by Cara Witter
And now all that knowledge was in Diamis’ possession.
“I’m not looking for a book this time I’m afraid,” Kenton said. “I’m looking for a woman.”
Paulus laughed. “I expect that of many men, Kenton, but not of you.”
Perchaya raised her eyebrows, taking the tiniest sip of her wine as Kenton shook his head. “She’s working with the resistance. The name she used in Drepaine was Sayvil, and she headed south to Peldenar not many weeks ago.”
Paulus gave Kenton a long look, like he ought to know better than to ask this question.
Kenton sighed. “The rumor is she can channel the moon. You know what that could mean.”
Paulus’ eyes widened, and he drained his glass. “You’re telling me,” he said, “that the Andronish woman with the long black hair, the one who calls herself Sayvil, she’s—”
“The bearer of Arkista,” Kenton said. “I can’t be sure until I find her, but the description fits.”
“I never saw her do any magic. But she did boast of having . . . unusual methods of distracting the guards.” Paulus swore. “I assumed she must be loose.”
Kenton smiled. So Paulus knew her, had talked to her. “Tell me where to find her.”
Paulus set down his glass with a clunk. “Can’t, friend. You’ll have to wait until the morning.”
Kenton’s grip tightened on his own glass. “You know how important this is. I have to find her. Tonight.”
Paulus took a deep breath. “I’m truly sorry. But you’ve come at a very bad time.”
Perchaya crossed her arms and shot Kenton a worried look. Kenton was about to slam down his glass and demand that Paulus stop holding out on him, but the man continued.
“They’re taking the castle tonight,” Paulus said. “And your woman went with them.”
Kenton blinked, not wanting those words to come together in his head. “They,” he repeated. “The—”
“The resistance. We’ve been planning for months, getting everything in place. They left about an hour ago. By now, your woman’s deep inside, Kenton. She’s gone to distract the guards so the others can get at Diamis.”
Paulus leaned back in his chair, looking almost smug. Kenton knew the man well enough to surmise that it wasn’t disappointing Kenton he was proud of, but the fact that he’d been in on a plan to take down the Lord General himself.
Kenton swore and put his head in his hands.
The gods-damned resistance. They hadn’t just sent her into Diamis’ town. They’d sent her straight to the bloody man himself. What if he saw her use moon magic? His years of repression of worship of the gods wouldn’t have made him any less aware of the details of the Banishment Prophecy. Diamis would know exactly what he had in his hands.
If they were very lucky, he’d kill her, and Arkista would call a new bearer. But more likely, he’d lock her up somewhere dark and forgotten, perhaps with her legs broken or her eyes gouged out, just enough to prevent her from finding the lost goddess and bringing her to the second Banishment. Just enough to keep her from playing her role in keeping Maldorath locked away.
In this case, at least, there might still be time. Kenton had to act quickly.
Kenton turned to Perchaya. “I’m going,” he said.
“You’ll only put your bearer at risk,” Paulus said, giving Kenton a dark look. “Not to mention yourself.”
Kenton stared Paulus right in the eyes. Kenton wasn’t an idiot; he knew the risks of charging into Castle Peldenar during a raid, and given what he’d seen of the resistance, likely an incompetent one. He didn’t miss Paulus’ meaning, either. Paulus knew what Kenton had been accused of, and he knew what the penalty would be if Kenton was caught.
It was, of course, far worse than Paulus knew. If Kenton was right, Diamis needed him for things far darker than oppressing his neighboring nations. Kenton might be delivering Diamis one of the last two Drim of pure bloodline.
Kenton could take care of himself, and he’d escaped from Diamis before, but he saw no reason to take unnecessary risks. Which meant that Kenton absolutely couldn’t take Perchaya in with him.
Kenton put his hand on his belt where his dagger hung. “Tell me, friend. Are you going to try to stop me?”
Paulus glanced down at the dagger. “Come, now. We both know I’m too old to fight you.”
“I believe that’s the point I was making.”
Paulus cleared his throat and poured himself another drink. “And unfortunately for me, I sent away all my able-bodied men just a few hours ago.”
Kenton looked sideways at Perchaya, who had set down her glass entirely and was watching him with a worried expression. Which was, he’d grant her, not unwarranted. “I appreciate your cooperation,” Kenton said to Paulus. “Because I need a favor.”
Paulus let out a sharp laugh, not dissimilar to the sound his dog had made when they arrived. “First you tell me you’re about to endanger an operation months in the making, then you threaten me, and then you want to beg a favor?” He shook his head. “Same old Kenton.”
Kenton smiled, then turned to Perchaya again. “I need you to stay here. You understand why.”
To his relief, Perchaya nodded. Kenton glanced at Paulus and found the man nodding as well, though he couldn’t have understood completely. Paulus was a good man, one who knew when to keep his head down. He might disapprove, but he wasn’t going to force Kenton to put Perchaya in danger.
Perchaya tugged at the ends of her gloves nervously. “Though isn’t going after her right now a little . . .” She cringed. “Crazy?”
Paulus finished a long drink. “You should listen to her.”
Kenton drew a deep breath and shook his head. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d walked into Diamis’ stronghold.
He had to find Arkista’s bearer before it was too late.
Twenty
Perchaya paced back and forth in Paulus’ sitting room, worrying about Kenton. Shortly after he’d left, two new arrivals had come in through the back door—an older woman wearing a high-necked dress trimmed at the collar with embroidery, her graying hair tucked back into a kerchief, and a man with red hair that hung past his shoulders and a mustache that seemed itching to catch up. They were in the kitchen now, conversing with Paulus, though Perchaya couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Gods, what if Kenton didn’t come back? What would she do then?
Perchaya scanned the packed bookshelves, wondering how often Kenton had sat in this house, leafing intently through a book smuggled from the castle library—Diamis’ library!—learning everything he could about the prophecy, about the bearers. About his heritage.
Their heritage. That thought was becoming less frightening with each day, though perhaps it should have been more so. Perchaya had gone from having a dark, terrible secret to being part of something important, events upon which the history of the world would turn.
And yet here she was, standing useless in Paulus’ house, while Kenton did the heavy lifting.
The older woman poked her head around the corner from the kitchen. “Ah, there you are, dear,” she said, a warm smile on her plump face as she spotted Perchaya sitting rigidly. “Paulus said he had a friend visiting. From Andronim, no less. We’ve had quite a few friends from Andronim joining us of late.”
Perchaya’s mouth opened and closed. Obviously, this woman thought she was part of the Andronish resistance, perhaps arrived a bit on the late side. And, well, she supposed in a way she was.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said with a fond pat on her shoulder. “Your fellows will be fine. They’ve got this well in hand.”
Perchaya smiled wanly back. “I certainly hope so.”
“In the meantime, dear, if you’ll forgive my saying so, I think you’re carrying half the dirt from Drepaine to Peldenar in your hair. I could draw a bath for you while you w
ait.”
Perchaya felt every grain of that dirt. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Oh, it’s going to be some time before your man returns, I imagine. He’ll have a time catching up to the others, though I suppose a second wave never hurts. If you’re going to worry, might as well do so in a good warm bath.”
Perchaya felt a flush creeping up her neck at the woman’s suggestion that Kenton was her man, whatever she’d meant by that. But the woman looked so hopeful that Perchaya wasn’t sure whether she was extremely hospitable—even in someone else’s home—or if she wanted Perchaya out from underfoot while resistance contacts came and went.
Either way, the woman had a point. After weeks of travel, a bath sounded like a gift from the gods themselves.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Perchaya said, her own smile stretching wider as the woman beamed back.
“Perfect,” the woman said. “I’ll get that started. I’m Malina, by the way. A friend of Paulus’ dear departed wife. She was the best of us, I’m afraid.”
“I’m Perchaya.” Malina reminded her of her own grandmother, a woman who’d passed on ten years ago. “And I’m sure Bridget is happy her work is being carried on.”
The last she’d said without thinking much of it, but it was only after Malina grinned again and headed to the washing room, that Perchaya realized how very strange her life had become; not only was she comforting a member of a band of revolutionaries that their dead friend was cheering them on, but she actually hoped it was true.
And that was hardly the strangest part of all of this.
The wash room was similar to the one Iadan and Reisa had in their house—a small, scantily decorated space dominated by a bath, though Paulus’ bath was made of lustrous brass, unlike Reisa’s simple wooden one. A row of pegs on the wall would serve to hang her clothes while she bathed, though by the state of them, they’d do just as well crumpled into a dirty pile on the floor.
Still, even if she had to get back into travel-stained (and travel-scented) clothes, at least she’d feel clean. The door had barely clicked shut behind Malina before Perchaya was stripping off her boots and stockings, her trousers and her skirts and blouse and, lastly, the long gloves.
She could see the steam rising from the water and could smell the bliss-inducing aroma of lavender oil. She stepped in cautiously, letting her body adjust to the warm water, letting her sore muscles relax into the heat. She could barely hold in a moan as the water rose up to her shoulders.
Gods. Was there anything more perfect in the world than a warm bath?
She could almost hear her sister’s teasing voice in her head: Well, someone to share it with.
And suddenly she wasn’t just warm from the water anymore, but flushing from the immediate image of Kenton sitting across from her, so close, the water risen to his well-muscled chest, his bare legs against hers, his dark hair falling into his eyes and that rare smile tugging at his lips.
Gods, indeed. Kenton? Sure, he was still as handsome and mysterious as he’d been back in Drepaine. And he was protective of her, careful in a way that he didn’t give the impression of being with many others.
But he was also Kenton. The man who’d gotten a ring stuck on her finger that could lead to her death. The man on a mission to gather the bearers, to save the world. The man who—if his complete lack of advances was any indication—likely considered her little more than baggage he was stuck dragging along.
She puffed out her cheeks and dunked herself totally under to dispel the image.
It worked, but only because she accidentally brushed her knee against the Vorgalian heat charm dangling into the water and yelped in surprise. She examined her knee, but it didn’t appear to have been burned. The heat charm, which turned hot when submerged in the water and cold again when dry, was enclosed in a small, protective bag. Paulus was clearly a good deal wealthier than Perchaya’s family, who had heated their bath water over a fire.
The door opened suddenly, and Perchaya startled from her reverie, throwing an arm across her bare chest with a rather undignified squeak.
“Sorry, dear,” Malina said, looking caught off guard herself at Perchaya’s surprise. “Didn’t you hear me knock?”
Perchaya just blinked at her, her heart starting to slow to a normal rhythm.
“Well, don’t worry. It’s just me. Wanted to bring you some linens to dry off with, and I managed to find one of Bridget’s old dresses, if you wanted to change into something fresh while we get your clothes . . . cleaned.” She looked at Perchaya’s mud-crusted skirt and shirt hanging limply from the peg, and judging by her expression, she thought burning them would be a better plan. She bent to pick up one of the stockings that had dropped to the floor. “Bridget was a bit larger than you, but with the sash around the waist, it should be—”
Her words cut off, and Perchaya realized that Malina’s gaze rested on Perchaya’s hand, clutched tightly across her chest.
The hand with the ring.
Perchaya’s heart sped up again, and she quickly lowered her hand into the bath.
Malina looked back at the stocking in her hand and stood up. There was a beat of silence, and then she spoke again. “That’s a lovely ring you have there. Just beautiful.”
Perchaya’s muscles no longer felt relaxed in the bath. She prepared to spring out, to escape, though how she would accomplish that naked, in this small space and with Malina blocking the door, she had no idea.
Malina met her eyes squarely. “It looked like it had some lovely detailing. It’s a shame my eyesight’s gotten so bad over the years, and I can’t make it out.” Then she very deliberately winked, the warm smile stretching back over her face. “I’ll leave the gloves here for you.”
“Th—thank you,” was all Perchaya could muster, relief flooding through her. Malina had seen, but it appeared she would keep her secret. For now, at least.
As soon as Malina left, Perchaya scrubbed herself down as quickly as possible with tallow soap. She climbed out and dried herself off with the linens and pulled on Bridget’s blue muslin dress, tying the matching sash tight around her waist and trying not to think too hard on the fact that she was wearing the dress of a dead woman.
Then she slipped the gloves back on. Surely that would be suspicious, wearing her dirty gloves with fresh clothing, but it was a far sight better than flashing the bloody ring around like some lovestruck girl with a promise piece. Perchaya stepped out from the wash room and through Paulus’ small bedroom—cluttered, but with little flower-patterned vases and glass figurines rather than books—and then into the sitting room.
The scent of food wafted into the room. Some kind of meat, pork perhaps, with a smoky herbal seasoning she couldn’t identify. Perchaya reached the doorway to the kitchen and saw Malina’s broad back facing the hearth, though she wasn’t the one stirring the sizzling meat in the iron pan. Paulus was doing the cooking, and he frowned at the sausages on the pan like they were personally affronting him by not being done.
She almost made some comment about the wonderful smell when she heard Malina’s words as she spoke to Paulus. “—can’t have one of them here, in this very house.”
Perchaya’s blood ran cold. She stepped backwards as slowly and carefully as possible, ducking beside the door frame so she could stay out of sight and yet still hear.
“. . . don’t know for sure, though,” Paulus said, the words more difficult to make out.
“I saw the runes myself,” Malina said, her voice rising above the hissing of the meat. “And don’t think she’s not aware, with those long gloves—”
Perchaya didn’t need to listen anymore and wasn’t sure she even could with her heart pounding loudly in her ears. She didn’t know where to go, but she clearly couldn’t stay here. She spun to make her way to the downstairs, then froze.
The red-mustached man stood there, behind
her. Blocking her way, Paulus’ dog wagging furiously at his feet. Perchaya fought the urge to try to bolt past him. Maybe he hadn’t heard anything. She forced a smile. “Excuse me,” she said as softly as she could and tried to step around him, casually, like she’d just been leaving the kitchen to sit down and read a good book.
His brow furrowed. “She’s onto you, Malina,” he said, stepping to the side just enough to keep blocking her path.
“Oh, bother,” Malina said from the doorway, though she didn’t sound overly disappointed by this news. “Well, come on in, dear.” She motioned for Perchaya to follow her into the kitchen and disappeared from sight.
The mustached man stood with his arms folded, but Perchaya had no doubt that he could get to the long, wicked-looking knives sticking out of his belt much faster than she could. And he’d certainly know better how to use them.
Panic flooded through her, the panic of the fox as the hounds close in, but she struggled to keep a level head. She couldn’t run or fight, that much was clear. But if Kenton were here, he’d find a way out of this, and now it was up to her to do the same.
She swallowed past the hard lump in her throat and walked into the kitchen after Malina, the mustached man following close at her heels. Malina was standing in the dining room just off the kitchen, with a chair pulled out that Perchaya had no doubt was intended for her. Paulus had straightened from his work at the hearth, and the white pallor of his skin as he met her eyes was no comfort.
Any previous trace of warmth was missing from Malina’s expression as she gestured to the chair. “So, dear, not incredibly wise to be wearing jewelry like that in Peldenar, of all places, is it?”
“It’s just a ring—” Perchaya started, but stopped at seeing Malina’s all-too-knowing raised eyebrow. The gloves. The undoubtedly terrified look on Perchaya’s face when Malina spotted the ring.
Playing innocent wasn’t going to work.
So Perchaya sat at the table, trying to exude a calm she didn’t feel.