by Sam Hawke
Hadrea responded with a hunger that surprised me. She returned the kiss, winding her fingers in the back of my hair. In a haze of dizzying warmth I staggered to my feet, pulling her close against me. I couldn’t think. Sensations flooded me: the faint saltiness of her skin, the spring of her hair against my cheek, her smooth, strong back beneath my palms, the soft pressure of her breasts against my chest.
“Wait,” I said, breaking the kiss and holding her by the hips, a safer distance from me. “Tain…”
Her eyes were almost black as she took my hands in hers. Looking at her made me hurt, like there was too much air in my lungs and too much blood in the skin of my face. “He is sleeping,” she said. “Let him rest for a while.”
Then she moved my hands around to the curve of her backside and stepped back into my arms.
Driven by desire and relief and fortunes knew what else, we stumbled backward out of Tain’s bedchamber and into the sitting room, our steps clumsy as we worked our way over to the window seat. She pushed me against it, coming down on top of me. We got half-caught in the drapery, and she laughed. The feel of her smile through her kisses was intoxicating. Her bare legs straddled me and it felt like the most natural thing in the world, even as part of me recognized the strangeness of this moment. But perhaps for the first time ever, I shut off my brain and gave in to the feeling of her.
* * *
She lay in my arms for a time afterward, her long, beautiful body tangled limb around limb, her hair spread over my chest and her head resting in the curve of my shoulder. I stared up at the ceiling. One part of me reveled in what we had just shared; another stirred yet with desire. But guilt twisted inside me as well, a cold coil of doubt for abandoning my post at Tain’s side, for indulging in something purely selfish when my friend battled for his life.
Her breath tickled my chest as she sighed, and when she tilted her chin and looked up at me through her lashes, I saw no conflict in her face. She stretched, grunted, and pushed away from me, shifting awkwardly.
“You wonder why I make fun of your clothing,” she told me, her voice a touch throatier than usual, laced with a purr of satisfaction. “These knots, they are not meant for lying on.”
We had come together in such a flurry, the limit of our undressing had been to crumple her dress and my tunic up around our waists. Now that she mentioned it, I, too, felt the uncomfortable pressure of the knot of my cording against my back. I helped her sit up, though part of me was disappointed at the loss of the sensation of her body against mine. That disappointment surprised me. I had never before been able to sleep comfortably with another person, unable to properly rest with the asymmetrical body contact. Yet despite the awkward position we had lain in, I’d felt no compulsion to extract myself.
“Unwrapping of the cords is part of the experience,” I said. “It can be romantic. You can make a dance of it.”
She laughed. “Well, let us do this in reverse. Help me?”
She stood, graceful, and offered the knot in the small of her back to me. Trying not to be distracted by the sight of her long, naked legs and the half-visible curve of her backside, I untied the knot and unwound the red cord from around her waist and chest. The dress fell back down around her like a nightgown, but I could still see the shape of her through the soft fabric. I helped her rewrap and tie the cording, counting in my head to try to suppress my reaction to even the brushes of contact.
Hadrea appeared to suffer no such affliction. She stretched, ran her fingers through her hair, and looked me over with an indulgent smile. She tugged my tunic back into place and took my hand. “We should check on the Chancellor.”
We found him still asleep, but restless again, mumbling and shaking. I checked and noted his signs again; his temperature felt almost normal. In our haste we had knocked over the chair by the bed, so I bent to pick it up, and noticed then something under the bed—a small stack of papers, partially concealed by the overhanging bedding.
“What is that?” Hadrea asked as I picked it up.
“Notes on some things to offer the rebels. Ideas for reparations, that sort of thing.” I smiled; Kalina had worked on this, thinking it was futile—I couldn’t wait to show her the truth. I set the papers down, then noticed markings on the reverse side of one page. It took my brain a few moments to register what I was looking at. Tiny lines and dots in rows, familiar yet unfamiliar; Etan’s code.
“You know I cannot read,” Hadrea said, peering over my shoulder. “But that does not look like your writing.”
“It’s not,” I said, and my voice came out so cold and distant it was like it came from another person. “It’s my sister’s.”
Bloodroot
DESCRIPTION: Root tuber with attractive bright green foliage similar to other edible tuber vegetables; the leaves and stems are mildly toxic and the enlarged tuber is dark reddish-brown and poisonous.
SYMPTOMS: Intense stomach pain, repeated vomiting, exhaustion.
PROOFING CUES: Will discolor other food products; unpleasant strong, mealy taste.
20
Kalina
Breath burning in my tight lungs, I stumbled off the edge of the road and into the shelter of another collection of rocks. I rested against the scratchy lichen, legs too weak to lower myself to the ground. Dawn cast a pale pink-gold sheen over the plains and glinted on the distant river, giving everything an ethereal glow. I couldn’t appreciate a moment of it. The plains had become my enemy.
I had worked so hard over the past year to strengthen my lungs. Though my illnesses would always be part of me, I had swum and climbed and run the tournament courses, and improved my fitness and strength as much as was physically possible. But it counted for nothing. I couldn’t run to the army. I couldn’t even run for a single night. My pace had slowed to a jog and then a walk and eventually a stumble. My breath came in short gasps and my legs ached. The journey to the mining outpost in the southern mountains took three days by boat, upstream, in good conditions. By foot, even running the whole way, I couldn’t imagine getting to the army in less than a week. Maybe too late to save the city.
I had found the south road in the dark, more by chance than design, and by that stage the uneven ground, dotted with rocks and twisted, tough bushes, had given me enough grief to bear the risk and take the road instead. I had seen no one on my desperate journey. But my risk of exposure rose with the sun. On the other hand, going cross-country made it easier to lose my way and lose more time, not to mention turn an ankle or trip. In any case, the Maiso limited any serious cover. I peered over the rocky outcrop, searching the distance for signs of movement. Nothing.
Or was there? Up ahead, just where the road twisted, there was movement—a tiny flutter. I ducked back behind the rock, heart thudding again.
The rocks provided no proper shelter. If someone approached from up the road, I would have to shift around to stay out of sight. With still-shaking legs and sweaty palms, I braved another look over the rocks, this time from a different position.
And then I almost laughed. From this angle the edge of a pole was visible; I’d been frightened by a road marker. The relief flooding my senses gave me new energy, and with a small sip of water from my flask, I continued up the road.
The flag blew away from me in the wind, so I was almost upon it before the symbol was apparent. Even then, gazing up, I furrowed my brow. A white flag struck in the center with a raggedy black mark, like a dark, gaping mouth. The symbol for plague, instantly recognizable anywhere in the world. Had the villages ahead been struck by plague?
It took my exhausted brain some time to understand. We’d wondered how our other cities had been cut off, how someone, anyone, had not seen the siege and sent word to the army, either out of loyalty, charity, or a hope of reward. Here was the answer. The rebels had marked out the roads and spread word of a plague in the city, to delay any potential travelers and prevent outsiders learning about the siege. No wonder there had been no help for the city from any front. Plague signs w
ould keep any visitors far enough from the capital that they wouldn’t see the besieging army; they might even deter our own army from returning. Honor-down, even if we somehow came through this thing, it would take months to convince the world the city was safe again. Our trade interests would be crippled. Perhaps our enemies had thought of that, too, as a secondary way of striking at the city if the siege failed.
Well, fail it would not, if I didn’t get word to Aven. My legs might ache and my lungs might weaken, but what would that matter if my home and everything I loved was destroyed?
Green Bend, more a hamlet than a real village, sprang into sight around midmorning. Panting, I hobbled off the road and found a protected vantage point among the prickly glibflowers to survey the route ahead. By wagon, Green Bend took half a day. The pace encouraged me, although I’d never be able to sustain it.
It seemed there were only half a dozen people in the hamlet: a few children playing in the square with a woven cane ball, an elderly woman outside a hut, head bent over her sewing, and one or two people working the field at the far side. Many of the crofts appeared deserted. Presumably everyone able-bodied had joined the siege. Still, giving the place a wide berth should avoid detection.
But just as I was about to move on, something caught my attention. At the close end of the field, behind a thick hedge, was the wide back of an oku. The big animal grazed there untended, its thick neck bent low as it ate. There must have been something wrong with it; surely the army would have taken all the useful animals. Yet my protesting legs twinged, jabbing at me, and I bit my lip, watching as the animal moved about. Circling dangerously close to the hamlet, I came down the slope. My heart hammered as I approached the thorny hedge and the sensible part of my brain screamed a warning. I’d barely started the journey, and yet already risked detection. My legs moved as if by their own volition until I could peer over the dense, spiky bush to get a proper look.
The oku looked fine. It walked about as it ate, its powerful legs showing no signs of injury. But an animal, even a healthy, easy-to-handle one like an oku, was no good to me on its own. I shuffled along behind the hedge, keeping a look out for any of the villagers, moving toward the rough shelter at the east end of the field. Sweat ran down the back of my neck, under my clothes, like a slimy finger of dread. The gate was in plain sight of at least three buildings, any of which could be occupied. The faint cries and laughter of the children playing were audible. I dropped low and crept around to the east side of the hedge.
For the first few steps the back of a building blocked me from the rest of the village. But it meant crossing into the open to reach the gate—three or four steps of exposure. I took a breath and scurried across toward the gate, mouth dry.
I saw no one in the string of buildings as I fumbled for the latch on the gate. A surge of optimism sped my fingers and I slipped through the gate and around the hedge. Sharp twigs tickled my back as I waited, eyes screwed shut, expecting a cry of alarm, the sound of approach.…
Nothing.
I opened my eyes. At the other side of the field, the big, shaggy beast regarded me solemnly. A bird chirped from the hedge. Children still laughed and shrieked in the distance. No other sounds marred the warm morning. The blue of the sky set off the green hedges and the speckled, flowering fields in the distance. Could I be so lucky?
Perhaps the fortunes did favor me today, because the rough shelter in the corner of the field housed a light wagon—not a proper passenger vehicle, but a cane cart for transporting supplies around the farms. I knew enough about animals to know oku weren’t suitable for riding, but they’d happily pull a cart. A leather harness hung at the back of the shelter. Perfect. I approached the oku and, conscious of my unfamiliarity with animals, held out one hand in a hopefully nonthreatening manner.
The animal glanced up, liquid eyes huge in its wide face, and to my relief it stood still and allowed me to place the harness over its shoulders and back with shaking hands. The oku followed me, placid, all the way to the edge of the field, and held still as I dragged the cart over. It clipped easily to the harness, and the oku shrugged and shifted until it settled into place. When it came to getting out of the field, though, my heart started hammering again and my fingers trembled on the harness. I opened the gate, wincing at the squeak even though it was barely audible over the wind, and then led the animal through, blood pounding in my head.
Still, my luck held. No cry of alarm sounded. I led the oku around the corner of the hedge, back to the unexposed side of the town, and let out my breath, sick with relief.
And then I saw him.
Standing at the far corner of the hedge, an elderly man was propped on a stick, staring directly at me. My hand fell from the oku and my insides clenched, but my feet somehow stuck in place. I couldn’t breathe.
We stared at each other for a long moment—I couldn’t have said how long, because it felt like a slow torture as the world closed in around me—before he slowly walked toward me. Run, I told myself. Forget the oku. But my stubborn, tired legs just stayed there as if someone else controlled them. I could outrun an old man, but he’d only have to send someone after me. It’s over either way.
He stopped close enough that the patchwork of puffs and wrinkles covering his face and the slumps of skin on his neck were visible. His eyes glittered, wide and deep. He was all one color: skin, eyes, and hair the same tawny brown. Darfri charms, worn with age, dangled from the crinkles of his neck. I opened my mouth to say something. Anything, any lie, something to disguise my theft of the oku and my flight from the city.
The man’s lips tightened as he looked me over. I must have been a sight, with ill-fitting clothes, snarled hair, and terror on my sweat-slicked face. The stick he held was not a walking stick but a scythe, with the blade facing down, hidden as he approached. He lifted it, and the morning sun caught the glint of wicked, curved metal. The flash sent a jab of terror inside me so strong it felt like he’d struck me with it.
For a few more heartbeats we regarded each other. Then, slowly, the man lowered the scythe. His gaze followed it to the ground. At last, I found my legs, backing away outside the reach of the tool. He looked up again and this time there was sadness and pity in his old face. Then, with deliberate gentleness, the man turned and walked in the opposite direction.
I hesitated, looking at his retreating back and then at the cart. Waves of relief drowned my thinking. Why was he letting me go? He wasn’t raising the alarm, and he hadn’t even taken the oku. I didn’t understand. You don’t have to understand. Just go!
I snatched up the oku’s reins and clucked her along. “Come on,” I whispered as it followed me. “Come on, girl. We need to get out of here.” Still the old man walked, not even glancing back over his shoulder. The oku finally took my frantic cues and picked up its pace to a heavy trot; the cart jolted along behind us on the uneven ground as we headed up the southwest slope. As the gradient steepened the oku slowed, then stopped altogether when we reached the top. It dropped its head and seized a mouthful of a thick, fleshy plant. Little yellow flowers got caught on the beast’s hairy lips as it munched, ignoring my pleas. I glanced back down the slope toward Green Bend.
The old man stood at the edge of the field, watching me, still as the hedge behind him. Not knowing quite what to think or do, I raised a hand, still shaking, in something of a wave. After a moment, the man inclined his head, then turned away, carrying his scythe, back to his work.
Geraslin ink
DESCRIPTION: Formerly popular ink made in part from charcoal and nuts of the hardy geras tree. Fumes released from ink reacting with air and light over time are toxic in poorly ventilated areas.
SYMPTOMS: Light-headedness, confusion, tiredness, loss of balance.
PROOFING CUES: Distinctive pleasant, musty smell indicates the gas is still active.
21
Jovan
Anger and fear swamped me. Making my way to the south river gate, all I could think about, all that played over and o
ver in my head, were images of my sister meeting one of a dozen horrible fates. Drowned in the river—with her weak lungs, how could she have hoped to make it under the gate? Picked off by an arrow from the other side, or ours. Caught on foot and given the same treatment as our original runners. That was the worst image, the one that made my stomach rise up into my throat. Kalina’s head in a sack, burying her wrapped in anonymous cloth like the remains of our messengers. Perhaps Hadrea’s beliefs were rubbing off on me, because now the idea of my sister losing safe passage to the afterlife kept spinning through my head.
And through all my questioning of the guards there, my head rang with the worst emotion of all—crippling, bone-deep guilt. I had failed her. The one person I was always supposed to protect. My absorption with the poisoning had obscured the warning signs. She had been desperate with grief for Tain, whom she had loved since childhood, and instead of giving her comfort or even attention, all I had done was allocate her tasks like a servant and gone off to solve my problem, oblivious to her pain like the emotionless fool our peers had often accused me of being. I knew how important it was to her to feel visible, yet I had disregarded her, not valued her enough.
Now my sister was almost certainly dead, and I could never, ever forgive myself.
No one had seen Kalina; at least no one from our side had shot her in the water by accident. But even if she somehow hadn’t drowned—and there flashed another terrible image of her caught skewered beneath the river gate, body flapping in the current, hair streaming out like a cloud—chances were she’d been spotted and killed or captured by the rebels on the shore.
She must have been so frightened. My fury at myself surged even higher. Her head in a sack, and it’s my fault.
But another colder part of me whispered blame somewhere else, as well. Not just my fault, but Tain’s, too. Marco and I had argued repeatedly that we should send more runners, especially after the lower city had fallen, but Tain, burned by our first attempt, had continued to refuse. He had disregarded Kalina’s plan even though it would have been sound if a strong swimmer and runner had executed it. I’d thought him motivated by compassion and, though I had disagreed, had respected his principles. Now it just seemed like weakness, a desire to protect himself from the responsibility of terrible deaths. Hadn’t he always tried to avoid responsibility? Wasn’t that, too, the reason he was lying deathly injured, when listening to me would have prevented that?