Bloodleaf

by Crystal Smith

  I gave him the same answer I had given Ray. “None of your business.”

  “You have to know that you won’t survive long without money. Or shelter. Or rest.” He approached me carefully, like I was a cornered, feral animal, and slowly removed the stick from my fingers.

  I decided the biggest difference was in the mouth. Simon had an easy smile, but Zan’s lips were like cut glass, artfully shaped but severe. “I can provide you with what you need,” he said.

  “She’s not mine to sell,” I stated, trying not to think about how it would feel to fall asleep in a clean, warm bed with food in my stomach and no terror scratching at my door.

  “You stole her?”

  “No! No, I didn’t—​I just . . .” I took a breath. “She belonged to someone I . . . I love. Loved,” I corrected myself, and the coil inside my chest tightened, just a little. “He died.”

  He took a step back, studying me.

  “I won’t sell her. I’ll starve first.”

  “And what about her? Will you let her starve? Is that what your dear departed love would have wanted?”

  I didn’t have an answer.

  He gave a deep, haggard sigh. “We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow morning, after you’ve eaten and slept and can reason properly again. Come along.” He took ahold of Falada’s reins and led her out of the stable, while I scrambled behind them.

  “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

  “There’s an inn on Canal, not far from High Gate. It’s quiet and clean—​I expect you’ll find it quite comfortable.”

  “I can’t cross the wall.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked up, just a little. It was the first hint of a smile I’d seen on him, and I didn’t think I liked it. It didn’t look natural on his grim face. “I’ve got it covered.”

  I knew I shouldn’t trust someone whose motives were so obviously counter to mine, but if I was going to be of any use at all in taking Toris down, I had to get inside the wall somehow. I looked again at the ring on his hand—​silver, and bearing the symbol of a bird with a widespread, open wingspan. Just like Simon’s. I decided to trust him, for the moment.

  Raymond Thackery chased us down. “What about my payment?” he asked. “Services were rendered.”

  “Here,” Zan said, pulling out a small stack of folded papers, dotted with wax and stamped with the Achlevan seal.

  Thackery counted them and said, “There’s only nine here. You promised ten.”

  “I’m keeping this one,” he said, “as a fee. The horse came with some baggage, as you can see. Count yourself lucky. The prince was in a generous mood to issue ten invitations at once. He might not give me as many next time.”

  “There might not be a next time. King’s been sniffin’ around, wonderin’ who’s been making invitations and handing ’em out to the riffraff—​”

  “Consider me warned,” Zan said, cutting him off. To me, he said, “Let’s go.”

  “Invitations?” I asked as we walked.

  “Ray is a smuggler,” Zan explained. “I use my connections inside the royal family to get him blood-marked invitations issued by the prince so he can sell them to the highest bidder, and he lets me know when he comes across something I might find interesting. In this case, you. Or rather, your Empyrean.”

  “Her name is Falada.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “It’s . . . Emilie.” It was an impulsive decision, to give her name as mine. I’d wear it like a cilice; it would hurt, but at least I wouldn’t be allowed to forget her.

  Even in the middle of the night, Zan made his way around the outside of the wall with a deftness that suggested he was well acquainted with its unsystematic layout. We zigzagged through the hive of encampments and clapboard hovels spaced between the occupied gibbets, of which there were many.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Zan.

  “High Gate,” he said. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  He was right; there was no mistaking High Gate when we came to it. Rising at least twenty feet over the already colossal wall was a gatehouse, flanked on each side by a barbican and crowned by a polished sculpture of three majestic horses, stamping and rearing, mouths open in silent, defiant screams. They gleamed white in the moonlight, perfect copies of Falada herself. I had to look back at her to remind myself that she was flesh and blood and they were not.

  “Empyrean horses are incredibly rare and very highly valued in Achleva,” Zan said. “It is absolutely imperative that we get yours to the stable before anyone else sees her.”

  “You’re afraid someone might buy her before you can?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Beneath the statue, a swarm of shades clamored at the gate. They varied in opacity; some were fully formed, almost real enough to touch, and had likely met their ends in the last several years. The oldest spirits were but tattered threads of their former selves, caught like flies in a web at the place of their demise. They all had one thing in common, however: a network of blackened veins standing out against their pallid skin.

  Zan gave me an assessing stare from over his shoulder. “I should warn you. Even with the royal blood-marked invitation, the crossing is likely to be . . . uncomfortable.”

  Made sense, considering going without one seemed to turn a person’s veins into charcoal.

  Zan passed me the invitation. “I’ll go through first. When you get to the borderline, break the seal on this parchment and place your hand over the prince’s mark. After that, you’ll step onto the border, holding the invitation in front of you, like this.” He demonstrated. Then he reached for Falada. “Animals can cross without incident. I’ll take her through first.”

  “No,” I said. “She goes through with me.”

  He gave an irritated sigh. “Fine. Just . . . well. Good luck.” He turned on his heel and walked underneath the portcullis without pause or any further comment. On the other side, he put his hands in his pockets and waited.

  I wondered if, when I stepped onto the borderline, I’d find that the invitations were fake. He could let me burn to a crisp and take Falada like he wanted.

  But what did I have to lose?

  Without breaking his gaze—​partly to convince him of my fearlessness, partly to keep from making eye contact with a crowd of spirit spectators, who were all now watching to see if I’d soon be joining their ranks—​I broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. In black ink, the words were carefully lettered: This blood, given freely by Valentin de Achlev, hereby grants the bearer of this document passage into the city of Achlev, across the Wall, and through the Gates. Beneath that, a rust-colored drop of blood had been drawn into an approximation of the three-pointed knot. With a deep breath, I pressed my fingers against the symbol and then, parchment held in both hands, stepped under the portcullis.

  At first I felt nothing. But slowly the blood mark began to streak out across the page in cobwebby tendrils, disintegrating the paper into ash as it went. And it didn’t stop at the end of the paper; the red lines simply twisted and coiled onto my hands. I fought the urge to scream as searing heat struck across my skin and dug, needle-like, beneath it, boring into my flesh, my bones, my blood, until the whole world was laced with pain and red heat. I closed my eyes and let it overtake me, allowing the magic to circulate inside until I was nothing but burning, molten light.

  And then it was over. I took two stumbling steps and fell to my knees on the other side of the borderline with a gasp. Falada followed behind, nonchalant. If the same thing had just happened to her, she didn’t show it. “Blood of the Founder,” I muttered through heaving gulps of breath. “You bastard.”

  Zan’s mouth was screwed to one side. “I told you it would be uncomfortable. The gates are spelled against foreign blood. It’s an incredibly powerful magic—​it gets inside you. It tests you. Now imagine what it might be like if you didn’t have the prince’s mark to shield you.”

  I shuddered, glancing back
in sympathy at the sad lot of spirits who hadn’t.

  “On the bright side,” he said amiably, “you only ever have to do it once, unless someone in the royal family revokes your invitation.” He helped me to my feet. “The inn is this way,” he said. “We’ve got to hurry. The sun will be up soon.”

  I took a faltering step forward but had to stop for fear I’d fall again. My legs were weak and unsteady. Zan grumbled impatiently and put my arm over his shoulder. “This is not how I wanted to spend my entire night.”

  I said icily, “By all means, go on your way and leave me and my horse to ourselves. We were doing just fine.”

  “Were you, now?” Zan said. “And that’s why, at our introduction, you greeted me with a cudgel?”

  I glared at him, wishing I still had a weapon at hand.

  We went several more blocks in silence, keeping to the shadows beneath the windows of the black-timbered buildings lining either side of the street. A figure stepped out from a side alley, taller than Zan by at least a head and taller than me by two. He put down his hood, revealing a face of deep sable complexion and solemn expression.

  “You shouldn’t have gone past the wall alone, Zan,” the man said in an exasperated rumble. “You know you can’t—​”

  “I’m sorry, Nathaniel, but time was of the essence.” Zan hastily dumped my arm from his shoulder. “I had to go as soon as I got Thackery’s message. He was right, too; it was an Empyrean.”

  The man, Nathaniel, eyed me. “And this is . . . ?”

  “A complication.” Zan tossed him Falada’s reins.

  “My name is Emilie,” I said irritatedly, turning to Nathaniel. “Your employee is greatly lacking in manners.”

  Nathaniel snorted to smother a laugh, while Zan went sullen.

  “I’m afraid you have that the wrong way around. He is my bodyguard and swordsman.” Then Zan amended, “My friend, too, of course.”

  I shot Nathaniel a sympathetic look. “You must have your work cut out for you. I’ve known him less than an hour, and I already want to kill him.”

  “It’s a taxing job,” Nathaniel said.

  Zan ignored us. “We’ll have to house her in an inn’s stables tonight. The horse, not the girl. Though she does seem to have a fondness for sleeping in stables.” I glared at him. Unruffled, he continued, “I’ll talk to the innkeeper about getting her something to eat and providing her with a place to sleep for a day, maybe two.”

  “I’m not selling you my horse,” I said again.

  Zan gave me a patronizing smile. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

   12

  It is to my great discredit that I slept so peacefully, alone in my tiny room at the inn. For those hours, with food in my belly and a pillow beneath my head, I forgot about everything. Kellan, Conrad, my mother . . . I even forgot the feel of Toris’s knife at my throat and the fathomless darkness of the woods.

  When I finally woke in the late afternoon, I was pleased to find that a basin of water had been laid out for me, and I knelt with reverential gratitude at the lavender-scented pool. The water was cool and wonderful. I scrubbed my skin pink and lathered up my hair with a chunk of homemade soap that smelled of mint and vanilla and rosemary.

  After I was dressed, I assessed the few belongings I’d brought with me, stashed in my pockets and bodice and the pack from Falada’s saddle. I took inventory: one bracelet, broken clasp. Charms: a ruby firebird, a sapphire-tailed mermaid, and a diamond-and-opal winged horse. A bloodstained square of silk fabric, two drops dark and copper red, a third so faded it was almost imperceptible. The linen parcel that contained my incomplete wedding dress. And then a vial of blood on a cord, supposedly derived from Cael, the Founder himself.

  The last thing I removed from the bag was a bundle of gold-trimmed cobalt, Kellan’s cloak. I rubbed the fabric between my fingers. It smelled like him, like summer-sweet grass and windswept hills and the sun setting against a wide, dusky sky. I spent the better part of an hour furiously scrubbing it clean of the bloodstains as if the effort could also erase my memory of how they got there. Soon the water was tinged brown and my hands—​as well as my heart—​were cracked and raw.

  I took the rest of the afternoon to collect myself and gather my things, numbly placing them one by one into the safe darkness of the pack. Then I made myself stand and face my reflection in the room’s cloudy mirror, letting my breath out slowly as I relaxed my features into well-practiced composure. In negotiations, my father used to say, emotions were best left in check or they could be used to your disadvantage. When I saw Zan again, my face would be as blank and unreadable as a new piece of parchment.

  Before I went down to retrieve Falada and leave the sanctuary of the inn, I removed the firebird charm from the bracelet. I had no intention of selling Falada to Zan, but he had helped me, and I couldn’t let such a debt go unpaid. I owed too much to too many, and the weight of my dues sat heavy on my shoulders. Better to not add to the sum.

  The interior of the stable was dark save for thin threads of sunlight coming through the slats of the roof and the light from the door. It smelled of damp hay and old leather, so much like Kellan’s stable at Greythorne that I had to swallow hard to rid myself of the lump forming again in my throat. I went from stall to stall, listening to the horses softly nicker at my passing.

  I came to the end of the stable. Then I pivoted on my heel and walked the length of the building again.

  Falada was gone.

  When I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel, I didn’t have to turn to look to know who it was. “You took her.” It wasn’t a question.

  Zan said, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “I understand that you saw her, you wanted her, and then you took her. Where is she? Sooner or later I’ll find her, and—”

  “You won’t find her,” he said. “Please know that she’s safe and secure in my care. Here, I’ve got your payment ready. I think you’ll find it very generous. More than enough to establish yourself in Achleva: secure permanent lodging, pay for food and expenses while you find suitable employment. It should last you for a couple of months at least, maybe several if you’re frugal.” He held out a leather purse.

  “I don’t want it,” I said.

  “You need it.”

  Ignoring the coin pouch, I took his other hand and thrust the firebird charm into it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Payment for the room, and the food.” I pushed past him, out of the stable and into the inn courtyard.

  He grabbed my elbow. “I can’t take this,” he said.

  I looked from the firebird to his face. The likeness to Simon was even more obvious in the daylight.

  “You’ll have to.” I shook his hand from my arm. “This way there can be no argument that what you’ve done was some kind of transaction. You stole Falada. Remember that when you put on your silken finery and parade around on her back so all your friends can stand in awe at your great fortune.” There was a bitter edge in my words. To myself I muttered, “I was wrong to trust you. You’re nothing like your father.”

  Zan’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you think you know about my father?”

  “You’re Simon Silvis’s son. You wear the same signet. And how else would you have such close access to the prince that he’d provide you with stacks of blood-marked invitations to sell in the camps? You’re his cousin.” I lifted my chin. “You look exactly like Simon, too. That’s where the similarities end, though. He was kind and you’re a bastard.”

  “You met him? When? Wait!”

  I had already exited the courtyard and was trying to disappear into the din on the street, just like I’d so often done back in Renalt. But Zan was not deterred. “Emilie!” he called. “Would you just stop?”

  I did stop, but not because he told me to. Nathaniel stepped out in front of me, as impassable as Achlev’s Wall. His arms were crossed in front of him like a mother about to reprimand a child, but his dour expression wa
sn’t directed at me; he was looking at Zan.

  Zan said breathlessly, “She knows my father.”

  “She what?”

  “Simon.”

  “Simon . . . your father.” He cleared his throat. “Okay . . . how?”

  “She met him in Renalt before coming here.” To me, Zan said, “Please, Emilie. You have to tell us how he is. We’ve heard all kinds of rumors . . .”

  I’d made a mistake. I never should have said anything. It was a bread crumb: small and seemingly insignificant, but if I dropped too many, Toris could follow them right back to me. And then he could finish what he’d started before the Harbinger intervened.

  She was here now, too, standing still among the tumult of the market. With my attention on her, she turned and walked away, toward the castle and the jutting tower behind it.

  “Well?” Zan was asking. “What do you know about Simon Silvis?”

  I shook myself, coming back into the moment. “Nothing. I know nothing.”

  “We need to find another place to have this conversation,” he told Nathaniel. “Pick her up if you have to.”

  Nathaniel moved in but won my nastiest glare. “Don’t even try,” I warned.

  They herded me to a side street without any prying eyes, and Nathaniel went to stand watch while Zan questioned me, pacing in front of me while I leaned, arms folded, against the brick. “It’s been several weeks since we’ve heard from him,” he said. “Simon. My father, as you so cleverly deduced. He was supposed to send word when he arrived in Renalt—​he didn’t. Or at least he hasn’t yet. And now we’ve been getting all sorts of troubling reports of political unrest . . .”