She wrapped her arms around him. Pulled him close. She kissed his mouth and bit his bottom lip again. They stood like that for a few moments, feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies. Bershad could feel Ashlyn’s pulse against his chest. Her hands drifted along his stomach and ribs, then lower to the waist of his pants where they lingered for a moment before she started untying them. He managed to halfway unwrap her silk dress, tangled it at her waist, then got on his knees and yanked it the rest of the way down. He ran his hand up her thigh and kept going, feeling the warmth between her legs. They didn’t make it to the bed, just dropped naked on the soft carpet in front of the fire. Falling into their old ways. Falling into each other.
Afterward, Ashlyn lay on top of him, resting her head against his chest. Eyes closed. She had a small, oval-shaped freckle on her left eyelid that Bershad had noticed after they spent their first night together. It hurt him to see it again. He could conjure the life they’d shared in his memory—full of laughter and carefree pleasure—but feared it was impossible to bridge the gap and return.
Bershad touched the queer translucent string that was tied around Ashlyn’s wrist. Now that she was naked, it seemed even more out of place.
“What is this?” he asked.
She sat up. Rubbed her left wrist with her right hand for a moment. “That burden is mine to carry, not yours.”
“Ashe.”
“Trust me, Silas. Tugging on this thread will just make things harder.”
Bershad hesitated. “Rowan and Alfonso are the only ones I’ve trusted for a long time.”
“This’ll be good practice, then.”
She shifted so that she was straddling him again. Bershad could feel the wetness between her thighs pressing against him. She frowned down at the scar the Nomad had left on his stomach. “This wound should have killed you.”
That one, and two dozen others.
“You’re just trying to change the subject.”
“And it’s going to work.”
Bershad grunted. “You’re a little sharper than most of the people who see me like this.”
“You mean the lady of Umbrik wasn’t a student of human anatomy?”
“How do you know about that?”
“The usual way. Spies. Informants,” Ashlyn said.
“Really?”
“My father has his armies, I have my informants. And I wanted to know about your life, even if I couldn’t be a part of it. I’ve heard hundreds of stories about you. Most are about the dragons you’ve killed or highborn ladies’ honor you’ve stolen, but others are about the damage your body takes without going down the river. My informants think they’re backwater exaggerations because they only hear one or two of them. But I’ve heard them all. What’s happened to you, Silas?”
“That’s my burden to carry, not yours,” he said.
If Ashlyn wanted to keep her secrets, he’d keep his, too.
“That’s fair, I suppose.” She traced a few more of his scars. “If we see each other again, maybe we’ll be able to set our burdens down with each other then.”
“Maybe,” Bershad said.
She ran a finger down the bar on his cheek. “Whatever the truth is, nothing will change how I feel about you. I love you, Silas. Always have.”
Bershad ran his hands up her thighs and rested them on her hips.
“I love you, too, Ashe. Always have.”
Ashlyn leaned down and kissed him, long and deep. Her nipples touched his chest as she snaked herself up and down against him. She smiled as she felt his body react again. Reached down and guided him back inside of her.
“If we can’t drop our burdens quite yet, we can do this again, instead.”
* * *
Later, they lay in the bed, listening to the embers of the fire crackle. Bershad looked at the tattoos on his arm.
He could smell Ashlyn all over his skin. Taste her on his lips. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized how tightly he’d guarded his memories of her. He’d locked them away inside a hidden cellar and stayed outside for fourteen years.
Now that the door was open, he didn’t want to close it.
A few hours ago, he’d have gladly died so long as he did it looking down on Hertzog’s corpse. And a boat that would get him out of Terra—out of this mess—was a better offer than he could have imagined. But Ashlyn was worth more to him than revenge or escape or a few more years of warm blood in his veins. If he ran from the chance to help her—to salvage the life that had been taken—what was the point of being alive at all?
“I’ll do it, Ashlyn. I’ll go to Balaria.”
She turned to him. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Bershad ran his hand through her hair again. Pulled her on top of him and kissed her long and deep. Tried to memorize the feeling of her weight against his body.
They stayed in the bed together until the orange dawn streamed through the window, igniting the sea below the castle.
“I want to stay longer,” she said.
“But you can’t,” Bershad finished. “It’s all right.”
He sat up in the bed.
“Tell me how all of this is going to work.”
Ashlyn got out of bed and picked up her dress. Started organizing it in her hands.
“There’s a ship called the Luminata waiting for you in the harbor. The captain is a Papyrian that you can trust. Your three traveling companions will be on the ship. One of them is a Papyrian widow named Vera Jinsung Ka.”
“A widow?” Bershad asked. “They tend to attract attention, black armor and all.”
“So do you, blue tattoos and all,” Ashlyn said. “Vera was my sister’s widow. It’s her job to bring Kira back safely. You can trust her. The other is Elden Grealor’s youngest son, Yonmar. He has a writ of slaying from the baron of Cornish that will give you legitimate entry to Ghalamar. He’s also arranged a way to get across the Balarian border.”
“You needed a Grealor for that?”
“I might have been able to find a way, but the Grealors are well-connected in Taggarstan from their lumber trade, and my father refused to send you into a foreign wilderness without at least one of his lackeys to watch over you.”
“If I was going to run, I’d have done it a long time ago.”
“All the same, that’s the deal I had to make for my father to agree. Yonmar’s a necessary evil, and Hertzog wrote the writ and documents of safe passage in his name. So keep him alive. You need him to get into Ghalamar, and to cross the border into Balaria.”
“Who’s the third person?”
“A Burz-al-dun local. I found him, but you definitely shouldn’t trust him.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll understand about three seconds after meeting him.” She paused. “Silas, none of the others know what you’re going to Balaria to do. You should keep it that way unless absolutely necessary—that way nobody can betray you, even unintentionally.”
Bershad nodded. It made sense.
Ashlyn pulled the dress over her head and started tying the ribbons that kept it cinched to her body. Bershad watched Ashlyn dress, enjoying the chance to see her go through at least one familiar routine from the past. He liked the way her fingers looked while she threaded the buttons that ran up the side of her rib cage.
“What are you going to do if I don’t make it?” Bershad asked her.
Her fingers stopped moving, but she didn’t respond.
“If stopping the emperor is this important, you wouldn’t put all your hopes on five people and a donkey,” Bershad continued. “So, what happens if we get killed?”
“After you leave, I’m going to begin raising an army,” Ashlyn said without turning around. “If you fail, I’ll start a war with Balaria.”
Bershad was surprised, but realized he shouldn’t be. Ashlyn had made it clear she was willing to do whatever was required to protect the dragons of Terra.
“Well,” Bershad said. “Don’t go launching any
armies until you’re sure I’m dead.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t think you could survive it,” she said. “After so many dragons, one emperor shouldn’t be a problem.” She finished buttoning her dress and straightened the collar. “And when you come back, I will make you the lord of the Dainwood again. I promise.”
“What about the Grealors?”
“I’ll deal with them.” She paused. “There are still some jaguars left, Silas. Deep in the jungle. The life that was taken from you still exists.”
Bershad ran a hand over a scar on his forearm. “I’m not meant for a life at court, Ashe. All the broken oaths. All the lies and betrayals. Might be you found a way to live in that world without losing yourself, but I couldn’t. That’s why Glenlock Canyon happened. Truth is, I can barely stand spending a night behind these stone walls.”
Ashlyn turned around to look at him.
“When you had the Wormwrot mercenaries surrounded in Glen lock Canyon, I remember a sentinel riding into Floodhaven with a message from you. My father sent one back, and you went to battle a day later. I’ve always wondered what was in his letter.”
“It doesn’t matter. I still did what I did.” Bershad let out a heavy breath. “I’ll help you, Ashe, but I can’t go back to that kind of life.”
“You won’t have to. I’m not my father, Silas. And as far as I’m concerned, you can rule from Deepdale as you see fit. No need to lay eyes on this castle again.” She took his hand. “However, I could make a regular habit of coming to see you.”
Bershad squeezed her hand, then let it go. He’d longed to return to the Dainwood jungle—where the jaguars slept in the trees—in the same way he’d longed to be with Ashlyn again. For years, both were impossible. Now, suddenly, the path was clear.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “I need to come back to this castle one last time to drop off your sister.”
Ashlyn smiled. Her eyes turned glassy with tears.
“I’ll be waiting.”
* * *
When he was alone again, Bershad sat with his sword across his knees, listening to the sea below and watching the sun rise. He thought about all the crimes he’d committed with a blade or a spear in his hand. Wondered if killing an emperor would make up for them.
Either way, Bershad had thrown himself back into the roiling currents of the world.
Now he had to swim.
5
GARRET
Almira, City of Mudwall
Garret reached Mudwall after dark. It was a moderately sized city named after the ancient dirt barrier that still protected its citizens. Almirans were not creative with their names. It was one of the last Almiran mud walls that hadn’t been modernized by stone and masonry. The packed mash of earth and sticks and leaves rose thirty strides into the air.
The barkeep’s assessment of the city seemed true enough. Garret could make out dozens of recently created indentations on the wall. Catapult damage.
Just outside the walls, the domed outlines of countless wardens’ yurts were unmistakable, even in darkness. Garret made out four rows, with brazier stands set up every fifty strides and two sentries posted at each one. In the distance—past a rolling field—Garret could see the fires and yurts of another army about the same size. It wasn’t a siege exactly. More of a prolonged standoff—each side daring the other to charge.
Almirans were strange.
Behind the mud wall, shingled roofs spread out in a loose system of concentric circles. In the center of the city, a holdfast rose half again as tall as the walls. That’s where Lord Tybolt would be.
Garret squatted in a dark clearing a hundred strides off the main road and got ready. He took out his pouch of face putty and wetted the clay with water from a puddle. Once it was soft enough, he began putting it on his face.
Even in this backward country, it was amazing how well a man’s description traveled. Height, hair color, and a defining chin or mole could get you arrested and lynched fifty leagues from the place you’d committed your crime. So Garret pinched out a new chin shaped like a man’s ass, and gave himself a bulbous nose that looked like it had been broken five times over. He widened his brow and then rubbed enough of the makeshift putty on the rest of his face for the color to seem consistent. Anyone who saw him would remember an ugly, sunbaked Almiran. Not an outlander with delicate features and gray, unsettling eyes.
Now he just needed a uniform. There were two reliable opportunities to steal a man’s clothes: while he was fucking someone, or while he was taking a shit. And Garret didn’t see any whorehouses.
He was saved from having to guess which direction the latrine had been dug—the horrendous smell wafting from the west gave it away. Two braziers were posted on each end of the crap pit to mark the spot, but no sentries manned them. Garret had learned long ago that most armies were lenient when it came to protecting their latrines.
There was a ridge on the far side of the crap pit that gave Garret the perfect height advantage. He wedged himself between a shrub and a rock. Then he pulled his hemp rope free from his satchel, tied a quick noose at one end, and waited. Four soldiers who all seemed sober enough came to relieve themselves, so Garret stayed hidden. But half an hour later, a lone warden came stumbling down the gentle incline, lurching toward the crap tunnel with drunken sloppiness. Garret readied the noose.
The warden pulled down his britches and squatted.
Garret waited until the man was finished—he didn’t want to get shit all over himself. But before the man could pull up his britches, Garret threw the noose around his neck in a smooth, practiced motion. One quick yank tightened the knot. Then Garret braced himself and pulled backward as hard as possible. Because he was standing on the ridge, five strides above the squatting warden, the man was pulled into the air and across the latrine. He landed in the shrubs, pants around his ankles.
Garret had pulled so hard that the man’s boots remained on the far side.
The warden made a soft sucking sound as he tried unsuccessfully to squeeze air past the noose. Garret scanned the camp lines to see if anyone had noticed the airborne man. Nobody had.
He waited until the warden’s face was purple and his chest still. Then he stripped the dead man’s clothes, armor, and sword. They turned out to be a pretty good fit, although the sword had a slippery grip and terrible balance. He pushed his own jacket and clothes into the goat bladder and slung it over his shoulder. The bladder was a risk—most Almirans didn’t use them—but there was no guarantee he’d be able to return to this spot. Garret covered the soldier’s naked body with a thick layer of leaves and shit from the latrine. Then he hopped over the crap pit and began stumbling up the small hill, looking—from a distance—just like the drunken warden who’d gone down for a shit a few minutes earlier. At the top of the hill, Garret passed a group of men standing next to a brazier—two of whom were probably supposed to be down by the latrine.
“Took your bloody time with it, didn’t you?” one of the sentries asked.
“Aye, what happened, you have a hard time saying good-bye?” said another. Garret pretended to stumble onto his hands and knees so they couldn’t see his face.
“Damn stew gave me the shits,” he said, mimicking the sentry’s accent, which was a little softer than the fur trappers from the bridge.
“Ha, always the stew. Nobody ever admits the ten horns of ale is what got them squatting over the shit tunnel,” a third sentry said. “You best make yourself scarce. A high-warden sees you this drunk and he’ll have you flogged. Raimier would probably take a finger. You know how he is.”
Garret did. Every outfit has at least one asshole officer.
“Raimier around camp?” Garret asked, glancing around and pretending to be afraid.
“Nah. He’s behind the walls. Went to Tybolt’s holdfast to deliver supplies for a totem.”
“He’s making another one tonight?” a sentry asked.
“Oh yeah. I heard he sent Raimier around
collecting buttons from every warden who killed one of Hrilian’s men today. And I’d bet my firstborn he’s plugging his totem with enough gems to sink a Papyrian frigate.”
“Fucking nobles, always making things as difficult as possible.”
“Why so much fuss, anyway? We burned down the catapult yesterday morning.”
“And then lost two score of wardens chasing Hrilian’s bastards around in the woods last night. Being honest, I wouldn’t have expected Hrilian’s men to have that kinda salt. Must have hired a new lot. Some of Wallace’s men, maybe. His wolves never make it easy.”
“They’re vicious bastards, all right. And they’re still out there.” The sentry gazed over at the tents. “I wish we were back behind the walls.”
“Can’t go back until we’re sure Hrilian ain’t just gonna roll another catapult up on us.” He slapped his friend on the back. “Don’t worry, though. Tybby’s statue will sort the whole thing out. Fuck, if he’s collecting buttons, I don’t think I’ll even bother to wear armor tomorrow.”
They all laughed at that.
Garret took the opportunity to stumble down the line of yurts. As soon as he turned the corner out of sight, he became a sober sentry walking briskly as though he had an important task to accomplish. Almost every yurt he passed had a small mud statue with a scrap of steel in its hand. Some kind of ritual for luck in combat, Garret figured.
Most of the yurt flaps were closed, but inside the open ones Garret caught quick glimpses of men playing cards or dice, drinking horns of ale. One larger yurt had a warden and three camp-whores inside. The women were naked and lying on a woven mat, but the warden was on his knees, facing away from them and building a mud statue with enormous breasts and apples in her hair.
“Hurry up, will you, Gunther?” one of the women called to him. “You ain’t the only horny sergeant in camp tonight.”
“Not yet,” the warden said, placing another apple. “It has to be perfect.”
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