Solace Arisen (18 page)

Several looked at her, but it seemed more of a casual taking notice of a woman than a wondering of what had happened between her and their Gherian captain. She felt shameful just thinking of it, as if it had somehow been her fault.

Past them, she exhaled. Degarius, absently nursing a cup, was across the room sitting by a window, his eye to the weather like the other guests. How was she ever to tell him that she’d had to use the Blue Eye?

Degarius sat down his coffee cup. She stood at the edge of the table, her face pale. She glanced to the door, couldn’t even bring herself to look at him, let alone sit with him to eat the bread and coffee he ordered for her. It was as he told himself it would be. She despised him, and likely herself, for last night. The coffee went rancid in his mouth.

Gheria

A
rvana rubbed her glove against the fogged-over coach window and peered out the clear circle but couldn’t see Degarius. All day he’d been taking turns with the driver guiding the team through the snow. The journey that should have been a matter of hours had turned into an all-day ordeal. They had to get to the Fortress before sundown when the Gherian day ended and the New Year began, when Alenius made his announcement. And she still had to tell him about the Blue Eye. It wasn’t just the dread about potentially losing all of their advantage of surprise; it seemed impossible to speak of the Gherian, of what he intended.

The coach slid sideways. She braced her back against the seat. The stomach-churning motion stopped. They were lumbering forward again. She hated being inside, at the mercy of the driver. Supposedly, he was a good coachman, had driven a hay wagon through drifts up to his waist. Just as she was reassuring herself the coach made a hard bump. It violently heaved to a stop, flinging her to the floor.

The door flew open and in whipped a blast of cold air and snow.

“Are you all right?” Degarius asked

“What happened?” Arvana uncrumpled.

“There’s a big rut in the road. The front wheels are caught.”

She edged to the door.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Getting out to make the coach lighter.”

Snow caked Degarius’s hat and hair and his cheeks burned bright red. How cold his feet must be.

The coach ahead of them disappeared into the curtain of snow. Was another behind in this forsaken weather to help them if they couldn’t get free? To one side was a thick stand of trees, to the other, an endless field. No one was near to help them. If they couldn’t free themselves by sunset, they’d not only miss getting to the Fortress on time, but also probably freeze to death. What a cruel twist of fate it would be if they perished on the road, almost to the Forbidden Fortress. Not defeated by The Scyon or a draeden but the weather.

The eerie sound of slowly splintering wood crackled through air. The scent of pine wafted thick. Wet and heavy snow was snapping the pines.

“If we weren’t in this ridiculous coach, we’d have made it through the rut like everyone else.” Degarius circled the coach to examine the wheels and crouched to look at the axle. “Everything’s fine. On my mark, pull her out a bit.” He shouldered under the coach. With a grunt, he tried to stand straight. “Now.”

The wheels spun against the snow-packed edge of the rut. Degarius strained harder. His face and neck were crimson and his grimace was painful to see. The wheels raised a fraction but nowhere near enough.

The driver yelled, “Whoa.”

Arvana trudged to the driver. She didn’t have to be a useless woman, standing and watching. That had never been her lot. “I’m going to drive. You help Lord Degarius.”

The coachman stared.

“Don’t worry. I won’t run over you.”

Still red-faced and heaving frosty breaths, Degarius motioned for the coachman to join him.

Arvana climbed to the seat. It’d been forever since she’d had a team in hand, but she knew the commands intuitively. She hoped the Sarapostans had the good sense to train their horses the proper way. She glanced backward. The men were digging the snow away from the wheels. She took the reins and titled her head back. The snow seemed to come from one point directly above, not very high up. Flakes landed on her cheeks and lips, released their bursts of cold, and then melted. She used to think snow was beautiful, the Maker’s breath.

That all changed twelve years ago.

Her feet stung with cold and her hands numbly grasped the shovel; freezing wetness had long ago soaked through her gloves. But she’d cleared the snow down to the crunchy brown stalks of dead grass. She planted the point of the shovel in the ground and with one boot on its top edge, put her weight into breaking the frozen soil.

The shovel dug in a finger’s width.

With both feet, she jumped onto the shovel.

The ground wouldn’t give. It had to!

Her breath a heavy mist, she thrust the shovel repeatedly, trying to chisel into the unyielding earth, but it kept hitting the dirt with a dull
thud
.

She flung the shovel away, dropped to her knees, and clawed at the bits of loose snow and dirt. The gloves were too thick, so she pulled them off. Her hands were raw from the friction of shoveling with wet gloves, so she dug with her nails that she had kept so lovely smooth to play the kithara. She dug and dug, but the hole wasn’t even big enough to bury a coffee cup.

What was she to do? Her father had been dead three days. She teetered sideways and fell on her side into the bank of snow she had shoveled from the plot.

Cold through and through, she turned her face to the sky. It was the purest, unending blue. Dear Maker, was there not a place for her there? It was so vast, clean and peaceful, and she was so dreadfully tired of the tiny house and the unspeakable smells and sights within. Surely she had suffered enough, chipped away the soiled parts of her spirit, so that it was so light that the Maker would lift her into that beautiful oblivion where her father must be. The rigid corpse in the house wasn’t he. But no one lifted her. She just grew colder and a realization crept into her with the cold. She hadn’t done enough yet to get rid of the guilt of going on the sleigh ride. And her care of her father hadn’t been pure. She wished him to die because of his misery, but also her own.

“Get your shoulder up under the chassis,” Degarius called to the driver.

Arvana blinked the snow from her eyelashes. She peered over the side of the coach. The driver had taken his place.

Degarius began, “One, two...higher...higher. Now.”

With a gentle shake of the reins, she started the horses forward and the coach moved. The men leaped out of the way. The bigger back wheels dipped into the rut but cleared it. They were free.

The driver, doing a high-stepping jog through the deep snow, and a slogging Degarius came alongside.

She engaged the brake and halted the horses.

The driver nodded his thanks. “Cheer up, miss. Not much farther. I’ll have you safe and warm in no time. Need a hand down?”

The driver offered his hand, but Degarius edged him aside and put his hands to her waist to steady her on the step. It was a trivial matter, who helped her from the step, but the strength in his hands made her feel as if she weighed nothing. Why was it that all her sacrifice had not brought her a fraction of the joy his calloused hands had? Had it been worth so little?

“Lord Degarius,” the coachman called, “the snow’s easing. Look ahead.”

The flurrying snow faintly veiled a dark spire whose point disappeared into the low-slung clouds.

“The Worship Hall,” Degarius said, and let go of her waist.

She had to tell him.

“You did a fine job of driving,” Degarius said as they settled in the coach. It seemed preferable to talk about anything other than what loomed just ahead.

“I had to use the Blue Eye.”

“What?”

“This morning after you went down for coffee, that Gherian officer, the one with a missing eye, came in while I was dressing.” Her hand went to the collar of her coat, to the place where the relic would be.

For all love! A guilt unlike anything he’d ever known, a pain worse than the slash that had scarred his chest, buckled him over. He bowed his head to his knees. Why had he left her? Into his snow-covered knees he asked, though he loathed to hear the answer, “What did he do?”

“He was going to blind me. I stopped him.”

“He didn’t touch you?”

“No. He’s dead.”

Degarius raised his head from his knees, but still unable to look at her, fixed his gaze out the frosty window. “I’m glad.” Glad the bastard was dead. Glad she didn’t show Kieran’s misplaced contrition over the deed. Not yet. Who was he fooling? The ghosts never went away. Not even the ones who got what they deserved. The horror of what happened to her and what she had to do would follow her all her days. Or perhaps for only another handful of hours.

“But, the man in the hood, Alenius, he saw us,” she said. “The soldier was wearing his uniform. He knows we are in Gheria. I should have told you sooner, but we can’t stop.”

Willing his captain’s sensibilities to direct him, he said, “When we get nearer, get on the floor and cover yourself with a blanket.”

“I’m sorry. Are you angry?”

“The soldier could have been anywhere in Gheria. Perhaps they’ll think we are on the front.” But Alenius would bet every one of his newly minted coins on them coming to the Fortress, Degarius knew. The guards would be waiting for them. For her.

Forbidden Fortress

T
he coach ground to a crunching stop. The guards on the bridge spanning the river that ran around the Fortress had called for them to halt. They signaled out Degarius. Miss Nazar was on the floor, covered by a blanket. He closed the door quickly.

They didn’t move to look inside, yet.

He’d always imagined triumphantly crossing this bridge as a general on horseback in company of a Sarapostan standard-bearer. Instead, here he was pretending to be a cabinetman waiting to be inspected by a pimply-faced guard and wondering how in the hell they’d ever get back out of the Fortress if they managed to get in. Lookouts dotted the ramparts. There was only one gate in the thick, high wall and it opened to this bridge over a river that hadn’t frozen yet; the snow disappeared into its swirling dark current.