Floodpath

by Emily B. Martin

  I turn my head away as she heads back out of the cell, her key ring jingling importantly. My stomach turns at the thought of food, but I think of all the times in Three Lines I checked a snare to find it empty, or scraped the bottom of a pot for the final burned flakes. I think of how often the only thing to offer my campmates was cattail powder and withered roots.

  I massage my wrists, stiff from the manacles, and drag the tray toward me.

  I eat without tasting, my thoughts drifting back toward Three Lines. Slowly, methodically, I start to neatly sever myself from the people who could be used against me, or could be drawn into my dangerous orbit and destroyed. I force myself to believe my campmates are safe in Callais, that Veran’s friends have brought them into their circle of protection and are giving them the lives I never could. I say good-bye to Sedge and Lila, and Bitty and Arana, thanking them for helping me get through the toughest times. I say good-bye to Saiph, wishing him good fortune. I say good-bye to Andras and Hettie, praying they’ll find their ways back home and into the arms of their families. I say good-bye to little Whit, wishing her a soft bed and good food and the voice of somebody gentle, somebody who can smooth away the demons she should never have had to live with. I say good-bye to Pickle, wishing him a death easy and free. I say good-bye to Rose, kissing her forehead and laying her back down to rest in Three Lines, the guardian of the South Burr. I apologize in specifics to each person, but I don’t wait to hear their responses, relying on the whole span of the Ferinno to cut them off from me.

  I say good-bye to the Ferinno, the flushes and washes and massive sky, the larks in the scrub and the dust and the snakes. I say good-bye to Three Lines, the water pocket and sun-hot walls. I say good-bye to my horse Jema and wish her a sweeter life with a kinder rider than me. I say good-bye to Rat. The food sticks in my throat at this point, and I fight away the headache that springs up at the thought of him. I wish him good hunting and dust baths and stretches of sun to lie in, and then I move on fast, before this headache breaks apart into something I can’t stop.

  I say good-bye to Soe and Iano. I don’t know whether they would count themselves as friends to me, but they didn’t turn me in or turn me out, and for that I’m grateful, I guess. I say good-bye to Tamsin. I liked Tamsin a lot, and I hate how good the world is at targeting our specific joys and turning them into pain. I don’t offer her many words, though. Whatever I have to say to her, I expect she already knows. Instead a memory rises, unbidden, of the giant redwood tree she took me to on my first day at Soe’s, a place of peace and purpose for her, and I wish her that, I suppose.

  When the food is gone and I’m back to lying on my side again, when I’ve gone through everyone else I can think of, every incidental face, from Patzo in Snaketown to Cook and the rustlers to Dirtwater Dob decaying somewhere under the desert sun, I reluctantly turn to Veran.

  I spend a long time staring vacantly, my mind slow and empty. I don’t know what to wish him. I don’t have anything to offer. Apologies seem pointless. Forgiveness seems trite. Well wishes of happiness and health seem almost offensive. The longer I think, the emptier I feel, like I’ve given away the last bits of myself that were still clinging under my exterior.

  I find my thoughts instead simply settling on his face, the familiar copper of his skin, the black of his hair reflecting the sky in glints. I think of his sagebrush eyes watching me, drinking in the world in great gulps, determined to absorb as much as possible with each available heartbeat. Where the limits of my life have made me closed up and callused, his have made him wide open, hoarding all the highs and lows the world has to offer. I think of his excitement over gear, his enthusiasm for action, his regard for his family and his ma’s forest scouts. I think of his soft, practiced footsteps and buoyant energy. I think of his funny habits toward the natural world—thanking trees, welcoming thunder, ranting about songbirds hitting glass.

  I frown.

  I try to find that funny.

  It’s not funny, though.

  I think of the little birds in the sage throughout the Ferinno, wheeling through the open air. I know what it feels like now to slam into something you never see coming, to break your body on solid glass, and then to fall from the wide-open place you’ve always called home.

  And then for that to happen dozens—hundreds—of times a day, every day, and for people to call it normal.

  My mouth twists.

  Veran’s right to be angry.

  In fact, it makes me angry, too.

  This palace is a quarry of arrogance and death, breeding it both inside and outside its brilliant glass domes.

  Impulsively I slap the tray that was paid for so generously by wealthy folk upstairs, offering me one last condolence for the life they created for me. The silver plate jumps from the tray, resting at an angle against the lip, and the empty cup tips. Flecks of wine trickle down the surface of the plate, trailing past the sudden reflection of my face staring back at me.

  The image wobbles on the silver as I blink back at it. I scan my reflection for familiar details, but they’re muddled by the dings in the metal and the guttering lantern light. Even my face has shifted, dissolved with all the other stuff that used to be inside me.

  And then, in the next breath, I blink and find myself staring not at myself, but at that other girl.

  Eloise.

  I stare at the reflection. The metal distorts the razor edges I’m so used to seeing in my face and replaces them with softer lines. The darkness unlocks my hair and piles it over my shoulder. The lantern flashes on the tin studs in my ear, turning them to pearls.

  Princess Eloise Alastaire.

  She was sick, when I saw her just a few weeks ago. Weakened by that fever that’s crept into Tolukum. Infected by mosquitoes purposefully drawn into her room, the insects turned unknowingly into weapons because there aren’t enough birds to eat them.

  Because the birds hit the glass.

  Because the glass is impressive to powerful people.

  Because the powerful people can force less powerful people to make the glass for them.

  My fists close and squeeze, and in the metal plate, Eloise’s reflection spasms with anger. I catch a glimpse of that other man, the ambassador, as he ran at me, wild-eyed. The princess’s father, Rou. I only saw the two of them for a few minutes at most, but I can see his face in hers.

  I wonder what else of him lives in her—what about his laugh? His smile? The way he bounces his leg while thinking?

  My stomach goes cold.

  Is that a memory?

  I recall that patchy vision that came with the pain as Kobok loomed over me—the shifting cloth, the play of sunlight, the sound of clinking. My breath comes shallowly in my throat as these things grow sharper. The cloth is a tablecloth fluttering on an open terrace, lit with morning sun. The clink of the chain is the sound of cutlery on breakfast dishes. There’s a giggle. Curly hair brushes wood as we crawl under the table. Voices murmur gently above. Two pairs of legs flank us in our cave, our fortress—on the one side, trousers and boots, with one knee bouncing. Movement and deep laughter, the smell of cinnamon.

  On the other side, stillness.

  Her leg didn’t bounce. She always sat perfectly still, a rock, an anchor. Cool and quiet and safe.

  I see Eloise’s face next to her father’s again, and even though there’s sameness, there’s difference, too, and I wonder—if some things came from him . . .

  Which things came from her?

  The reflection in the silver plate flickers again, and my own face returns to me—not Eloise’s, not her father’s, not her mother’s. And then finally, finally, I recognize what exactly I’m looking at. Veran would have already spotted it, if he were here. His giddy voice filters back from the top of the mesa.

  Start with what you have.

  I push myself up from the floor, my ribs blazing with pain. Stiffly, I draw my ankle toward me and examine the lock on the cuff. It doesn’t look complicated—all the manacles in the pris
on probably take the same standard key. I look at the cell door. It probably takes a different key.

  I pick up the plate and wipe the last trickles of wine from it. Slowly, I get to my feet. Wincing, I shrug off the fine blue vest Veran bought me and lay it over my shoulder. The chain of my ankle cuff clinks as I step to the cell door. I crane my head against the bars and look down the corridor. About twenty paces away are the crossed legs of the cell guard, bathed in a circle of light from the bright mirrored lantern.

  “Hey,” I call. My voice echoes off the stone. The boots down the corridor twitch.

  “What?” The guard’s voice is annoyed.

  “Did you send this message?” I ask.

  “What?” she asks again.

  “This message, in my food. Is it from you?”

  A stool scrapes the floor. The circle of light swings as the guard snatches up the lantern. Her boots slap on the floor as she hurries toward me. I shift the plate in my fingers.

  “What message?” she asks with alarm. “Where? Let me see.”

  She holds the blinding lantern aloft. I tilt my head against the bars so their shadows fall over my eyes. Her fingers stretch toward me.

  I slip the shiny silver plate through the bars, tilt it, and beam the reflection right back into her face.

  She scrunches her eyes shut, and I lunge, grabbing her outstretched hand and yanking it through the bars. She shouts in surprise as she stumbles forward, but the noise cuts off as I bend her arm awkwardly against the bars. She tries to swing the lantern toward me, but I meet her fingers with the edge of the plate. The lantern drops from her grip, landing mirror-side down on the floor. It shatters. The corridor goes dim. I trap her other hand and twist it through the bars as well, pulling her shoulder flush against the metal with her arms pinned through two different openings. Leaning against the bad angles of her elbows, I reach for her belt and pluck the knife from her hip. I let the edge brush her neck.

  “Yell again and you’ll wish you hadn’t,” I say against her ear.

  She grits her teeth and struggles, but the angle is too awkward for her to pull away. I shrug the blue vest from my shoulder, praising Veran for his exorbitant taste—my old threadbare vest would have split apart with minimal tugging, but this one is thick, lined, and heavily stitched. Setting the knife momentarily in my teeth, I work the guard’s wrists through the arm holes and then cinch it tight.

  With her secure, I set the knife against her neck again and work the ring of keys off her belt—not an easy thing since I can barely get my wrist through the bars. She fights me silently, trying to keep her hips as far from me as possible, but eventually I hook her belt and manage to slide the ring off its clasp. The keys jingle as I pull them through the bars.

  “You’re nothing but a common outlaw,” she snarls.

  “I’m an extraordinary outlaw,” I say, picking through the keys. “I am a crowned queen of outlaws.”

  I work through three of the smaller keys before I find the one that unlocks my ankle cuff. For good measure I close it around her wrist—even if she manages to get free of my vest, she’ll still have one hand trapped inside the cell. The key to the door is easy to identify, being stamped with the same number as the lock, but it’s not so easy to reach it through the bars. I wince as I press my cracked ribs against the metal, fighting to fit the key into the tumblers.

  Finally, it turns, and I sigh as the door hinges open. I step into the corridor and shut it behind me.

  The guard is twisting her hands viciously in my vest. I step toward her and slide her belt off—if she gets a hand free, I don’t want any of her gear close by. I remove the gag from its pouch.

  “You’ll swing for this,” she hisses.

  “Nah,” I say. “I’ll swing for everything else. This bit? I doubt they’ll care. Although you might get a reprimand.”

  I fix the gag over her mouth, give her an encouraging pat, and then step over the lantern and head down the corridor.

  Tamsin

  Iano’s rapier is out and pointed at the woman with the scarred eyelid, but instantly several other burly guards in palace insignia materialize behind her. A fight against just the one strong, well-trained guard would have been chancy. A fight against four others would be laughable.

  But the woman doesn’t reach for her weapon. She spreads her hands and her cloak, showing the short sword sheathed underneath.

  “You can stand down, my prince. I’m not going to harm you. I’m going to reach into my pocket and show you something, all right?”

  We watch dumbly as she does this, producing a small leather bag. She tips the contents into her palm. An elegantly cut ruby flashes in the late-afternoon light.

  Iano stares at it, his rapier still raised. “That’s from my mother’s si-oque.”

  “Yes. I’m abroad on her orders. There’s been some suspicion that someone forged her seal.”

  “Forged her seal?” Iano repeats faintly.

  “Uah. A few weeks ago, a rumor went out that two rookie soldiers had been dispatched on a mission, but nobody seemed to know where the orders had come from. Any secret mission should have borne the queen’s seal, but she’d never made such an order. So a moratorium has been put on all documents bearing it. For the moment we’re back to the old-fashioned way of validating her orders.”

  The three of us stare at her, and then at each other. Iano is pale, no doubt reliving the deaths of the two soldiers that first night after we fled Pasul. My mind, however, is wheeling on what this means. A small thread of relief creeps through my stomach.

  It wasn’t your mother, I say to Iano.

  He draws a sharp breath, and looks back to the woman. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Enna. The queen placed me on this detail after you disappeared—I’ve been looking for you for weeks. Shall we talk?”

  He shifts, looking at me again. “We . . . have urgent business in Tolukum. We can’t delay.”

  “So I heard—at least, partially,” Enna says. “And I believe I can answer some of your questions. We can talk and ride. But I regret to inform you that now that I have found you—you’ll pardon my language, my prince—I’ll be absolutely damned if I’m going to let you ride away without us.”

  I squeeze Iano’s arm. He lowers his rapier, but otherwise he doesn’t move.

  “You saw us in Giantess Township,” he says. “Why didn’t you arrest us there?”

  “I’m not arresting you, my prince. I am ensuring your continued safety. Granted—I wasn’t sure that I did see you in Giantess. Forgive me, but you look . . . rather not like your usual self. And I didn’t know your companions.” She inclines her head to Soe. “I had to do some more asking around town before I was sure it was you.”

  She gestures apologetically to the horses. “I’m afraid I cannot give you the option to refuse. I will be happy to escort you through the city and into Tolukum, but I’m not unwilling to do it with you tied over the back of my horse. The queen will see me and the rest of my cadre hang if she knows I had you and let you go, and that is the plain truth. Shall we?”

  The other guards have already brought their horses around. With reluctant glances at each other, we head to ours and clamber into the saddles. The guards take up position around us, circling us in a tight wall of horseflesh. Making a break for it would probably just look foolish.

  Besides, this is what we want—I think.

  Enna doesn’t hesitate in providing answers to our questions. After only a few cursory questions about our whereabouts and activities the past several weeks, she launches into an explanation.

  “I work as a coach guard for the Royal Stage Line,” she explains. “I was a colleague of Poia Turkona.”

  “Poia!” I exclaim, remembering the surly, one-eyed guard who’d held me captive in the Ferinno with batty old Beskin.

  Enna nods. “When she vanished from her duties around the time you were attacked, I was suspicious. When the prince disappeared, too, I decided I couldn’t afford to give her
the benefit of the doubt. I went to the queen and told her what I suspected.”

  “Why would you suspect Poia?” Iano asks. “I mean—you were right, but couldn’t she have just gotten sick?”

  “I checked the log books, and there was no indication that she was on ordinary leave,” Enna says, narrowing her eyes at a passing potato cart as if the driver might leap and attack. “The head of staff usually keeps immaculate records about any illnesses or personal time, and there was nothing mentioned. I talked to a few others, and they hadn’t heard anything, either. But the main reason I suspected her was—Poia was a Hire.”

  I nod. “Uah.”

  Enna glances at me. “You knew?”

  I gesture at Iano, who fills in for me. “She found out, eventually—she saw Poia’s tattoo.”

  “I’m not surprised she had one—but we knew how she leaned even without seeing it. I think a big reason we didn’t report her missing right away was because we weren’t sorry to see her go, always grumbling about how much she resented sharing the mess hall or wash duty with bond laborers. But when you, my prince, and the Eastern prince vanished, I figured I couldn’t keep my concerns to myself. I requested an audience with the queen and told her that Poia had unexpectedly disappeared around the same time Tamsin did. At that point, it was our only lead, and she ordered me to take a small party and make a search.”

  I wave at Soe and twist to let her see my hands.

  “But Poia wasn’t the one to attack Tamsin,” Soe interprets. “She was one of her prison guards, but not an attacker.”

  “I didn’t say I’d have all the answers,” Enna says. “But if it’s true that Poia really was involved, my guess is you could start by checking with other palace staff to see if anyone else disappeared.”

  Did you know Beskin? I ask. She was the other prison guard.

  Enna shakes her head at Soe. “Sorry, no.”

  I exchange glances with Iano.

  Fala, I spell, and he nods. The head of staff is our best hope now.

  Iano’s face is still etched with anxiety. “I worry that once we get back to the palace, we’ll be sucked back in court—healers will want to look at us, questions will have to be answered. It might be difficult to get hold of Fala right away, and our success—and helping Lark and Veran—could depend on mere minutes.”