Redwing

by Holly Bennett

Samik.

  IT BECAME SUFFOCATINGLY HOT in the wagon. Samik was hidden under a thick layer of horse blankets topped with an oilcloth tarp, which trapped the heat and kept out any breath of air. The thin layer of straw beneath him poked and scratched maddeningly without doing anything to soften the jolts and lurches of the wagon. He could feel bruises blooming on his shoulder, hip and cheekbone, and counted himself lucky to have no broken bones.

  And yet he did not want this dark, sweltering, bone-jarring journey to end, for what came next would certainly be worse. A warlord’s revenge was always terrible.

  Don’t think about it. But he couldn’t stop himself. Fear clutched his bowels, and the struggle not to add to the misery of the wagon by fouling himself was a welcome distraction. Wait and do it on them. Brave words that he would never, he knew, dare to carry out.

  He would never see his family or his home again. Another thing not to think about—but then again, sad was better than terrified. He pictured Merik, sitting up in bed eating soup, and hoped that by now he was demanding seconds at the dinner table. He prayed his family remained safe from Jago’s rage. And then it was Rowan in his head—Rowan with his burdened air and gruff kindness, Rowan who became as free and light as the bird his family was named for when he had a button box on his knee. That kiss had probably shocked him out of his straight-laced boots. If he only knew, thought Samik, how often I’ve wanted to do that. No harm in stealing a quick one at their last goodbye.

  A sharp turn threw Samik against the sidewall of the wagon, and he felt the ground beneath them change to something soft and resistant. Wherever we’re going, we’re almost there, he thought, and the fear flooded back in a paralyzing wave.

  TURNING AROUND IS NOT SUCH a simple matter on a narrow road with a big caravan. Rowan had to get down and walk the mules backward a good five hundred paces to the little logging track he’d noticed on the way in. It was tiny and deeply rutted, and he was afraid they’d get stuck, but the mules somehow managed to back the caravan in. The tight, tricky turn back onto the road was no easy feat either, but at last he climbed back onto the seat and took up the reins.

  Then he just sat there uncertainly. Alarm, confusion, even embarrassment (how would he ever explain this to Ward and Cardinal?) all roiled around inside him, making it hard to think what to do next.

  GO!

  It was sharp and clear, as urgent as the night he woke up in the fire, and it startled Rowan into action. He snapped the reins, shouted to the mules and urged them into a trot. He didn’t know where he was going; he had to trust that Ettie would guide him. He only hoped that when he found Aydin—Samik, he corrected himself, his real name was Samik—he would know what to do.

  AS SOON AS THE BLANKETS were pulled off him, Samik knew they were on the coast. That ocean smell on the wind, the sound of the surf—there was no mistaking it. But it took a minute before the sun stopped stabbing into his eyes and he could actually see.

  He barely noticed the stony beach, the small, sheltered cove, the sheen of late afternoon light on the water. It was the ship that filled his vision. Even resting at anchor with its ocher sails neatly furled, the racy lines proclaimed it a Tarzine ship.

  Dread and longing. He wanted to be on a ship just like that, heading home. Joking with the crew in his own language, eating and drinking something that was actually good, his parents waiting to meet them at the docks. His mother and Aunt Kir crying at the sight of him.

  But this ship—this ship meant his happy vision would never come true. This ship meant death.

  TWENTY

  It was hours past dark, the woods on either side a black wall and the road an indistinct gray ribbon unfurling ahead of him, and still Ettie urged Rowan on. He was really listening to her now, and the harder he listened, the clearer she became. It was as if she perched, invisible and weightless, on his shoulder, guiding his path. Sometimes it seemed like her words were forming in his head, and often it seemed he could feel what she felt—her urgency, her determination.

  Her alarm was contagious, and he was sure now that Samik was in real trouble. He had pushed the mules to trot for much of the way, with only short breaks at their usual ambling walk. But they were tired now and needed watering, and despite Ettie’s protests, Rowan eased them to a halt.

  “They need a rest, Ettie,” Rowan said, no longer feeling strange about talking to the air. “They aren’t used to this pace, and we need them to hold out the whole way.” He didn’t know how long “the whole way” was—they must be nearly back to the King’s Highway. He went into the caravan and emptied both water jugs into the bucket. He might regret that, he supposed. He remembered a little creek that ran near the road somewhere along here, but in the dark it would be hard to find and treacherous to get to. No time for that.

  The mules drank eagerly, but Rowan held back about half the water. He had a vague memory of his father saying it wasn’t good for them to eat or drink too much before exercise, and didn’t want to take the chance of giving them bloat or whatever it was. He gave them a small portion of hay each, a handful of oats, and another little drink to wash it down.

  He was tired himself, his butt sore from the hard wooden seat, his back stiff from long hours on the road. He tried to walk it off while the mules munched at their feed. He felt Ettie’s impatience growing by the minute.

  Soon they were back on the deserted road. Even with Ettie’s guidance, Rowan didn’t dare trot the mules in the dark—and in any case he was pretty sure they were all trotted out. Still, they seemed ready to keep up their steady, dogged walk forever. Unable to see much of anything, Rowan put his faith in the mules’ sure-footedness and turned his worried mind back to Samik.

  What had happened to his friend? While it was theoretically possible that he was sick or injured or robbed and left stranded on the side of the road, Rowan didn’t believe for one moment in any of these scenarios. For Samik, there was only one kind of trouble.

  Rowan didn’t know how much farther he had to go. He was terribly afraid he wouldn’t get there—wherever “there” was—in time. He should be flying along on a galloping stallion, not plodding through mile after mile in a caravan. And once there, what could he possibly do against the likes of the Tarzine thugs they had seen in Clifton? Wolf would help, but…

  Where was Wolf? Rowan couldn’t recall seeing him for a long time…maybe since before he turned the caravan around.

  “Wolf! Here, Wolf!” Nothing. The knot in his stomach clenched.

  He’s just gone to bed, Rowan told himself. Wolf generally did flop onto the caravan floor at first dark. Pulling the mules to a halt and tying the reins through the knothole in the buckboard, he turned and shoved his head through the canvas flap.

  “Wolf? You here, boy?” Wolf at his laziest might not have come running, but he would at least thump his tail mightily on the floor. He wasn’t there.

  Sick with regret, Rowan tried to work out how it had happened: Wolf must have run ahead through the woods and not realized Rowan had turned around. How far behind would he be, and would he try to follow? Somehow the thought of facing whatever was to come without Wolf made the fear he’d been holding at bay scrabble in his guts. If he couldn’t even look after a dog…

  Gods, what a mess. The foreboding that came over Rowan then was so strong that he just wanted to hide his head in his hands and cry like a baby, to give up before he got them all killed.

  Samik needs you. Ettie’s voice was gentle but firm. She was right, of course. There was no time for blubbering, nothing to do but press on.

  THE TARZINE MEN HAD STOPPED at a scrubby strip of open land bordering the stony beach. Not one of them spoke or even really looked at Samik. Instead, they unloaded him briskly, as if he were an awkward sort of cargo, propped him up against the side of the little cart, threaded a rope through the gaps in the boards and lashed him to it by the waist. Then they left the cart, the overburdened donkey who pulled it, and their horses, and made their way on foot down to the water. The little donkey s
et right in chewing at the tangled mass of pea vetch at his feet.

  Samik watched them bleakly. Yelling after them, demanding or begging to be released might earn him another bruise but would accomplish precisely nothing. These men answered to one person only.

  His captors, he saw, were making for a huge stack of wood piled about ten feet from the high-tide line. They took a few pieces and laid a small fire, and one hunkered over it. Soon the flames licked up. One man—tall and black-haired, with high cheekbones, dark almond-shaped eyes and catlike grace—loped back up the slope. Samik tensed when the man pulled out a curved knife, but he only set to cutting an armful of random branches and returned to the fire.

  Black smoke billowed in waves as the flames were half smothered by greenery.

  A signal. The fear that had been whispering and slithering and gnawing through his body for hours suddenly burst free and swallowed him whole. The strength drained out of his legs so that he sagged against the rope that cut into his stomach, and he gasped for air as an invisible icy hand squeezed at his lungs and throat. In a hot, liquid gush, his bladder and bowels let go, and he was too afraid to feel shame or disgust.

  Jago was on that ship. Samik knew it, and he knew what all that wood was for too. He had the true Sight, and he had never wished more that he didn’t.

  “GODS’ BALLS, WHAT A STINK!” The first of the three to return to the cart was an oxlike, heavily muscled man with a bald and elaborately tattooed head. He cackled with mocking laughter at the others. “Our young rooster shat himself like a baby, just standing here waiting! We’ll have to watch he don’t die of fright before the show starts.”

  Samik glared at him. He felt stronger, as if some of his fear had been cast out with his shit. The terror would be back, he knew. But for now he would give them as little satisfaction as he could.

  The catlike one wrinkled his nose against the smell, making his gold nose ring flash in the late afternoon sun. He gestured impatiently. “Will we stand around inhaling it then? Go on, Voka, take him down to the strand and sluice him out.”

  There was grumbling and a few dark looks, but eventually Voka and the third man, the one called Tyhr, grabbed hold of Samik under each arm and hauled him down to the water. With his ankles still tied with the befouled rope, Samik was all but helpless—but he still managed to stumble against Voka and smear a little poop on his boot and pant leg. A childish revenge, but it buoyed him all the same. The thug’s roar of disgust was worth the violent shove that all but dislocated Samik’s shoulder.

  He was returned to the wagon, dripping wet from the waist down and still fragrant, but much improved. Then he was tied up again and ignored. The sun dropped into the sea and the stars winked into sight; Jago’s henchmen rummaged in their saddlebags and ate around the little fire on the beach. Samik began to hurt everywhere. Tied as he was, he couldn’t change his position, scratch, or wipe the sweat off his face. His legs ached from standing, but he couldn’t sit down.

  Eventually, two figures lay down by the fire, and the big bald one, Voka, returned to him. He seemed to have been appointed Samik’s personal keeper. “Wake me up, I’ll make you sorry,” he grunted as he rolled in a blanket in the wagon. “And if you crap yourself again, you’ll eat it!”

  “You’re going to leave me standing like this all night?” The black hours yawned ahead of him.

  “You want to interrupt Jago’s evening? He’ll come soon enough, believe me.” Voka sniggered in the dark. “Enjoy your nice rest, young buck. It’ll look good by comparison.”

  THE MOON HAD RISEN AND SET, leaving the night road darker than ever. Ettie had nudged Rowan onto the highway heading back toward Stormy Head, and then onto a side road angling toward the sea. He was grateful for the clear sky. Starlight didn’t actually help him see much, but it made the darkness seem less oppressive.

  Despite his anxiety, Rowan was having a hard time staying awake. The rhythm of the mules’ hooves was hypnotic, and hour after hour on the hard seat seemed to numb his brain as well as his butt. More than once he felt his head jerk and his eyelids fly open, with no memory of them closing.

  Stop.

  Rowan snapped to attention, yanking hard on the reins and looking around wildly, as if Tarzine raiders might be advancing upon him from every direction. But the night was peaceful. He guided the mules to the side of the road, pulled the brake on the caravan and got down.

  The woodland had given way to scrubby brush and open sky, giving him a view of a limitless expanse of stars and below them a vast, murmuring darkness that could only be the ocean. Ettie gave him a little push, but he hesitated. “Wait a moment,” he whispered and climbed into the caravan. Groping for lamp and tinder, he made his way by lamplight to the galley and pulled open a drawer. His hands went first to his mother’s biggest kitchen knife, but then settled on the slim fish-filleting blade. It was smaller, but very sharp, and it had a case that could fasten on to his belt. He could picture all too well what might happen with the other if he stumbled and fell in the dark.

  Something else was nagging at him. He didn’t know what he was going to find or how he was going to help, but he had no illusions of killing a bunch of Tarzine men with a fish knife. The best he could picture was that he and Samik would be running away, and while a caravan was not exactly a speedy getaway choice, it was all he had. And the mules were facing the wrong way for an escape.

  He paced across the road and found it had become little more than a sandy, narrow track. There was no telling, in the dark, whether it opened up into a space where he could turn around, or dwindled into nothing. And he could have passed a handful of side roads on the way without seeing them—or none.

  Ettie was prodding at him, unhappy at the delay. There was nothing he could do about the caravan. With a deep breath, Rowan left the mules behind and set off on foot down a path he could barely see.

  TWENTY-ONE

  After a noisy fall that left his heart hammering in alarm, Rowan dropped to his hands and knees. He followed Ettie’s lead blindly, feeling his way as quietly as he could and ignoring his scraped palms.

  It wasn’t long before he sensed the underbrush thinning, and soon he emerged at the top of a long, bare slope to the sea. He heard the ocean clearly now and saw the glimmer of starlight on the crests of the waves. The salt breeze on his face was like a splash of cool water, bringing him fully alert. He hunkered down on his stomach and strained all his senses as he swept his eyes over the scene.

  The first thing he noticed was the red glow down on the beach—the remains of a fire. He was focused on those embers, trying to see if there was any movement around them, when a soft thud practically at his elbow made him jump.

  He dropped his head (as if anyone could see it, he mocked himself, but he could not override the instinct) and lay still. His stupid heart was drumming again, trying to drown out the sounds he needed to hear. So was his breath, hitching in and out in harsh noisy gasps.

  Rowan closed his eyes and listened for all he was worth. Nothing. His breath calmed down.

  Thud.

  He’d heard that sound before, he was sure. It came again, then a creak. Then the breeze shifted a little and he smelled it—horse. There was a horse, at least one horse, tethered nearby. Maybe saddled—the tack would creak as the animal shifted its weight.

  Now he raised his head and peered toward the sound. Gods, there they were, maybe twenty paces away. Two big black shapes, obvious when you knew what you were looking for. And a third, a solid rectangle. A cart or wagon of some kind.

  A crunchy rustle came from the same area. Rowan had heard that before too: a body shifting on straw. There was a grunt and several loud sighing breaths as the sleeper resettled himself. At least one man then. It wasn’t Samik, at least Rowan didn’t think so. The voice sounded too deep.

  Was Samik there? He had to be—otherwise why would Ettie have led him here? But how could he find him, or help him, if he couldn’t see?

  He had to try. The darkness was a hindra
nce, but it was also their best—maybe their only—chance of escape. If he could find and free Samik while his guards slept, they might be able to sneak back into the bush before the alarm was raised. Ettie had shown him the way in; she would lead them out too.

  “Ettie, what should I do?” Rowan breathed the words out in a fervent whisper, but there was no reply. He looked out over the ocean as if the answer lay in its ceaseless waves. A silvery rim edged the horizon—the first hint of morning to come. He had no plan, yet he had to act now.

  The first thing was to find Samik. It seemed a good possibility that he was actually in the wagon or cart. He would try to circle around and come out behind the wagon. Then he would look for his friend.

  SAMIK HAD NEVER DREAMED mere standing could be so painful. However he tried to shift his weight, his legs ached with a vicious insistent throb. The rope around his waist bit into his guts when he sagged with fatigue. And he was cold, the damp night breeze off the ocean sinking deep into his bones so that he could not stop shivering. The only mercy was that his captors had bound his wrists in front rather than behind him, so he was able to lean against the side of the cart and relieve some of the load on his legs that way. The thick ropes chafed his skin, but at least he wasn’t crushing his own hands.

  The night crept on like an endless nightmare. At one point Samik found himself crying in breathy sobs, helpless to hold it back, yet somehow able to heed Voka’s warning and make next to no sound. He cried from the pain and the crushing exhaustion, but even more from the terrifying knowledge that morning could only bring worse.

  Later his mind became floaty and confused, almost as if he were drunk, and the night seemed to break into strange, fragmented bits. It was awhile before he understood that he was actually sleeping in crazy little snatches, drifting uneasily between dark dreams and darker waking.

  The voice that whispered his name was a dream voice, nothing more. He paid it no mind until it hissed his Prosperian name: “Aydin, are you here? Answer me, dammit!”