For two suns she’s walked, forsaken the comfort of a feather bed for the cover of a leafy canopy. Her usual haunts—some caves near Hygoden, a secluded valley where she discovered the last of Hyllen’s sheep, still scared and soot-covered—have not calmed her as they have in the past. Knowing Vincent’s body as well as his heart is given to Khosa has undone Dara completely. Like a wounded animal, all she can think to do is put distance between herself and what is hurting her.
Her fire tonight is small, the hare she shot with her last arrow smaller. She leans back against a tree, her constant anger draining what energy she has left. Though she still feels eyes in the forest, her own grow weary. Dara’s head hits her chest, but jerks upward when a stick snaps. The sound was purposeful, done the way Donil calls for her attention in the woods—without alerting others to their presence. She peers into the darkness, aware that the silence is a heavy, waiting one.
“Come in, then,” she says, hand on her knife hilt. “I’ll see your face whether you mean me peace or harm.”
Shadows separate from the darkness, vague at first, their movement so slight even Dara’s practiced eyes have to squint to follow as they emerge, finally, into the firelight. The Indiri’s hand falls slowly away from her weapon, but her expression remains guarded. The two Feneen have five eyes between them and seven arms, though all their weapons remain at their belts and not in their hands.
She nods at them. “If you’ve come for my dinner, you can have it. My blood, and I’ll put up a fight.”
“We’d not tangle with you, Indiri,” the taller Feneen says, slowly lowering himself to her fire. “Not after we saw you fight at the gates of Stille.”
“If you were among that party, then you won’t be leaving this fire with your throat closed.”
The second Feneen opens all of his palms to her. “We mean you no harm.”
“The harm is already done,” Dara counters coolly. “The king was family to me, and there are few I call such. If a royal body falls by violence I’ll see to it that more follow, of less consequence. Besides, you come upon me in a black mood.”
“So I see,” the taller Feneen says, his third eye blinking out of rhythm with the other two. “I am Filj, and this is Narr. Perhaps putting names to our faces may still your knives.”
“Doubtful.”
“In that case, a bit of your rabbit before you kill us?” Filj asks, his fingers going to the spit. Dara waves her permission, and he tears meat away from bone, handing some to Narr.
“You seem tired, Indiri,” Filj continues. “Why are you so far from home and with red eyes?”
“My eyes are my worry, not yours,” Dara says.
“All worries are the same in these days, I think,” Filj says. “All minds go to the sea.”
“Some in ways you don’t expect,” Dara agrees before she can remind her mouth to be still.
“Ah . . . ,” Narr says, spitting a bit of gristle into the dark. “The girl is lovesick.”
“Is this true?” Filj raises his eyes to hers, and Dara finds there the only pity she could ever accept, given from one who has also loved in vain.
“Tell me, Feneen,” she says, without answering him. “Are there any male Indiri among you? Able-bodied or otherwise, mad as an oderbird trapped in a walled room, I do not care. Just tell me there is one among you, and my troubles matter not.”
“Nay, girl,” he says. “I could tell you there is, and say I’ll take you to him should you spare me. But I will not lie to save my life, when I have no Indiri to lead you to.”
Dara closes her eyes, rests her head back against the tree. “Then eat quickly, and go,” she says. “Else I change my mind.”
Narr watches her, expecting some trick. “I thought you would send us to the ground, to follow your king.”
“It is not the dead bodies that trouble me, Feneen,” Dara says. “But the living ones.”
CHAPTER 62
Witt
WITT’S MEN WHO ARE ALREADY ON THE FAR SIDE OF the river aren’t above taunting the stunned Pietra who arrive at morning light.
“Did you not know Pietra can walk on water?” one of them calls from the far shore to his friends.
“River water is solid as rock,” another yells. “Never would have known, had we not taken the chance. Go on, then—step out.”
The bulk of the Pietran army stand in formation, a lifetime of training unable to keep incredulity at bay. Hadduk frowns at the men across the river, and turns to his own soldiers.
“When you get to the other side, feel free to tell them a nomad troupe came through last night and I treated each of you to a woman.”
A ripple of laughter goes through them, an ease of tension in its wake. Witt glances at Nilana, perched on Ank’s back, but she is conversing with him in low tones and doesn’t seem to have overheard.
“Pietra,” Witt calls out, raising his voice, “there is nothing to fear, and no reason to disbelieve the sight of your brothers on the opposite bank . . . but I wouldn’t take their advice.”
More laughter, and sheepish grins from the soldiers across the water.
“You will cross,” he goes on. “And safely. For this we owe the Feneen our thanks.”
The chuckling stops, replaced by confusion and not a few frowns. From the other side of the river comes a cheer that sends a smile across Nilana’s face.
“You doubt us?” she asks the assembled Pietra, her voice soaring over their ranks. “My people will see it done, and accept your gratitude after.”
Ank calls the Feneen forward. Again, Witt feels his breath catching in his chest as the Silt Walkers stride into water past their heads, reeds their only link to life, their metal shoulder hooks disappearing last.
The Pietran army falls silent along with him, as if they too hold a collective breath as Feneen climb onto the shoulders of Feneen, and then again when necessary. Reeds float above the surface, some of them barely past the water, an innocent splash all it would take to end the life of the man below and send the bridge crumbling.
“How long to get them all across?” Pravin asks Witt, his voice lowered.
“Sunset, at least.”
Ank brought more Feneen and Silt Walkers than the day before—enough to stand five across the width of the river—but the Pietran army is vast, and heavy.
Pravin glances at the sun’s path, its light only now clearing the top of the woods. “How long can the knees of the Feneen below and the arms of the one above hold against the weight of men in armor?”
“I do not know,” Witt says. “But their strength wanes as we wait.”
As yesterday, he is the first across, to show the men that it is possible. Again, his throat closes against the soft give of flesh under his boots and the subtle swaying of each man beneath him as he walks across their upraised palms. But the Pietra who greet him on the opposite bank do so with slaps on the back and wide smiles.
“Who among you will have it said that you did not follow in the Lithos’s footsteps?” Witt goads his army, yelling across the water. “Will your children’s children tell the tale of how their grandfather crossed the river to defeat Stille, or will they say that he waited at home for the victors to return?”
The response is a rattle of spears and a guttural roar, the sound overpowering even the rush of the river. Hadduk gives the order to the first detachment, and they step forward, knees buckling slightly at the oddness of the human bridge beneath them, knuckles white on their spears.
But they come, faces set against any rictus of fear, and when the first sets foot upon dry land, his breath leaves him in a rush, and he smiles at Witt.
“My Lithos,” he says, “I am here.”
They come on, spreading across the far bank like a moss, tents popping up and the smell of cook fires rising through the mist that gathers on the river as shadows lengthen. Hadduk crossed early, taking
charge of the army so Witt could stay on the bank, encouraging the men as they strode across the Feneen, and eventually encouraging the Feneen as well, whose arms begin to shake as the day grows old. The Pietra on the far bank rest easy, bellies full or about to be, conversation raised in praise of the Feneen, though not all of their brothers in arms have reached safety yet.
Witt sees the first reed slip away on the current and locks eyes with Pravin, whose mouth remains in a grim line. The last of their men still huddle on the other side, Ank and Nilana with them. Another reed soon follows, and a gap opens in the bridge as a Feneen body floats away, fingers trailing in the water. The Pietra on the bridge halt, two of them unable to stop in time as their weight brings them forward.
Men roll forward like stones down a hill. Some fall to the side, instinct overcoming training as they reach for the man next to them, pulling him into the current as well. Feneen become entangled with Pietra as spears punch through hands, feet lace around arms, and panic overtakes all. Some Feneen gain the surface, but their strength is spent, their limbs as heavy as those of the armor-clad Pietra.
Witt runs alongside the bank, arms outstretched to those who are near. On the opposite shore, Ank does the same, wading into the water to his waist, Nilana wildly screaming directions to the Feneen who still stand. They regain their positions, the Pietra still on their palms and shoulders, clinging to each other for balance.
Witt hauls a man ashore, the only one he could save, collapsing against him in the mud as a Silt Walker sweeps past, eyes locking with Witt’s before he is pulled under.
“My thanks, Lithos,” the white-faced soldier says, coughing up river water.
Pravin pulls Witt to his feet. “Are you hurt?”
Witt shakes his head and looks to the damage. A few Pietra have turned their backs, unable to watch as their brothers sink to the bottom of the river that Witt promised them would not even wet their heels.
“I will cross for the rest,” Witt says, ignoring Pravin’s palm against his chest. “I cannot ask them to do so on my word alone that it will hold.”
“My Lithos—” The Mason begins to argue, but Witt puts his hand up, silencing him.
The Pietra who are still on the river are gray-faced and grim, the sight of their Lithos alone not enough to encourage them to go on.
“Men,” Witt says, swallowing his own fear as he feels the Feneen beneath him shift under his weight. “The shore behind you is for the weak, the one before for the strong. For the rest of you, there is a river to each side.”
Ank himself swims out to the hole punched in the Feneen bridge, Nilana grim on his back. He pulls himself into position, filling the blank spot with their upturned palms.
“Pietra,” Witt calls as he turns back to the shore where Pravin waits. “Forward.”
He takes a step with all the conviction he can, not allowing the quivering deep inside to spread to his knees. He gains the shore, then turns to see if the men followed. They come, faces lined in fear and not a few with vomit streaking their chest plates. Witt stands to the side as the remainder of his army crosses and fans out among their comrades.
“How many lost to the river?” he asks Pravin under his breath.
“More than you think. Those who went in sank like stones. We’ll not know the true count until morning call.”
“Even then we won’t know who drowned and who deserted.” Witt assesses the last of the Pietra to cross. “There were more men on the far shore than I see here.”
From the river comes Nilana’s voice, raised in command. The weary Feneen climb over one another to reach land, many sliding off their comrades and into the water. Some find the strength to swim, others accept their fate with docility and disappear. Witt and Pravin go to the bank, grabbing Feneen hands and pulling them ashore. Pietran soldiers follow their lead without being commanded to do so, the fate of their brothers still heavy on their eyes, their inability to help them muted with every Feneen who sets foot on land.
Reeds float past once more, this time released by hands that had been long underwater. They break the surface, fingers deeply wrinkled pushing toward air, faces so pocked as to be unrecognizable finding the sun. Nilana and Ank move through them, helping where they can. The first of the submerged reaches Witt, and he pulls the man forward, both of them collapsing to the ground.
“Thank you, Lithos,” the man says. His one working eye is buried deeply within grotesquely waterlogged flesh.
More Feneen emerge, some pulled from the water by Pietra, some gaining the shore on their own strength. The last of them clamber past Witt, rolling onto their backs, arms and legs spread wide beneath the dying rays of the sun.
Ank and Nilana come ashore last of all, and Witt meets them.
“There are still reeds in the water.” He points to a handful that bob up and down in the current.
“They are mired,” Nilana says, “and cannot free themselves.”
“Can anything be done?” Pravin asks.
Ank shakes his head. “It would take the fresh strength of a man who could swim to release them now, and mine are spent. Yours do not swim.”
“They have reeds,” Nilana says. “If they still stand in the morning, we will send someone. To send a swimmer now would risk two deaths.”
“We’ve spent more than that already.” Witt’s eyes are hard on Ank. “You promised me those who crossed would not wet their feet.”
“I did. And I believe the men that made the far shore are dry. I never promised you would not leave some at the bottom of the river.”
CHAPTER 63
Khosa
MERRYL AND ROOK TAKE NO CHANCES. I CANNOT TURN too quickly without my elbow catching one of them, or come to an unexpected halt without them crashing into my back. Their armor protects them, but leaves marks on me when we collide, bringing swift apologies and sheepish smiles.
“Merryl,” I chide for the fifth time today, cupping my stinging elbow from where a nerve has been hit. “I understand tensions are high, but I’m in more danger from you than anyone else right now.”
“The pr—” Merryl’s teeth clamp on the title as so many often have in the days since the king took to bed, the Stoning that felled his oldest son catching him as well. With Gammal gone and Varrick as good as dead, calling Vincent “the prince” is more of a formality than anything, respect paid to a body waiting to die.
“Call him Vincent, as I do,” I suggest.
“Vincent told me to stay beside you at all times,” Merryl continues. “And I will.”
Even though he means well, Merryl is so near that his shadow slips over mine, and I feel a rush of panic. Since Cathon attacked me, I’ve been edgier than usual, screams rushing into my throat at the creak of a door. I carry an alertness so constant that my body is always stiff, leaving me sore in the evenings when my door is double bolted and I can relax.
I reach to my neck and gingerly touch a cramped muscle there, wondering how Merryl and Rook can choose a life of such intensity, all their senses on guard at all times for another’s sake. I make it worse by leaving my room, selfishly insisting on the comfort of the library, then berate Merryl for doing his duty too well.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s only that—”
“No apologies,” Merryl says in a tone that won’t be argued with, and I return my attention to the book in my hands, fanning the pages as I take my seat at the table.
I hear Rook’s voice in the hall in quiet conversation with another man. Merryl goes to the archway, glancing back at me. I nod, letting him know that the dagger he slipped to me this morning is tucked inside my boot, rubbing a sore spot on my ankle that brings its own source of comfort. Merryl’s voice joins the others, a low hum that underscores my reading until a throat clears.
“Khosa.” Merryl stands in the doorway, an elderly man in Scribes’ robes beside him. The sight of the familiar clothing ma
kes my hands clench into fists, fingernails digging into the softness of my palms. But his hip rope is braided finely, with a thread of gold spun through deep scarlet.
“Curator,” I say, coming to my feet in respect.
“This man wants to speak with you,” Merryl says, eyeing the Curator—who looks like a stiff wind would set him on his back—with suspicion.
“I’m sure it’s fine. Please,” I say, gesturing for the Curator to have a seat across from me at the table.
He settles onto the stool with a sigh, nesting the crooked neck of his walking stick in his inner elbow. “That a man of my age would find stone such a comfort,” he says, shaking his head.
“I like it too,” I tell him. “Any extravagance is wasted on me, if there is a book before my eyes.”
“A kindred spirit, then.” He smiles. “I had heard as much, and I would have saved that mind from the sea, but others had intentions for the flesh.”
“I should not have trusted so easily,” I say, dropping my eyes to the book before me, and the precision of the hand that lettered it.
“We both bear that fault, young lady,” the Curator says. “Cathon’s eagerness to be the Scribe to escort you away should have warned me, but I attributed it to his need to be in the books, not just around them.”
“Not as my rescuer, but the father of my child,” I say. “That would earn him a place on a page, certainly.”
“Among other things,” the Curator says. “Books talk to us through our eyes, but my ears are not deaf, and there are those who speak into them. When you fought for your dignity in the dark, you also saved my life, young Khosa. If Cathon had succeeded, his reward would have been my position, which can be filled only upon my death.”
I think of Cathon on the day we met, how I had felt our like minds joining over dust and scrolls. My nose wrinkles now, the faintest reek in the air finding me. “I did not think him so cruel.”
Given to the Sea Page 26