Sunshield

by Emily B. Martin

  Honey over salt.

  It’s not compassion.

  It’s desperation.

  I’m no good to them dead.

  I scrunch up my nose where it’s sandwiched between my elbows. It’s the closest thing I can get to a smile. Alive, I’m their tool. I’m their weapon. I’m their leverage. It’s the whole reason I’m in this sorry state, in this rotten place.

  Finally, something I can use.

  I stare at the back of the door, baring my teeth in a painful mockery of a grin.

  Lark

  Saiph swings his tattered bedroll over his saddle so enthusiastically Blackeye snorts in displeasure.

  “You take the northern cattle tracks,” I say for the fiftieth time in the past hour. “Remember that you have to cross the South Burr before the mesas, or you’ll lose the ford.”

  “I know, Lark, I know that.” His voice drips excitement. “And I know to stay south of the water scrape, and I know not to travel the washes past afternoon. I can do it, Lark, I can. I promise.”

  I suck in a breath behind my bandanna. He crams a bag of the dandy’s jerky into his already-stuffed pannier.

  I put my hands on his shoulders and turn him around. “Saiph—be careful.”

  “I will.” He looks up at me, face flushed, eyes bright. “I’m fifteen, Lark, I’m almost as old as Pickle was. I can do it.”

  “I know you can. Just—just be smart, all right? Don’t take stupid risks. Think things through. I need you to come through this in one piece, okay?”

  “I will, I will, I will.” He slips from my grip and hoists Rose’s crossbow up to the hook on the saddle. “What’s the guy’s name again?”

  “Prince Iano Okinot.” The dandy comes up behind me—catlike, those fancy boots don’t seem to make any noise on the ground. “Though you’re not to call him such in town—use the name Escer Gee. You’ll find him in the Sweet Pine—tell the landlord you’re his errand boy.” He holds out a letter, sealed with a bit of tallow from our box of candle nubs. He’s pressed the face of his thick silver ring into it, leaving the imprint of a bug like the pin he gave to Moll.

  Hettie.

  Fire and dust, I’m so mixed up.

  The dandy taps the wax. “My parents’ seal. Tell Iano that Veran sent you—the rest should be explained in the letter. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir, I can.”

  “Safely, quietly? There’s a new Alcoran horse in it for you if you do.”

  Saiph’s eyes practically ignite. “Yes, sir! Absolutely I can, yes, sir.”

  “Excellent.” He hands him the letter, and Saiph tucks it deep into his saddlebag. “We’ll see you in Pasul.”

  Saiph nods and eagerly slides his foot into Blackeye’s stirrup. He throws his leg over and gathers up the reins.

  I can’t help it—I snatch his shirttail before he gives her a kick.

  “Saiph.”

  He looks down at me, all energy and no brains. “Yeah?”

  I don’t know what to say that I haven’t already said.

  I just don’t want him to leave.

  “Remember to oil the crossbow,” I finally conjure. “The crank sticks.”

  “I will! Bye! Bye, sir!” He twists in his saddle and calls up the canyon. “Bye, Sedge!”

  Thundering sky, he’s such a moron. I slap Blackeye’s rump. She skitters forward and he swings to grab the saddle horn. His crow echoes off the rocks as they clatter down the slope and out of sight.

  I blow out a breath so hard my bandanna flies up in the air, and then I make myself turn away. Our two horses are standing saddled and ready—Jema is looking extra matted and burred next to the dandy’s sleek palomino mare. Rat crouches at her hooves, ears perked forward and tongue lolling.

  “Sedge,” the dandy says thoughtfully behind me. “Is that the one with the bad eyes, or the one who needs a lady’s healer?”

  I huff and start up the slope. I don’t like how curious he is about the others here in camp—particularly not how twitchy he got about Lila. Fortunately, she’s down in the draw puking, so he’s not likely to catch sight of her even if he sashays into camp. “Are you ready?”

  “You know I’m going to have to meet your campmates eventually, Lark. You don’t have to hide them from me.”

  Yes, I do, you and everyone else. I reach Jema’s side and make a last check of her battered tack. “I hope you don’t eat a lot,” I say. “I’m leaving most of the supplies here in camp with the others.”

  “Oh, I have more,” he says. “I figured you’d strip everything from my daypack, so I dropped my main bag down at the head of the canyon. There’s enough for all three of us for at least a week. We’ll pick it up as we head out.”

  My anger flares, irrationally, I suppose. I inhale through clenched teeth, twisting my fists on Jema’s blanket. With a huge amount of effort, I bend my thoughts away from the image of him bouncing on a rope behind his horse and instead to visions of Rose in a clean bed, Andras with a family, little Whit with a plate full of hot food.

  There’s a call up the slope, and over the rise comes Sedge, holding Moll—Hettie—by the hand.

  “Or is that Sedge?” asks the dandy.

  “Shut up,” I say venomously.

  Sedge leads Hettie toward us. I’m glad to see he’s got our biggest hunting knife sharpened and sheathed on his belt. Between that and the iron ring around his neck and the sheer size of him, he at least looks threatening enough to make somebody think twice.

  “She wanted to say good-bye to the nobleman,” Sedge explains, releasing Hettie’s hand. The girl hurries to Veran, her arms upstretched. He crouches down and wraps her up, cradling the back of her head.

  “I’m coming back, little sally, I promise, okay?” He broadens his outlandish accent when he talks to her, twanging his vowels—I can’t tell if it’s intentional or not. “I’ve got to take care of a few things with Lark, and then I’m coming back and we’ll head on home. We’ll be back before the birches turn, all right?”

  She mumbles something into his shoulder, and he squeezes her again. “I know, but it’ll be okay. You’ll even ride back with the queen herself. Would you like to ride with the queen? She’ll let you wear her Woodwalker boots.”

  Hettie peels back, tear-faced, gazing at him with utter devotion. And I know this little spark of jealousy is utter stupidity, but who can blame her? This man practically manifested out of the desert to hand back her name and family. And he’s making it sound like he can do the same for Andras, and Lila. Practically overnight, he’s done more for each of them than I’ve ever done, than I’ll ever be able to do.

  I cough to clear the block in my throat, trying to pass it off as impatience. I nod at Sedge.

  “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  “We’ll be fine,” he assures me. “You just be careful.”

  “Do you want me to leave Rat with you?”

  “We’d have to tie him down to keep him from chasing after you,” he says. “He’ll be better with you.”

  I hold my breath, wanting to remind him that Whit doesn’t like her corn mush salty, that Andras shouldn’t handle things hot off the fire, that Lila’s going to need more bandages than Rose if her bleeding doesn’t stop.

  He must be reading my mind. He nods.

  “I know, Lark. We’ll be fine. Take care.”

  All right. Okay, good. Good. I let out my breath and mount Jema before I can delay any longer.

  The dandy mounts his own horse and waves to Hettie. She waves back, not even throwing a glance in my direction.

  I give Jema a bump, and she ambles forward, weaving through the rocks. I hear the dandy’s horse pick up a trot behind me.

  “You shouldn’t lie like that to little kids,” I call over my shoulder. “She’ll believe you.”

  “I didn’t lie. When did I lie?”

  “Saying she can ride home with the queen. It may have made her happy now, but she’ll be sad about it later.”

  He gives a short laugh
. “My ma is the queen.”

  My cheeks heat, and I twitch back around to face the canyon, unseeing.

  Not just a dandy noble. A be-damned dandy prince.

  Fire and dust and a hot bed of snakes.

  We ride down the canyon in silence, stopping only to pick up the fine bulging saddlebag and cushy quilted bedroll that he’d stowed in a patch of greasewood. Rat lopes along with us, nosing here and there in the rocks, coming up a few times crunching on some unlucky creature who didn’t bolt fast enough.

  We hit the river flat just as the sun clears the canyon wall and turn eastward. I pull my brim down to shade my eyes. The land here is wide and clear enough for us to ride abreast, which the dandy noble prince apparently takes as an invitation. He clucks to his horse and comes up alongside me.

  “Sure is a pain to ride into the sun, isn’t it?” he asks with a sly edge to his voice.

  I tilt my buckler and give him a quick blaze to his eyes. He swears.

  “Will you cut that out?”

  “Don’t be smart if you don’t want a fight.”

  He huffs. “You know, you’d probably save a lot of energy if you’d quit raring to fight everybody.”

  “We’ll both save a lot of energy if you shut up for the next week.”

  His expression sours, but I kick Jema ahead and hear him cough satisfyingly on my dust.

  We bend away from the main road, crossing the river around noon. It’s broad and shallow, enough so that Rat can clamber across without swimming. We stop on the far side to let the horses water. To avoid encouraging the prince to try to strike up conversation, I poke a little way down the bank and win a few early mallow fruits for my search. I munch them while dabbling my fingers in the water. Rat rolls in a muddy wallow, snorting with pleasure.

  When we come back, the prince is licking his fingers from his own meal.

  “Onion roll?” he asks.

  “No, thanks. Jema—come on, out of that bush, or you’ll get a rattlesnake up your nose.”

  “What did you just call your horse?” the prince asks.

  I glance over my shoulder. “Why?”

  “I thought you said Gemma.”

  “I did. I heard it a while back in Teso’s Ford from some academics.”

  “You named your horse,” he squawks, “after Gemma Maczatl? The Last Queen of Alcoro? Provost of the university?”

  Oh, I like his sudden flare of indignation. I turn back to Jema. “Well, I couldn’t ask them what they’d named her as I was stealing her, could I?”

  He splutters and chokes. I grin behind my bandanna, hoist myself into the saddle, and ride away while he’s still working up a reprimand. Once he catches up with me, we proceed in frosty silence.

  The land changes from rocky river bottom to rolling scrub flats, thick with juniper and nettle. A few burrowing owls coo-cooo in the brush, and toward afternoon we startle a family of mule deer from a stand of lilies. As the afternoon edges onward, a thunderhead builds on the horizon, but it’s well to the south of us, too far away for us to hear its rumbles. It billows into the crisp blue sky like milk dropped into coffee, and as the light begins to turn, the scuds and swirls of the clouds light up pink and gold. With a minimal amount of words passed between us, we stop to make our first camp in a hollow that frames the shining clouds. I unpack Jema, breathing that light in all the while, the cool air that’s found me from the falling water underneath. I imagine it seeping into my skin, turning the dust inside me, however briefly, to mud.

  Apparently the prince is watching the storm, too. “My ma says thunderstorms are a breath of beauty.”

  The sweetness of the moment sours a little. His ma’s damn right, but I don’t want him to know that. I rummage in my saddlebag for the last few matches I won from that old man’s stage weeks ago. “I’m sure they seem that way from a palace window.”

  He’s snapping twigs for kindling—I admit I’m a little surprised he’s doing this himself—but he stops as I start scuffing out a fire ring. I ignore him and his twigs and start my own tent of kindling.

  “Hey, Lark,” he says, his voice flatter and more direct than it’s been all day. “I’m going to tell you a little about my family.”

  I add a few thick sticks to my tent of wood. “No, thanks.”

  “No, really, because I suspect you have a picture of what they’re like and what I’m like, and I think you’ve got things a little wrong.”

  “If you want to be helpful, get the pot out and fill it with water,” I say, breaking a branch over my knee. “Or better yet, go see if there’s a seep down in those willows and fill it there.”

  “My pa and ma are king and queen of the Silverwood, it’s true,” he continues, like he didn’t hear me. “But in addition to that, my ma’s a Woodwalker. You know what a Woodwalker is?”

  “Are you getting the damn pot, or not?”

  “They’re foresters,” he says, making no move. “Expert Wood-folk whose job it is to know the tick of the mountains and keep them healthy and productive for the couple thousand people in my country. Nobody else in the Eastern World has any office like it. But before she was a Woodwalker, she was an outlaw, like you. Kicked out of the Silverwood by my sadistic granddad for getting up in his face. She spent five years scrounging around in exile before she flushed out Queen Mona of Lumen Lake, dragged her through the mountains, and kicked Alcoro out of the lake to create the alliance between Lumen and the Silverwood. And that was all before she became queen.”

  I stomp to my pack and pointedly yank the pot from inside. I dig for the cornmeal and dump some in the pot, splash it with some water, and mix it around to let it soak.

  “My pa grew up sneaking around my crazy granddad,” he carries on. “A little anarchy here, a little anarchy there, before conspiring with my ma to set Queen Mona back on her throne. And then they got married and started turning us out. My ma was out on a scout run when she went into labor with my oldest sister Vi—she birthed her right on the forest floor. And Ida—”

  “Veran,” I say, slapping the pot down next to the wood. “Look, shut up, okay? I don’t give half a damn about your family. I don’t care what all your parents did, or how many amazing siblings you have. You don’t piss me off because your royal parents have a bunch of titles. You piss me off because you seem to think you’re some kind of savior. I’m grateful for the help you say you’ll give us—or I will be when I see you stick to your word—but I didn’t ask you to come handing it out. So quit acting like I should be on one knee in front of you, and just shut up, all right?”

  He goes mercifully silent. I busy myself with lighting the fire, coaxing all the flame I can out of the single match so as not to waste another one. The bone-dry wood catches fast, and I puff air until the bigger sticks light. When it’s good and strong, I swirl the corn mush and set the pot in the flames.

  The prince watches. He shifts.

  “You’ll warp your pot,” he says.

  “It’s already warped,” I shoot back.

  He goes quiet again. I feed the fire and stir the mush periodically to keep it from sticking. The clouds overhead lose the last slivers of golden light, giving way to blushy blues and purples.

  I tap the spoon on the pot. “Give me your cup.”

  “You know, some sausage would be good with that.”

  “I bet it would.” I can’t keep the snarl out of my voice. “Do you want some or not?”

  He doesn’t answer. He burrows briefly in his own pack and comes up with a flat, lightweight skillet and a waxed paper packet, which he unwraps to reveal a fat link of smoked sausage. Without a word, he slices a pile of rounds onto the skillet, flicks a few coals out from the heart of the fire, and holds the skillet over them. After a minute or so of sizzling, he turns them over to fry the other side, and then slides half of them into the pot. He spoons some of the corn mush onto his greasy skillet, digs in another bag, and sets a wedge of bread in my pot. The smell of onions rises with the spicy scent of fried sausage.

&n
bsp; He takes his own bread and swipes up a scoop of mush and sausage.

  “Health and good heart,” he toasts and takes a bite.

  I look at my own pot. I can’t recall the last time I had sausage. Or real bread.

  I mimic him, scooping up a pile with the onion bread.

  It’s devastatingly, deliriously good.

  I try to take small bites, but even still, I devour all mine before he’s finished. I lick my fingers as quietly as I can, savoring the salty grease left on them.

  He sumps his skillet the same as Cook taught us in the rustlers’ camp, swirling it with a splash of water and then drinking the dregs. This finished, he sets it by the fire on top of my pot.

  The sky deepens. A belt of stars twinkle above a jut of distant caprocks.

  “That was tasty,” he says.

  Yeah, it was.

  He unhooks his bedroll from his bag and spreads it out. “I’ve got a few sweet potatoes and some red beans, too. Maybe tomorrow we can make a stew.”

  A stew would be good, too.

  He wiggles onto his bedroll, his gaze up at the deepening sky.

  “My brother likes to sing at the campfire,” he says. “Do you sing?”

  My cheeks heat again. “No.”

  “Oh, good. Me neither.” He stretches mightily, folds his fingers across his chest, and closes his eyes. “Night.”

  I stare for a moment, but he doesn’t stir or speak again. His hair curls over his forehead, black and glossy as a crow’s wing—are nobles just born pretty? Or would we all look that good with proper food and a pillow on every seat?

  Rat returns from the brush, licking his chops, and flops down by the fire. I shake myself and retrieve my own ragged bedroll.

  I roll it out, settle down on top, and try to think mostly of stew.

  Veran

  Sunrise over the sagebrush flats comes quick, with no mountain peaks or tangled canopy to hold it off. I open my eyes to the golden shine, the drumming of a grouse nearby, and the smell of woodsmoke.