by Grace Draven
She slept and dreamed, not of the Empire but of her sister standing beside her as they boiled long nettle in copper vats to extract the green dye Beroe sold to the Trade Guild for their merchants to barter with on the Golden Serpent or to ship out of Manoret. Ilada said something Gilene couldn’t hear and laughed, waving her verdant-stained hands to emphasize her remark. Kraelian slavers suddenly appeared behind her to whisk her away in shackles. Gilene cried and clutched her sister’s skirts, pulling and pulling but to no avail. She called out Ilada’s name, and the girl turned, eyes wide but features calm.
“It’s my fate to burn, Gilene,” she said, and walked away with the slavers into a blinding, bloody sunset.
Gilene twitched awake with a strangled gasp. She blinked, bewildered by the blurry sight of horses and circular steps and bones. So many bones. Something lay heavy across her hip, and she glanced down to find a sun-browned hand flat against her abdomen. She tried to jerk away but was trapped by the pressure of that hand.
“Shh, Agacin. Be still. Be quiet. We don’t know if anyone is outside.”
Azarion. Ever present at her side. Relentless in his purpose. He was taking her farther and farther away from her village, farther and farther away from her ability to save Ilada and all the other women living in Beroe.
“I wish I were home,” she whispered.
A shift of long limbs and she felt his face press against her head. “We’re too far from your village to just set you on your horse and send you west. You’d be caught by the Nunari before you got half a league.”
She sniffled. “You’ll be the death of someone I love.”
He tensed behind her, and the steel in his deep voice returned. “I’ve been the death of many people others have loved, Agacin. I can carry the burden of one more.”
Gilene closed her eyes and willed back the tears, seeing once more the dream image of Ilada and her strangely tranquil features as the slavers led her away to burn as a Flower of Spring.
Whatever somnolence lingered when she had first opened her eyes burned to ash with the anger bubbling in her blood. She was in difficult straits now with only a slim hope based on a promise made by a man she didn’t trust. Alone on the steppe, and she’d be in worse danger from multiple sources. For now, her best hope in returning to Beroe lay with her captor.
Neither of them spoke as they both abandoned their bed, he to leave the barrow and scout the immediate vicinity, she to tend to her body’s demands. Her mare nickered a greeting as she passed, and Gilene paused long enough to stroke the necks of both horses. Fading sunlight pouring through the roof’s hole gilded their hindquarters, and nearby a puddle of rainwater had gathered in a shallow dip in the dirt floor, carved there by countless rainfalls.
Azarion had warned her they’d have rain during the day, and his prediction proved correct. She’d slept so deeply, she never heard the storm move in, though the air in the barrow smelled fresher than when they first entered.
She was laying out their meager food stores when Azarion returned. His handsome features were even grimmer than usual. “Campfires to the west of us. Likely a Nunari patrol or scouting party.”
The hollow feeling of hunger swirling in her belly gave way to the hollow feeling of fear. “Are you certain?”
He shook his head at her offer of an apple. “Certain enough not to linger. Eat and pack. I’ll lead the horses out to graze for a short time. I wanted to leave at twilight, but that camp smoke changes things. There’s another barrow town not far from here. We ride hard and hide there.”
She rose, appetite gone, despite his encouragement that she fill her belly. “What if they’re looking for us?” The food went back into the satchel, and she checked their sleeping spot to make sure nothing remained of their presence.
Azarion tossed the blankets over the horses’ backs, cinched saddles, and tied headstalls while he spoke. “They probably are. The rain has muddied our tracks or washed them away altogether, which is a boon for us, but the Nunari are good trackers.”
She followed him as he led the horses out of the barrow. Late- afternoon sunlight washed the steppe golden, and the wind was sharp and biting. Azarion pointed silently to the west, and she spotted smoke and the faint, far-off glow of fires.
“Are you sure we should wait for the horses to graze?” she asked, almost under her breath, fearful the wind might carry her words across the open landscape.
He tied the satchel she handed him to his saddle while the horses bent to graze on the silvery sagebrush growing amid the taller plumed grass. “We don’t have much of a choice. They’ll fight us the whole way if they’re too hungry. I can tell by the way you ride, you aren’t used to the saddle. A struggle between you and the mare? The mare will win. Let her eat. We can make up the time once we ride.”
To the east, she saw nothing but more of the open steppe with its occasional stand of trees. Whatever barrow town they rode for now, she couldn’t see it.
Azarion leaned over her shoulder and gestured to one of the larger clusters of woodland. “There, behind those trees, is the barrow town. Pray the Nunari don’t track us there.”
Gilene never prayed. “I thought you said most people avoid the gravesites.”
He gave another of those shrugs she found so annoying. “These are men with purpose and motivation. They’ll check the barrows.”
She shivered. “We’re targets in the open and prisoners in the barrows.”
He nodded. “Aye, but they won’t find us helpless.” He patted the two knives tied to his belt and raised the crossbow he held. “Unfortunate that I can’t kill them and take their horses. They would make fine gifts to the Savatar, who would be more willing to welcome us, but they’d slow us down.”
“You mean there’s a chance they won’t welcome a long-lost son with smiles and open arms?”
The hint of a smile flitted across his mouth, though his eyes remained somber as he watched the campfires. “You’ve a sharp tongue.”
Nerves and fear made her that way. “I’m surprised you haven’t yet cut it out.”
His expression turned severe. He gathered up the reins and coaxed the horses away from their feed with soft clicks of his teeth. “You’re safe with me, Agacin.”
She let him hoist her into the saddle, gritting her teeth at the ache in her protesting thighs. The reins felt heavy in her hands, her mare’s gait unforgiving as they galloped toward the next barrow town. And farther from home with every hoofbeat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They traveled the night at a gallop, resting the horses with brief periods of steady trotting. The ground was a quagmire in spots, softened by the hard rain earlier in the day, and through these they picked their way at a slug’s pace as they searched for drier ground. Azarion kept Gilene in his sights at all times. He’d seen the panicked look in her eyes as they packed their meager supplies and prepared to leave. That look harbored more than fear of the Nunari. She’d awakened from the throes of a dream that had her twitching in her sleep, crying, and calling out a name in anguish.
He shook off the pinpricks of guilt that had ridden him since they escaped from Midrigar. He sympathized with her fury, her resistance, even her hatred. She had helped him when he needed it most, even if she’d done so under duress. Abduction was no way to pay back a life debt, but his need for her hadn’t ended with his escape from the Pit. He needed her even more now, and as long as he could keep her from escaping him or plunging a dagger in his back the moment his guard was down, he’d deal with her hostility.
At the moment, she sat slumped in the saddle, holding the reins as her mare kept pace beside his own horse. She looked as ragged and beaten as he felt. He didn’t trust her any more than she trusted him, but he admired her. She persevered; she planned, and she negotiated at every opportunity, even when they both knew the odds were overwhelmingly in his favor. She might be subdued, but she wasn’t yet conquere
d. What little he knew of her character, he suspected such a thing might well be impossible.
Darkness was slowly retreating from the steppe when they reached the knot of trees obscuring more of the burial mounds. They stopped long enough to water the horses and refill the single flask at a wet weather stream swollen with rain that flowed through the middle of the woodland. Azarion kept one hand on his horse’s reins and the other on the loaded crossbow he carried. So far, the only sounds to reach his ears were those of bird whistles and the rustling of small creatures waking up to forage for their daily meal.
These barrows were smaller than the ones they left behind, and there were seven instead of three, set in a semicircle. Packed earth pathways led to a low doorway in each. A crumbling altar squatted in the middle of the semicircle, its stones black with the vanished remains of burnt offerings.
They left the mares ground-tied in a narrow lea between two of the barrows. The barrow entrances were too low for the horses to enter. Even their riders would have to crouch to keep from hitting their heads on the timber lintels.
Leaving the horses visible presented numerous problems, but it couldn’t be helped. At least if the Nunari found them, they’d have to enter the barrows on bent knees and one at a time, making the graves easily defendable—as long as no one broke through the roof or tried to smoke them out.
The barrow he chose for himself and Gilene followed the same construction style as its bigger counterpart. The witch hesitated at the entrance, taking a reluctant step to bend and peer inside. “Are you sure this is safe? What if there’s a wight hiding in this barrow? Just because the other one didn’t have one doesn’t mean they’re all unoccupied.”
She was right. He unsheathed both his knives and passed her in two swift strides. Her quick inhalation echoed behind him as he bent and entered the grave’s dim interior.
His shaman mother had taught him and his sister the value of protection circles against demons and the effectiveness of iron against wights. If one lingered in here, he’d know it soon enough and would make it think twice before trying to attack him.
Gilene’s pale features sharpened with annoyance when he emerged and blithely announced, “Empty. You can go in.”
“You didn’t have to scare me to death to prove your point,” she snapped.
Azarion tilted his head to one side, surprised by her irritation. Had she been frightened for him or just frightened in general? He mentally admonished himself for the frivolousness of the first notion. He shrugged. “You would have demanded no less from me to believe it. Come. We need to get inside.”
They set their meager belongings and tack just inside and to the left of the entrance, out of sight from any who might peer into the barrow’s interior. Enough wildlife, such as marmots and ground squirrels, populated these lands that he could easily trap enough to make a hearty meal, but he didn’t dare start a fire to even get warm, much less roast meat or boil water in one of the clay pots that still remained unbroken next to their deceased owners. They’d have to make do with the road rations he’d stolen. His stomach gurgled, the sound echoed by Gilene’s belly as she came to stand beside him at the barrow’s entrance.
Azarion fished an apple out of one of the packs, cutting it in half to share with her, along with the flask of cold water. “Eat and drink your fill,” he said. “There isn’t much, but cooking means smoke, and smoke is a signal, as you saw when we spotted the Nunari.”
She gnawed listlessly on her share of the apple for a moment. “Do you think they’ll find us?”
“Hard to say. We covered a good distance since last night, and it’s still early. Those whose campfires we saw are just now getting their camp in order and seeing to their mounts.”
“What about our horses? Surely, their hoofprints are easy to track.” Her eyes, heavy-lidded from lack of sleep, glittered with worry.
“Horse herds are plentiful here, as they are in Savatar territory. There isn’t a patch of ground on the steppe that doesn’t have a hoofprint on it, whether from one made by a riderless horse or one with a rider on its back. If the Nunari are looking for me, they’re searching for a man traveling alone. Two sets of tracks will puzzle them a little, though it won’t stop them.”
He made quick work of his share of their rations. His belly still growled, though the hunger pangs weren’t as sharp. Once they got closer to Savatar territory, he’d trap game and fill both their bellies. His companion finished her last bit of food, drank from the flask, and sat down just inside the entrance. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.
“I didn’t think I’d miss the traders so much,” she said. “Halani and Asil had a fine wagon.”
Azarion chuckled. “Hamod, for all that I wouldn’t trust him not to rob me blind and sink a knife in my gut for extra measure, takes good care of his folk.” He turned his gaze from the necropolis grounds outside to the barrow’s interior. “I suspect they’d know the value of every grave good still in here.”
Gilene frowned. “Do you think them grave robbers as well as free traders?”
“I know they are. Wooden beads and clay pots don’t fetch much at the markets, at least not enough to make it worthwhile fending off an angry wight. Free traders have an eye for what grave goods bring in a lot of coin. Hamod or any of his folk could tell just by walking this barrow exactly how much they’d get at market if its dead still wore their jewelry.”
Her expression turned contemplative. “I thought they seemed unusually prosperous for trading outside of Guild support.”
“It’s common knowledge that free traders live on the edge of starvation. Without the Guild, they can’t ply their trade on the Serpent, and to trade, you need goods. The barrow of a wealthy man can yield enough to feed a trader band for a month if they’re good barterers.”
“It makes sense. Hamod and his company were well-fed, their wagons and livestock in good order and healthy. And a starving band of free traders couldn’t afford to help us and share what little they had, even if they wanted to.”
“You disapprove?” He knew her to be resentful. It seemed she might be judgmental as well.
She sighed. “No,” she said, surprising him with her answer. “You do what you must to survive, and the dead have no care for such things anymore. Whom does it hurt if some long-dead chieftain’s wife no longer possesses her favorite earrings?”
He suppressed a smile, not wanting her to think he mocked her. She was a puzzle—prickly-sharp and unforgiving, devoted to her village to the point of blind obsession even as she resented them for forcing a terrible burden on her. Yet she was polite and grateful to those who helped them. Her mercy for her fellow victims at the Rites of Spring had prevented them from suffering by delivering a quick death, and she wore the marks of that mercy all over her body as reminders.
She had another question for him. “The new grave mound we saw when we camped with Hamod and his caravan . . . do you think they looted it?”
The image of Hamod’s avaricious expression and Halani’s dour one rose in his memory. There had been whisperings and meetings in the shadows, and the dull glint of moonlight on the steel scoop of a shovel. “I’d bet a good horse on it,” he said.
“It seems odd.” Azarion arched one eyebrow, and she clarified. “I remember Halani’s face when we first came across the grave. She looked like I feel every time the slavers come to Beroe for the tithe.”
He didn’t ask her to expand on her statement. He didn’t have to. She had told him in his cell in a voice thick with acrimony, I help enough already. That told him all he needed to know about her feelings regarding the annual journey to Kraelag.
“Have you any pain in your back or leg?”
Gilene pressed her palm to her thigh, her expression one of relief mixed with admiration. “I always heal from the price I pay to wield magic, but I’ve never recovered this fast. Halani’s healing skill
s are better than most.” She glanced down to his side. “I see they weren’t wasted on you either. Those cracked ribs should still be troubling you.”
The poultice Halani had applied to his ribs was meant only for the bruising yet went deeper than skin and sore muscle. He swore he had felt the bones knit themselves together. And Gilene was right. He should still be in agony with every breath he took. Riding would be a torture and sleeping on his back an impossibility. Yet he had done all three now with only a twinge to remind him of his injuries.
“I know little of healers and their ways,” he said. “But the trader woman knows what she’s doing. Should Hamod decide to stop robbing graves and whatever else he does to obtain his goods, he could sell Halani’s salves to keep them fed.”
Silence fell between them again, and Azarion turned his attention back to watching the steppe and listening for the sound of hoofbeats. For now, there was only the whisper of grass bent to the wind, and the lively buzzing of insects interrupted by the occasional birdcall.
“Tell me something,” she said. “The empress is known throughout the Empire for her cruelties, but you were a valuable slave. Hanimus said you were her favorite, so why inflict such punishment on you?”
Gilene’s unexpected question, asked in a voice soft with compassion, made his gut twist.
Over the years, Dalvila had done far more to Azarion than just beat him. His mind shied away from the worst memories, the worst degradations. The carnage in the Pit, with its blood-lusting crowds screaming endlessly for more slaughter, was gentle play compared to the brutality of the woman all of the Empire feared. The last six years of his captivity had been the most trying, and that horror he would lay at the empress’s dainty feet. The only thing that had stopped him from killing her long ago was his absolute resolve in regaining his freedom. To kill her was to die himself, and he wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.