashyn shook her head. “We’ve only been here one night, and no one will speak.” She did not mention the escape attempt. She told herself this was not the time, but in truth, she didn’t wish this moment clouded by the memory.

“I want answers,” Moria said, pushing up.

Gavril rose with her. He leaned over, whispering to her again. Ashyn heard enough to make out the gist of it, which was nothing terribly private. Gavril wanted Moria to let him get answers.

“At least allow me to try,” he murmured. “If it doesn’t work, you can do it your way.”

Moria waved for him to go ahead. He bent to say something else. As he did, Moria turned her head to listen and Ashyn noticed the odd way her hair was bound, with small braids at the sides, pulled back with a dark strip of leather. She looked at Gavril, leaning over, one of his braids loose at the end, the tie gone.

Ashyn remembered back in Edgewood, the village girls vying for lovers among the guards. It was not easy to marry into a higher caste, but it was possible, and for the girls of Edgewood, those warrior guards were their best chance of bettering their lives. If they managed to catch one even temporarily, they’d parade trophies like the plunder of war. Most prized of all were beads. If their lover wore braids, they’d persuade him to part with a few and weave them into their own hair.

Ashyn looked at Gavril, at that unbound braid, the strap now binding her sister’s locks.

She knew it did not mean the same thing. Her sister was too private a person to ever flaunt a conquest. And yet, was it still a lover’s gift? There
was
something between her sister and the Kitsune. There always had been, even when they were at each other’s throats. Now even Ronan saw it, given the way he watched them whisper.

Was he sad to see it? He ought not to be, considering he had a girl in the city. Perhaps, though, he still had feelings for Moria, and she felt no pleasure at seeing him disappointed.

As for Moria and Gavril . . . Ashyn knew her sister was curious about what happened between men and women, and she made little secret of it. But that was a curiosity to be pursued when nothing else required her attention. She would not escape her massacred village, set out on the Wastes with a handsome warrior, and decide it was the perfect opportunity to find out what all the fuss was about.

Yet they had spent five days alone together, in the wake of a tragedy, relying on each other for survival and . . . comfort? Perhaps.

She looked at her sister’s hair.

“Yes,” Moria said. “It’s a mess. Just be thankful I didn’t cut it after it almost got me killed.”

“Your hair?” Ronan said.

“Did I mention the talons on that thunder hawk?” she said. “They liked long hair.”

Ronan moved closer. “You truly killed it?”

“Gavril struck the fatal blow.”

Ronan started to ask for more, but Ashyn cut in. “So your hair, that’s why it’s pulled back like that.”

“Yes, he”—a wave at Gavril, now at the door, talking to the guard outside—“wouldn’t let me cut it and risk angering the spirits. So I made him figure out an alternative.”

That explained the strap then. Expediency. Which Ashyn should have known—while she thought it quite romantic to wear a lover’s beads, her sister was far more practical. Still, there
was
something between them. . . .

Gavril came back. “We’ll have an audience before sundown.”

“Thank you,” Ashyn said.

Gavril nodded, but Ashyn could tell he was waiting for a response from her sister. Moria grumbled about the wait, but she didn’t blame him or try to do better, which Gavril seemed to recognize as a sign he’d done well. He walked to Daigo and bent to examine the wildcat’s wounds.

“We should get water for these,” he said. “One is oozing a little.”

Ashyn retrieved a bowl of water and helped Moria clean Daigo’s wounds. She took a closer look, too. Gavril was right. One showed signs of infection. The surrounding flesh was hot to the touch. Yet the wounds were otherwise healing well. She’d keep an eye on it.

As they finished their work, Ashyn gestured to the bowl. “Daigo isn’t the only one who could use some cleaning. There’s a tub in back, and they’ll bring all the hot water you want.”

Her sister opened her mouth, but Ashyn cut her off. “Yes, I know you consider it a waste of time under the circumstances, but we have time to waste. You ought to spend it getting rested and fed.”

“And clean,” Gavril said. “You could use the bath, Keeper.”

“No more than you, Kitsune. Did you notice I’ve been sleeping upwind?”

He shot his fist at her. Moria only laughed. It was a good sound to hear. Ashyn went to ask the guard to bring water. When she returned, Gavril was following Moria into the bathing room.

“Um, there’s plenty of water,” Ronan said. “You don’t need to share.”

Gavril gave him a hard look. “As the water is not yet here, I’m clearly not taking any liberties. I simply wish to speak to Moria.”

“Then speak here.”

More of that expressionless stare. “I don’t know you, and I would prefer not to share my thoughts with you.” He turned to Ashyn. “No offense meant to the Seeker.”

“None taken,” she murmured. “Go on.”

Gavril closed the door behind them.