by Resa Nelson
Vinchi withdrew a second iron practice weapon from his belt and handed it to Astrid.
Despite her suspicions, she took it, grateful for the elegant feel of its grip and appreciating the fine balance of the weapon.
“We can’t stay here forever. If the clerks are moving on, then more people will be on the roads, which is what we should be doing. The two of you aren’t ready to progress to iron, but I fear it’s more important for us to do whatever is necessary to prepare for the journey ahead.” Vinchi cleared his throat. “I’m taking you to my family home in the Far Southlands. My relatives can protect you—”
“Margreet, you mean.” Astrid put the waster to one side and gripped the iron weapon. A dragonslayer’s sword provided a long grip for both hands, but this shorter sword forced the hands to jam close together, which she found odd and disconcerting. “How do you think your family will react when you show up with another man’s wife?”
Vinchi flushed and he stuttered. “I will explain the danger she faces from her husband. They will understand.”
Astrid studied him closely but he avoided her steady gaze. “I think they’ll understand far more than you wish.”
Vinchi faced Astrid. He positioned himself with his back to Margreet as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “What else can I do? Desert her and you both?”
Astrid held the iron practice sword out to one side and leaned slightly on it. “Did you know that in the Northlands, the law allows a woman to break ties with her husband if she feels mistreated by him?”
Vinchi shrugged, his face slack with misery. “But Margreet is no Northlander.”
“Did you know that any woman who chooses to live in the Northlands is bound by its laws? And that if a woman moves to the Northlands, she can draw upon any law that suits her. Immediately.”
Vinchi shook his head, unconvinced. “But what about Gershon? He would follow us and—”
“And in a town like Guell, everyone would stand by her side. Just like everyone would stand by your side if you were her husband.”
Vinchi’s jaw slackened in surprise, and he had the look of a deer finding itself caught in the sight of an archer.
“She could break her marriage simply by gathering witnesses at the foot of her marriage bed—any bed will do, in this case, I think—and announce her break with Gershon. She could marry you whenever she wants. Even on the same day.” Astrid paused. “From what DiStephan told me of your homeland, I believe you have no such laws. I believe that once a woman marries, she must stay with her husband for life and cannot marry again, even if her husband dies.”
Vinchi looked away quickly, as if Astrid had secretly discovered he’d been thinking about all these things.
“But that is not a problem if we all go to Guell,” Astrid said quietly.
They stood in the flickering candlelight of the practice room, watching Margreet while she joyfully swung a weapon of iron against an imaginary foe.
CHAPTER 57
“Awaken.”
The familiar voice sounded distant. Wendill shifted in his sleep. Every joint and muscle ached. He’d been sleeping in the same position too long.
Gradually, Wendill began to notice the sounds of bare branches groaning as they rubbed against each other. Birds chirped to claim their territory. The smell of damp earth surrounded him, and his mouth tasted of chalk and dust. He shivered at the chill that permeated his body.
Wendill remembered. When Norah fell into the Dragon’s Well at Limru, he curled himself around the mouth of the well, transforming himself into a rock dragon of his own making to seal and protect the well throughout winter. Now came the time to wake up and transform his stone body back into flesh and muscle and blood.
His wakefulness increased. Wendill poured his thought into his body, willing the transition. On Dragon’s Head, he’d been trapped until the sacrifice of the Scalding had broken the barrier embedded in the stone surrounding him, but here Wendill’s transformation could come easily.
He reached far underground with his awareness, searching until he sensed thin ribbons of water. He called to them through the earth and drew them into his body. Slowly, his stone-being softened and transformed.
He uncurled his body from the mouth of the Dragon’s Well, mindful of the aches and pains resulting from a long period of immobility. Once straightened, he rose slowly from his hands and knees to face the one who had called him to awaken. “Taddeo.”
His fellow dragon stood and gazed beyond the Dragon’s Well at the Temple of Limru, whose branches sprouted yellow-green leaf buds. They gave the temple a warm glow. “The last time I was here,” Taddeo said, “this place had been desecrated in blood. I did not expect you and Norah to restore it.”
“We did nothing.” Wendill remembered having tucked his clothing into the hollow place of a tree. Within moments he found it and got dressed. “This is how we found the temple when we arrived.”
Taddeo’s jaw slackened in astonishment. Wendill smiled. Few had the ability to surprise Taddeo, and Wendill relished this moment, already thinking how he’d remember it fondly for many years to come. After all, Taddeo had always been the one who seemed to know everything, and very little escaped his notice.
“But there was an agreement,” Taddeo sputtered, now distressed. “No dragon would ever clean up the blood spilled by man in a sacred place.”
Wendill’s smile widened. “No dragon did.”
Taddeo paused, squinting while trying to make sense of it.
Even though Wendill enjoyed toying with Taddeo, experience had proven that such enjoyment tasted sweetest when short lived. “Norah detected evidence of the Scalding. We believe she restored the temple.”
“Astrid?”
“Norah found her scent everywhere. In the trees, on the grounds, around the fire pit where bodies were burned. It must have been the Scalding.”
Wendill loved the Temple of Limru at this time of year. Although the tall treetop branches still formed a canopy covering the temple, sunlight streamed through, coaxing new blades of grass to shoot through the temple floor, along with early purple and white flowers of spring. In just another week or so the branches would leaf out and shade the temple throughout the day. This time—this day—felt like transformation at its best.
“Where is Norah?”
Wendill stepped toward the polished stone edge of the mouth he’d protected throughout the winter and looked down into the well. He’d pushed Norah into the empty well to keep her protected, and now her body floated vertically in clear water.
Startled by the sight, Wendill dove toward the well’s edge, skidding across the ground on his stomach. He plunged one arm into the icy water. His skin numbed quickly, but his hand sank into Norah’s soft, floating hair, and he grabbed a fistful, hoisting her to the surface. Now reaching with both hands under her armpits, Wendill hauled her out of the water. “Norah!”
Taddeo knelt, placing his hand on her face. “She is alive. Bring her to the pit, and I will build a fire.”
Wendill scooped Norah’s drenched, unconscious body into his arms and followed Taddeo through the temple to the fire pit filled with the scorched bones of the Keepers of Limru. “I regret having failed you,” he said to Taddeo. “I did not imagine her tears would fill the well so quickly.”
Taddeo laughed. “Norah is fine. What else makes you think you have failed?”
Wendill hesitated, recalling everything Taddeo had asked of him to make sure he hadn’t forgotten any part of it. “I haven’t accomplished what you wanted.”
After gathering broken pieces of fallen limbs and moss dried from winter, Taddeo arranged the kindling inside the pit. “What has happened is far better than what I had hoped.” Taddeo paused, rearranging a few pieces of wood. “And we are on the verge of something that will make our goals far easier to achieve.”
“Going home? Is it time?”
Taddeo nodded. “There is much to be done before we can find our way and it may take a great deal of time, b
ut we will soon begin that journey.”
CHAPTER 58
Just like every morning since they’d begun traveling to Guell, Margreet woke at the earliest hint of light before dawn. She felt somehow connected to the sun. Or maybe she woke because she wanted to get an early start on each day and make the most of it.
Whatever the reason, her favorite time of day happened now, with the whole world quiet and still. She could take all the time she wished to simply watch the colors of the sky change from indigo to pale blue. A few wispy clouds ribboned this morning’s sky, and she smiled with the anticipation of watching them turn pink and orange.
Weeks ago, Vinchi had traded one of his best weapons to the master of the mansion for horses, bedrolls, and food. Happy with the attention Vinchi had given his sons over the course of the winter and early spring, the master had been generous, providing them with good-natured horses and a wealth of provisions. They’d traveled up through the Southlands and into the Midlands. Last night they’d made camp by the flatlands, good farming land that stretched far to the horizon.
Margreet breathed in the chilly morning air, hugging her bedding tight around her body while she sat up, watching the sky. Only months ago, she had dutifully followed her husband from country to country, territory to territory, keeping camp every time he hunted and tending to his needs after he sold those goods at market. It had been a simple existence and one to which she gave little thought. Under his wing, she’d been protected from the worst cruelties of the world.
On the other side of the fire pit they’d created the night before, Vinchi rolled over in his sleep and a twig cracked beneath him. Margreet watched him until he snored, indicating plenty of time before the others would wake up.
The last several months had been odd. At first, she’d been mortified by being spirited away by Vinchi and Astrid, missing Gershon every minute of every day. Without him, Margreet had felt exposed in the world and trembled at the thought of the danger that most likely lurked around every corner, certain she’d be facing death without Gershon to protect her and keep her safe.
But no danger had emerged.
Instead, Margreet watched her bruises heal and remembered what it was like to have none. For weeks, she’d flinched every time a man had raised his hand for any reason, even if just stretching. Margreet believed she’d become adept at keeping her flinching hidden. Or maybe the others were being kind by pretending not to notice. Either way, she thought of Gershon less and herself more. One week she forgot her husband existed. In the following weeks, she noticed a deep, dark rage toward him seething in her gut.
And then there was Limru. They’d encountered the frozen icy ghosts by the Forest of Aguille, and Margreet’s worst fear had come true. Except for the man up front—the ice ghost she’d seen Astrid embrace—Margreet recognized every face. They’d been her neighbors and friends. They were the Keepers of Limru, and the army of Krystr followers had murdered every one of them.
Margreet experienced shame walking past the ice ghosts. Why should she have survived when they hadn’t? Even though she’d followed her mother’s wishes and escaped the slaughter, she wondered if it would have been better to disobey and die by the sides of those who loved and knew her.
The first thin slip of yellow emerged above the horizon, and the sky brightened, pushing the indigo aside.
Margreet looked for her mother among the ice ghosts, but she wasn’t there. But later, after Margreet called upon everything she’d learned from the Keepers of Limru to honor the dead and renew the temple, she saw her mother’s spirit rise in the smoke from the fire. Her mother’s smile assured Margreet that she’d done the right thing, after all. If she hadn’t escaped, no one would be left to do this work, and the spirits of the Keepers of Limru could have been trapped forever. Margreet had set them free, and she realized that she had become a Keeper. The last Keeper of Limru.
Margreet hugged her knees to her chest, watching the wispy clouds drift above the flatlands and change from black to dark red to orange. She knew Astrid worked as a blacksmith and a dragonslayer—Margreet had been fascinated whenever the blacksmith of Limru had let her watch him work. The way the clouds changed made her think of the way that iron changed when plunged into the heart of a fire.
Maybe that’s what’s happened to me, Margreet thought, staring at the clouds. Maybe I’ve been plunged into the heart of a fire and my colors are changing.
Margreet stood and took a few steps toward the naked fields before her. She twisted the silver ring on her finger for the first time since Limru. She remembered the day Gershon had taken it from his own littlest finger and placed it on hers. Their marriage day. She took the ring off and held it in the palm of her hand.
With all her might, Margreet threw the silver ring high into the air and far away. For a moment, the ring caught the sunlight and sparkled. It spun at lightning speed, end over end, sailing through the air. Somewhere, far out into the field, it landed, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
Margreet’s heart raced. For the first time since the slaughter she’d witnessed at Limru, she felt free.
She smiled at the sound of Astrid’s whisper in the Northlander language. Margreet turned to see Astrid sit up, while Vinchi still snored nearby. Astrid rubbed her eyes, took a moment to smile at the sunrise, and then gestured as if she wielded a sword.
Margreet whispered back, “Good morning,” in her own language. Although the women had learned a few words of each other’s language, once they’d begun training together, they’d found they could understand each other quite well without language, something that baffled and annoyed Vinchi.
Several minutes later, the women walked out onto the nearby flatlands with metal practice weapons in hand and began their daily ritual of weapons work in the light of the rising sun. Their shadows stretched long and lean across the land.
Beware, the small voice whispered inside Margreet’s head. Be alert!
Margreet stepped back and held up a warning hand to Astrid, who dropped her weapon to her side. Slowly, Margreet gazed around them, looking for signs of danger. But they were alone. No one could hide on these flatlands, and there was no one else in sight but Vinchi. Margreet shrugged and beckoned to Astrid to resume their practice.
A few minutes later, Margreet’s foot caught in a rut left in the field from the fall harvest. She cried out when she crumpled to the ground, letting her weapon fall to one side.
Startled, Astrid babbled with worry, her face drawn and pale. Gently, her hands cradled Margreet’s ankle.
“I’m fine,” Margreet said, poking and prodding her own ankle to make sure. She’d felt nothing pull or pop. The rut had simply tripped her.
That was why the voice had warned her. It knew she would soon be at risk. Margreet had taken precaution. She simply hadn’t known what kind of precaution to take.
Astrid spoke again, looking into Margreet’s eyes.
“Truly, I’m fine.” Margreet let Astrid help her back up on her feet.
Astrid pointed toward the camp where Vinchi still slept, speaking with worry.
Margreet tested her ankle. Dull pain throbbed deep inside. Maybe she’d twisted it, after all. She walked around in a circle. She clenched her jaw as if that could make her feel better. Her ankle felt good enough to use, and Margreet cared about nothing else.
Finding a better patch of land, Margreet waved Astrid over. “Let’s practice here. There aren’t any ruts.”
They continued practicing, but after they were done and Margreet glanced skyward, she noticed all the wispy clouds had disappeared and darker ones loomed on the horizon.
CHAPTER 59
Gershon decided to make his move today. He trudged on a muddy road that cut across open fields. The road was marred by ruts left by the recent passage of carts driven by merchants who should have known better and ridden horses instead.
Thomas walked several paces ahead, heeled by a well trained clerk. Thomas spoke loudly and enthusiastically, while the clerk nodded. T
hey acted oblivious to everything that struck Gershon as obvious: the beauty of the day. The sky looked clear and vivid blue. The sun’s warmth raised a few beads of sweat on Gershon’s forehead. They’d spent the past few weeks walking through hills and valleys and past farmland breaking free of winter’s cold embrace. Now, the distinct tang of salt water hanging in the air replaced the fresh, clean scent of pine. The horizon looked hilly with no body of water in sight, but Gershon convinced himself the next town might likely be a seaport.
Gershon tired of conversations consisting of nothing more than Thomas lecturing excitedly about the Krystr—or Thomas talking about himself. It hadn’t been long before Gershon learned that, no matter what Thomas claimed, the man constantly needed all eyes on him and all ears trained on every word he said. At first, Gershon experienced a sense of relief because it meant no one questioned him or asked why he wanted to become a clerk. But now he missed his old life, even without Margreet. He missed the lovely solitude of hunting in the woods, discovering fresh tracks, and making a new kill. He missed preparing the fur of the animals, not to mention the looks of delight from people that saw his work in the marketplace.
Gershon didn’t need fancy words or ideas or beliefs. These past few months had taught him that he needed nothing more than his work, and the rest of the world be damned. Until, of course, the time came to take his furs to market.
“Thomas,” he said abruptly, startling himself because he hadn’t planned to say anything until they reached the seaport.
The clerk shot an angry look over his shoulder, but Thomas paused and took a step to one side, waiting for Gershon to catch up. “Brother Gershon?”
Gershon cleared his throat to stretch time so he could decide the best thing to say. He stepped between Thomas and the clerk, and the three of them walked forward in step with each other. “I believe the time has come for me to return to my worldly work.”