by Cara Witter
This was Daniella’s pack. Kenton had found Jaeme’s left behind in their shared room earlier. He felt a faint bit of hope that no one had found Sayvil’s—hers would be the most important of the three for them to have taken, the one containing her herbs.
“Daniella must have left it behind,” Perchaya said in a voice scarcely above a whisper. Her joyful façade—which might have even been truly felt during this exuberant evening of celebration—was wiped clean. She looked as if she were about to be sick. “When I napped, I dreamt about them. They were in a building in Ithale during the fighting. They were trapped there in a circle of fire calling out for help, but we couldn’t get to them.”
Nikaenor’s face was ashen, but expressionless. “It’s a better fate than what they likely met in the swamp.”
“Nikaenor!” Kenton snapped with more force than he intended. Perchaya studied the wooden floor intently. He reminded himself to take it easy on the kid. “We don’t know anything about what happened in the swamp, but Jaeme can fight in close quarters better than anyone I know, and that’s if the Nichtees even exist to attack them. They’ve got Sayvil for taking care of any wounds or for finding edible plants, and imagine what her bright light can do in the pitch dark. And Daniella . . . well, we all know what’ll happen if she’s mortally threatened.” Kenton wished he hadn’t drained his ale. And hoped that the others had the good sense to stand far away from her, if it came to that. “We’ll give Jaeme and Daniella their packs when we see them in Haidshir,” he added. Then he paused. “Besides, can’t you feel Jaeme and Sayvil? Don’t you think you’d know if they were dead?”
Nikaenor stared into the godstone, as if trying to answer that question. “I want to go to Haidshir,” was all he said in response.
“All right then,” Kenton said. “That’s settled.” There was nothing else they could do until they got out of this town, but even if he could drag Nikaenor through the swamp, it would still be faster to wait for a ship.
Nikaenor nodded and stared at the pack for a moment before setting it down on the table with a hard thunk. He balanced the Seastone carefully in one hand and gave Kenton and Perchaya a smile that was obviously forced. “Well, I’m going to get some sleep before we leave.” He waved a half-hearted goodnight and wandered away.
Kenton yawned, realizing how tired he himself was. He had spoken with a shipmaster who had been on his way to Bronleigh and had stopped off in Ithale to pick up another shipment the day of the fateful attack at the inn. They were leaving before dawn tomorrow, and Kenton had high hopes of being in Haidshir by midday.
He glanced over at Perchaya, whose eyes were still riveted to the floor. He debated what to say. “I think they’ll be waiting for us in Haidshir. We have to focus on that for now and leave the worrying until we know more.”
“There was more to my dream,” she said.
He blinked but kept silent.
“They were in the building,” she continued softly. “They were burning, but the fire was set from the inside. Daniella’s hair was all flames, and her eyes were completely black. She was laughing.”
His heart thudded against his chest as he saw again a memory that never truly left him, of black eyes and a mocking smile. He swallowed hard. “Do you think that Daniella . . .”
She narrowed her eyes at him, her gaze finally leaving the floor. “No,” she said adamantly. “It was just a dream. All this fire and death will give you nightmares, I guess.” Her tone was now deceptively light.
He tried to smile at her. “I guess.”
She patted his hand with her own and bid him a quick goodnight before heading across the emptying taproom towards the stairs. Kenton watched her go up, his hand still feeling the coolness where her fingers had touched him, his mind clouded with dark memories and visions of an equally dark future.
Twenty
The bedroom of the Harpoon, the largest inn in Haidshir, was spacious and cheery, even this late in the evening. It was decorated with bowls of freshly picked flowers, and lit brightly with a multitude of candles—more, surely, than any normal guest would be allowed, but Jaeme was their duke’s heir, and knew he could well afford it.
Maybe, too, they were taking some pity on him for the fact that he’d been viciously chewed on by not-so-mythical swamp creatures.
The open windows let in the sea breeze from outside, and the dwindling, distant chatter of townsfolk not yet abed for the night. Not that Jaeme was getting to enjoy much of this idyllic setting.
He gritted his teeth against the pain that lanced through his shoulder. “Kotali’s blood, woman, do you have to take all the skin off? I might still need that shoulder, you know.”
Sayvil smeared another glob of salve onto his skin with more force than Jaeme thought was strictly necessary. He could practically hear her grin as she spoke. “I never said it wouldn’t hurt.” She reached past Jaeme’s shoulder into her jar for another fingerful and dabbed it near the bottom of Jaeme’s wound, causing such a sting that he couldn’t help but cry out.
“Hmph,” Sayvil said. “I had to use this on Quinn once, after a wild dog took a bite out of his leg. I don’t recall him complaining so much.”
“I’ll be sure to admire his stoicism when I meet him.” Jaeme rolled his shoulder forward; after the initial burn, the salve now felt cool against the wound. Sayvil wrapped a fresh bandage around it. “Actually, this feels pretty good. You’re a wonder, Sayvil.” He lay back against the pillows propped up to the wall, wincing only slightly at the pressure. The straw in the mattress and pillows crackled as he shifted.
She shrugged. “It could have been a lot worse. If it had gone for your throat, there wouldn’t have been any salve in the world that could save you.”
It had gone for his throat, he remembered. The snapping of jaws, the glint of knife-like teeth, the cold, slimy sheen of skin. It had been his reflexes that saved him, instinctively blocking his neck as they knocked him into the bog. Beyond that, though, he couldn’t recall very much of what followed. The jagged wound to his shoulder was the worst of it, although he also bore the marks of a shallow rake across his chest and a swollen cut on the back of his head where he must have hit a rock. Of the three of them, he was the worst wounded. All in all, a fortunate outcome, given the circumstances.
“How’s Daniella?” he asked, as Sayvil gathered up the bandages and bowl of ointment. He pulled on his linen shirt gingerly, wincing as he shifted his arm into the sleeve.
“She’s fine. Slept like the dead most of the day, like the rest of us,” Sayvil said, her expression still weary, which Jaeme understood all too well. He thought he could use a hundred years of rest after that debacle. “Her leg will heal up nicely, and her arm as well, since the cuts weren’t too deep. The town healer did a good job with the stitches on both of you.”
“And no word from the others?”
Sayvil scowled. “Not yet.”
Jaeme had hoped that Kenton, Perchaya, and Nikaenor would be close behind them, or even beat them here by virtue of not going through the swamp. He hoped to the gods that they hadn’t been driven there to face the Nichtees that he’d just escaped. Worse yet was the thought that they might have been apprehended by Erich Dektrian—though Jaeme thought better than to say the man’s name aloud in any tone of voice. Kenton and Perchaya could be executed on the spot for being Drim, but if they were right that Diamis needed them, more likely the lot of them would be rotting in the brig of a ship on their way to Peldenar by now.
Much as Jaeme wanted to believe that Kenton was delusional, that they were none of them important, he’d seen what had happened in Tir Neren. Saara was, beyond a doubt, the bearer of Nerendal. And Daniella testified about her father’s plans for bringing back Maldorath.
Jaeme didn’t like to think about what was going to happen if the others were captured or killed. He suddenly wished Daniella were here and swung his legs over the side of
the bed, intending to find her, even as the sudden movement made his wounded head ache.
Sayvil turned a glare on him. “Stay in bed. I’ll have your dinner sent up.”
He laid back with a groan. Jaeme was normally quite happy to lounge about and be waited on, but on this occasion, it only drove his thoughts to dark places. Still, food sounded good. Greta, the matronly proprietor of the Harpoon, was an exceptional cook. “Dinner it is.”
Sayvil swept out of the room, her mind apparently elsewhere. On that plant she found in the swamp, no doubt. Jaeme’s thoughts wandered back to that moment with Dani, sitting on the log with her as she shivered. Of the way it had felt to kiss her again, something he hadn’t been sure would repeat itself after the long awkwardness on the ship from Tirostaar. He’d prefer if the kissing would repeat itself without the awkwardness, but they’d hardly had a moment alone away from the swamp, the gods-forsaken Nichtees, or Sayvil’s persistent ointment applications.
A rap against the door interrupted his thoughts. “Come on in, Greta,” he said. His stomach contorted a bit, and he realized how hungry he was.
It surprised him to see Daniella enter the room, carrying a tray laden with a steaming hunk of pork and sauce-covered mushrooms, along with a tankard of ale. She wore a new tan linen dress, her unbound red hair curling down around her shoulders. There was a bandage tied around her left arm, but she didn’t seem to have trouble holding the tray. Jaeme was grateful to see her wounds hadn’t been nearly as dire as his—he’d been in and out of consciousness all day. He vaguely remembered a farmer finding them a little ways outside the swamp, and being put in a cart, but the next thing he knew, he was here, being stitched up.
“I’m not Greta,” Daniella said, “but I hope that since I’m bringing food, I’m still welcome.”
There was no one Jaeme wanted to see more. “It depends on what you brought me,” he said with a grin. “Here, let me help . . .” He started to get up as she walked towards him, still limping from the wound to her leg. He hoped she hadn’t been walking much—even a shallow wound could open again easily.
“Don’t get up. If I can carry you through the swamp, I think I can manage a tray.” She set it down on a small oak table beside the bed. He shifted his legs to make more room for her, but she didn’t sit. “How are you feeling?”
“Still a bit like a gnawed-on bone, but awake and alive enough. Nothing a good dinner and some time spent with you won’t fix.”
Daniella looked down at her hands.
Gods. It was the boat ride all over again. Jaeme had once fancied himself a ladies’ man, but these last months with Daniella had disabused him of that notion.
And yet. At a couple points during the day, the healer had come in to check on him, fearing he’d develop a fever from infection. He’d woken, barely, as she felt his forehead and examined his wounds. But the last time, maybe only a couple hours ago, he’d found Daniella sitting on a stool on the other side of his bed. She’d been bent forward with her head resting beside his arm, fast asleep. He hadn’t dared move or even breathe deeply for fear of waking her. When Sayvil woke him for good this time, she was gone.
There was always something a little skittish about her when it came to his affection, so he didn’t want to push her in any way. But it seemed now that even his usual flirtation was making her uncomfortable.
He decided to change the subject, and gestured to the tray. “So I take it you wandered down to the common room, at least?”
She nodded. “It was pretty full, too. Word’s spread all over town about Lord Jaemeson’s battle in the swamp with the Nichtees. You’ve become quite the legend.”
“For bravery or foolishness?”
She grinned. “A little bit of both. But you seem to have quite the reputation among your subjects. They love you, regardless. I promised that before we left, you would give a complete retelling of your encounter with the beasts and daring rescue of the two trapped maidens. They seemed to think it a wonderful trade.”
Probably better than the tale of being shoved in the mud and having to be dragged to safety by the woman he loved. “I take it you’ve embellished it some already.”
“I may have mentioned a fierce duel between you and the Nichtee king, who challenged you with a blood-oath of vengeance.”
“And of course, I won by sheer will of my righteous fury.”
“Is there any other way?” She handed him the ale as he leaned to reach it and he took a deep drink. He wished she’d sit, but she seemed to be avoiding both the bed and the stool, and he wondered how much longer he could persuade her to stay.
“They have a god-rune on the wall,” she said suddenly, her attention captured by the rune of Kotali carved at the base corner. “I’ve heard that the castles here are blessed by the priests, but I didn’t know that inns are too.”
Jaeme nodded. “It’s fairly common in Mortiche. Especially in a place like Haidshir, living so close to the swamp. The runes supposedly provide protection against dark powers and evil intentions. I would normally make some kind of disparaging comment here, but being half-eaten by Nichtees has given me new perspective.”
She looked back at her hands, her fingers laced delicately together. “Still no word from Ithale.”
His chest tightened. “I know,” he said, holding back a sigh. He set the tankard back on the table and sat forward. “I suppose if I were a knight from one of your stories, I’d already be halfway back to rescue them.”
Daniella half smiled at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d never have left them to begin with. You would have taken on all the soldiers yourself.” She pretended to consider. “You might have left one or two for Kenton. If you were feeling generous.”
Jaeme wanted to laugh, but the truth of it struck him. He’d sworn oaths in his youth, when he was no older than Nikaenor. Oaths of valor and courage, of protection and defense of those in need. Ever since he was a child, he’d loathed the way other knights cast aside their vows, but somewhere along the line he’d slipped into maligning the vows themselves.
Jaeme wasn’t sure exactly when that had happened. “I could take a small boat. Have them drop me off outside the town. I don’t think any of the soldiers got a clear look at me. And they’re not looking for a man traveling alone.” He said the last part pointedly to forestall any plans on her part to join him.
“Jaeme,” Daniella said, looking worried. “You’re not even close to recovered yet.”
He shrugged—or at least did so with his uninjured shoulder. “Wouldn’t matter in the ballads, would it?”
“It’s just poetry,” Daniella said. “Since when do you care about what knights are supposed to do?”
Jaeme felt himself slouching sullenly. “Maybe I should.”
“Then why don’t you?”
He looked up at her, and she met his eyes. There was no hint of judgment in her tone, only interest.
Jaeme would take any scrap of interest she was willing to throw his way. “Because I hate the knighthood.”
Her eyes crinkled in confusion. “But why? You are one, after all.”
“Not by choice.”
Daniella’s expression only grew more confused, and Jaeme realized he was going to have to choose between brushing her off and telling her the truth.
He was surprised to find he wanted to tell her. “They killed my father,” he said. “The Dukes Council, I mean.”
Daniella lowered herself onto the stool, her knees resting inches from him. “Really?”
He nodded. “He was accused of murder. A massacre, actually. And treason. One of the knights who was a friend of my father’s had his estate raided, his people killed. He was run through with a sword. And while all of my father’s men denied that they’d been there, my father stood accused by his own oath brothers. They produced witnesses from gods know where. He was a duke, a full member of the Council. These m
en were his blood brothers but they wouldn’t listen to him when he swore his innocence. They sentenced him to death—stoned him.” Jaeme paused before offering the last, awful piece. “I watched.”
Daniella reached out and took his hand, and even if her motivation was mostly comfort, he held it tight in his own.
“How old were you?” Daniella asked quietly.
“I was six,” Jaeme said. “But I was old enough to know he hadn’t done it. Some of them must have known it as well. They needed someone to blame, for their honor. That’s the way they work, the way they’ve always worked. They’re hypocrites who hide behind a code of morality that they can only pretend to live up to.” His expression softened a bit as he studied her. “And well-read Sevairnese girls are hardly the only ones who fall for it,” he added gently, with a half-smile.
“I’m so sorry.” Her green eyes were sorrowful. “What about your mother?”
Jaeme let out a breath. “She was there, too, when he was stoned to death. I remember her screaming and screaming, having to be held back from running to him. Something in her mind just snapped, and she never recovered. She sees people who aren’t there, talks to thin air, wails incoherently. She’s being cared for in one of our estates. I rarely go to see her. I would, but—” He swallowed thickly. “But my presence seems to make her madness worse, agitate her further, especially as I’ve gotten older. I think it’s because I look so much like my father.”
Daniella squeezes his hand. “I can’t even imagine.”
“Yes, well,” Jaeme said. “Listen to me, complaining to you about my family problems.”
She let out a terse laugh. “Being around Nikaenor’s family, I was starting to identify with Kenton, of all people.”
“Gods help us.”
A shadow settled across Daniella’s face. She’d made a joke of it, but only to disguise her pain. Jaeme ought to recognize that. He did it himself often enough.