Though when she unrolls the page farther, there are many accounts of things gone wrong. Hulls crashed upon rocks. Sailors lost to the sea. Lusca attacking the boats that did not bring passengers willing to become a meal.
“This is Harta’s hand?” Khosa asks, raising her eyes to Winlan.
“Aye, and some that came after. Our ancestor took what he built with him, but left these behind so that we might follow if we wished.”
“Have others gone in his path?” Sallin asks.
Winlan shakes his head. “None, as of yet.”
“As of yet?” Khosa repeats, pushing for more.
Winlan shifts in his chair uncomfortably. “There was no reason to go, was there? Harta and those who went with him were never heard from again. They were either brave or very foolish, and none in Hygoden have seen fit to put their skin on the wager of which. But of late . . .”
“Of late war has come,” Khosa finishes for him. “And the earth shakes.”
Sallin reaches for a scroll, unrolling it fully. He is quiet for a moment as his eyes dart across it, reading. “As you say, we came here knowing of Harta, though his story was one kept in the shadows. What is written here could save all of Stille, at least those who could be persuaded upon a deck. The queen has a fair hand. Would you allow her to copy these, so that we may build ships such as your ancestors did?”
Winlan face twists into a wry smile, the first she’s seen from him. “I knew well what’s in the scrolls would be no shock to you, but Hygoden holds something you’ve not seen, for sure.”
“And what is that?” asks Donil, his brow creased as he speaks for the first time since entering Winlan’s home.
The big man shrugs, his nonchalance belying his words. “I’ve already built a ship.”
CHAPTER 38
Witt
The plate in front of me is empty, my belly full. The glass I drink from is refilled the moment I empty it, and wine flows freely to all who sit around me at the table. The capture of the Indiri has raised the spirits of everyone who shares my evening meal, and their mood is high. Once the king of Stille knows she is ours, his army will come—and be crushed.
“What little training they have will do them no good,” Hadduk says, spearing a bite of fish on his plate. “They are poor soldiers to begin with, who will be drawn out from their own lands and tired from travel. We’ll make quick work of them.”
There’s a murmur of agreement among those gathered, the Pietran Elders and a small group of Feneen, one of whom has three eyes and avails himself of all of them while eating, two rolling in their sockets to take in whoever is speaking, and one with an eye on his food. I look away, remembering Pravin’s advice about taking a Feneen wife to secure our bond with the outcasts. My former Mason had argued for Nilana as a mate, saying that even if I chose not to bed her, I’d at least have a wife I could sit across from at table and still stomach a meal.
I can’t help but think that Pravin had a point, as my eyes drift to another Feneen, whose mouth is in his chest and not his face. The man eats cleanly, with no mess down his front. But seeing food and drink disappear into the tooth-lined hole makes the wine I drank shift uncomfortably, so my gaze wanders to a nicer sight.
Nilana laughs at something Hadduk whispers into her ear, tossing her head back so that the servant who feeds her has to sidestep out of the way. Not for the first time, I feel a twinge of regret that I did not take Nilana up on her straightforward offer to warm my bed. I reach for another drink, to wash away the weaknesses that make me an unfit Lithos.
“There is no doubt that our soldiers can best them, be they Pietra or Feneen,” an Elder says, raising a glass to the trio of Feneen who share the table. “But what of their queen? Shall we draw them from their beaches only to have her bring our own waters down upon our heads?”
The question prompts renewed muttering, side conversations born all around the table that create a hum in the air, one that doesn’t rest well on my ears. Pravin—or even Ank—would have stopped the talk with a strong word, but my tongue is heavy with wine and my Mason more interested in Nilana than the proceedings of the room.
The Keeper leans over my shoulder to refill my cup. It is full before I think to cover it with a hand to stop her.
“This queen,” a Feneen asks. “What do we know of her? Who is she that she can command water?”
A fresh wave of voices crests, and I close my eyes against the arguments that meet in midair: that she is a Seer of particular strength, a Feneen raised in the walls of Stille as a weapon, an unspotted Indiri.
“The Indiri have only earth magic. They hold no power over the sea,” says a loud voice that stops all others. I open my eyes to discover I am the one who spoke, and all have turned to me.
“Paid a visit to the dungeon, have you?” Hadduk asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a way I do not like.
“No,” I say curtly. “I opened a history. You might try it sometime, as opposed to a woman’s thighs.”
Raucous laughter bursts out, Hadduk’s among them.
“Ah, but there’s much to be learned in both places,” the Mason rejoins, to renewed laughter.
“What has the Indiri said?” an Elder asks.
“Nothing in the common tongue,” I answer.
“If she is close to the king, surely she speaks it,” the Elder continues. “And knows much that could be of use to us.”
“Surely,” I agree. “Yet as she came to us nearly dead, I thought it wise to allow the girl time to heal. I cannot entice the Stillean king to march his army into a losing battle only to recover a corpse.”
“Truth,” agrees the three-eyed Feneen, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth.
“There are ways to make her talk and yet live,” another Elder says.
“Who do you think you speak to?” Hadduk’s voice rises along with his color, his temper closer to the surface the more wine he drinks. “The Lithos can make the girl not only talk but sing, and in tongues none of you have heard before, should he choose.”
“Bide, Mason,” I say calmly, and Hadduk glowers into his cup.
“I don’t doubt the Lithos can create songs of pain,” says the three-eyed Feneen. “But I have met the Indiri, and I do not think her voice will join his choir.”
Silence settles at this, and all look to me. Many thoughts are at odds in my head, wild horses that bump against one another to careen off cliffs.
“I could make the Indiri talk, should I choose,” I say carefully. “But there is little to be gained from that. What do we need to know of Stille? That they are poor soldiers, and we stronger? That dragging them from their city will be like pulling a lazy worm from a hole, to chop into bits at our leisure? We know this. I’ll take skin from her to send to Stille, and if she chooses to say a thing or two while my knife works, I’ll listen.”
“She won’t,” the Feneen says. “And I’d keep a steady hand on that knife.”
“The Lithos knows how to wield a blade, Feneen,” Hadduk growls, and Nilana catches my eye.
“Enough talk of the Indiri,” I say, taking another drink to settle my nerves. “Is this a gathering of Pietra, that one girl raises strife between us?”
“It is not only Pietra here,” an Elder says. “What world is this that a Feneen has set eyes upon a weapon my Lithos would wield, and yet I have not?”
Many cups rise at the comment, all of them held by Elder hands. Hadduk grips his fork so that his knuckles whiten, wine making anyone a target for his anger, be they Pietra or Feneen. I lift my palm for silence and tilt my head back toward the Keeper, the motion making it feel as if the horses in my head had all fallen into a tangle of legs and teeth.
“The girl could be brought up,” the Keeper says quietly into my ear. “The poison is mostly leeched from her, but her bones are not yet mended.”
“See to it,” I say to her, and she is go
ne in a rustle of skirts.
“The Indiri will come among you,” I tell the people gathered at my table, and I can’t help but notice that the three-eyed Feneen pulls his dagger from its sheath in preparation.
CHAPTER 39
Dara
I’ve slipped into a small sleep, all that I’ve allowed myself for however long I’ve been here. Under the rocks, there is no sun or moon to gauge time. A fever had tugged at the edges of my thought in the beginning, melding my ancestors’ memories with my own, so that I did not know if I was myself or my mother, a woman long dead or one only about to be so. I awoke in darkness, slick with the sweat of a broken fever, and not knowing where I was until my hand fell upon cold rock.
There is a lantern in the hall, its solid glow steadier than Gaul’s torch. I hear the light step of the Hyllenian woman and let my fists unclench. She exchanges a quick word with the jailer, their tones too low for my ears to hear. My door is unlocked, and the Keeper enters, Gaul on her heels. She lifts the lantern as if to see me better, but I think Hyllen does not make fools and she would have the fire out of my reach.
“Have you mended, Indiri?”
“Somewhat,” I tell her. The word is full in my mouth, for I have not spoken since she left me last, however long ago it was. The sound of my own voice is harsh on my ears, and I curl against it, jarring the bones in my side.
The Keeper sees, and frowns. “Can you stand?”
“Is there reason to?” I ask.
“You’re called before the Lithos,” Gaul says. “Whether you go crawling as before or on your feet is your choice.”
Though I would tear the jailer limb from limb if I could, there is no denying that I did indeed crawl before the Lithos upon our first meeting. I will not do so again. I lean heavily against the wall, but get my feet under me, though it takes everything I have not to cry out as I straighten, the mending bones in my side straining against the bind the Keeper placed there.
She leans closer to see my face, having to bend. Which means that I do not stand straight as of yet. I grit my teeth and straighten my spine. Fresh agony shoots through me, but I see the hint of a smile on the Keeper’s face.
“I’ll stand before the Lithos,” I say.
We leave Gaul behind, in the darkness that suits him best. The stairs almost pull a cry from me as I ascend, each step a fresh stab in my side. The Keeper takes my elbow, and I lean on her, short of breath by the time we reach a lit corridor.
“Listen now,” she says, voice low as she pushes hair back from my face. “The Lithos is at last meal with his Mason, the Elders, and a handful of Feneen. All have had a bit to drink, and tempers are frayed. The Pietra who have never seen an Indiri demanded you be brought forth.”
“Am I so entertaining?” I ask, as she licks the edge of her wide sleeve and uses it to clean my face.
“The sight of you is enough,” she says. “You need not make a spectacle.”
“A sleeping Tangata is only a cat until it is poked,” I tell her. “Then it becomes something else.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But you’ll become dead if you don’t heed me.”
I grunt my understanding as she leads me down the hall. I can smell fish on the air, and hot bread with sea salt. I’ve been fed, but what’s made it into my cell is first pawed over by Gaul, and I had to balance hunger against disgust when I saw my last crust of bread had a thin line of spittle down the middle. My mouth waters as she takes me into the hall, but hunger is soon forgotten, along with pain, when I see the assembly.
They sit at a table like a horseshoe, the Lithos at the crest and myself in the opening. I face him squarely, but take in those on both sides of him. The Mason—a new one, I note—sits next to the Lithos, Nilana beside him. My lip curls at the sight of her, remembering how she laughed when the Feneen left the field of battle before Stille, Gammal dying in her wake. She eyes me now as well, one brow lifting as if she were still amused.
Beside her are more Feneen, one of whom I recognize. I nod to the three-eyed man who shared my fire while I made myself scarce from the city. “Filj,” I say, when my mind lights upon his name.
“Indiri.” He nods in return, pleased that I remember him.
The other arm of the table holds the Pietran Elders, though what passes for an Elder here would be in the prime of youth in Stille. I see few gray hairs, and no bent backs. I have stood too long, and my bones feel as if they slip past my skin, growing like plants toward daylight.
“Now you’ve seen me,” I say, pushing strength into my voice that I do not feel. “Is the last of the Indiri to be paraded for curious eyes? Or am I brought forth for a reason?”
“The Lithos can bring you forth and put you back at his will, Indiri,” says the Mason, his face flush with drink.
“You’ve not been Mason long,” I say. “Nor will you be, should I come close.”
“Oh, come close, Indiri maiden, do,” the Mason says, rising to his feet and beckoning me. “Though have a wash first.”
Laughter comes at me from all sides, and what little blood I have in me rises to my face, that I should be mocked in this company. Filj does not join, I notice. Oddly, neither does Nilana.
“A wash and a blade,” I say to the Mason. “Give me both, that I may end your jests cleanly.”
I mimic a blade swipe, though it hurts, and am rewarded with laughs from more than a few, the Elders among them.
“You have the common tongue,” one of them says.
“I do.”
“And the ear of the king of Stille?”
I hesitate, eyeing each in turn. I saw the Lithos on the Stillean beach and remember him well. My gaze lands on his, and I see that he knows me too. No sense denying Vincent, since I fought by his side in full view.
“I know the king, yes,” I say, returning my eyes to the Elder who spoke.
“How thoroughly?” the Mason asks, mimicking a rutting animal with his hips.
My hand goes for the crossed swords on my back, though I know they are not there, and the Mason laughs more loudly than before.
“Enough!” A voice that demands heed cuts through the air, silencing the growing chorus of laughter. The Lithos rises in his seat, somewhat unsteadily.
“The Indiri is a prisoner, yes. But you forget she is a warrior too, one who would have cut through many a Pietra had she met our ranks on the beach. The Pietra honor nothing more than courage on the field of battle, which she has shown. Speak to her as you would a soldier, Hadduk, or do not speak to her at all.”
The Mason inclines his head to the Lithos, and an Elder clears his throat.
“The men who captured you said you killed a Lusca?”
“I was not captured,” I tell him, watching as the Lithos eases back into his chair, one hand on the table to steady himself. “Your men came upon me sick unto death. If they had met me in my health, they would not have known me long.”
“Were you badly injured?”
I turn toward Nilana’s voice, and she has the gall to smile at me.
“Come down from the table and find out,” I tell her.
“A woman with no legs against one with no weapons,” she says, turning to Hadduk. “How do you wager?”
His answer is lost as a Feneen speaks, his voice coming deep from his chest. “We are told you fight like a man.”
“I fight like an Indiri,” I say. “No man among you can face me and stand.”
“And no Pietra can hear a challenge while seated,” a young Elder erupts, throwing his cup to the table. Wine splashes, drenching the plates of those around him. I crouch, ready, arm against my injured side. I’ll call the drunken lot of them to me one by one, until it is only the Lithos and myself in a room of dead bodies, with me ready to make one more. The Elder has one foot on the table, ready to leap at me, while another man hangs from his side to stop him.
“I
s this Pietra, Lithos?” I hear Filj’s voice behind me. “Where an injured girl is dragged to fight a man unarmed, while others look on in drunkenness? Is this whom the Feneen allied themselves with?”
“I was not dragged,” I say through clenched teeth. “As for where your allegiance lies, that choice is made. Do not take my side in this, for I am not on yours.”
A few Elders slap their hands against the table in agreement.
“You’d be wise to take friends where you can find them, in a room full of enemies.” The Lithos’s voice is distinctive, though I do not turn my back on the Elder who stands ready to fight me.
“I’d set Nylos against you if I thought you were up to the task,” he goes on. “But as it stands—”
“I stand,” I interrupt him.
“What?” There’s a slur in his voice, a disbelief that I will not accept the opening he left for me, the chance to avoid a fight with the Elder who fairly quivers at the chance to lunge for me.
“I stand,” I repeat. “Any Indiri on their feet can best a Pietra. Especially this one.” I sniff at Nylos, who by all appearances may be a good fighter indeed. But I took each man’s measure when I came in the room, and this one won’t take an insult. Neither will the Lithos let me fight unarmed.
“Give me a blade,” I say. “And I’ll show you what an Indiri can do.”
Many rise to fill my hand. They are Pietra, and though I could say much against them, they know the rush of blood in a fight and wish to see one now. I choose the man nearest me, an Elder who holds a fine blade. I balance it in my hand, take a few moments to adjust to the heft of a Pietran sword, the reach of it longer than my own, the pommel a touch heavier, the grip long melded with this man’s hand. I swipe at the air with my good arm, ignoring the sear of pain across my body.
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