She nodded once. “Of course.”
I stepped out into the sunshine, and Warmil immediately passed me as he headed back into the hut.
Mor and I were alone, staring at each other in silence.
After a moment, I spoke. “She’s going to live, right?”
“I think so. Karlith was worried about infection. That’s why they took the leg, ultimately. But they acted before anything could really set in, and I think Aeron will be all right, once she has a chance to heal.”
That was the best news I could have hoped for, but still, my heart squeezed for her. Change of subject. “What does Dylun say about the last strand?”
“We’re not needed to draw it up. Colormasters only, apparently.”
Something unspoken swam in his eyes. I tried to read it. “Has Jule made progress on a ship?”
“Aye. He hasn’t had much trouble at all. Thank the Creator that Dylun grabbed all our documents. I don’t know how we would have proved our story otherwise. Now it’s just a matter of getting the ship ready. The crew’s been working on it.”
His mysterious expression persisted, and I finally realized what it was. “You’ve found out something about Diggy.”
“Aye.” His face was pinched.
My heart sank. “Oh, no.”
“There’s a cemetery nearby. She’s there.”
“Oh, Mor. I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “A fever. Knew she couldn’t be alive.”
“But still, there was hope.” I reached for his hand.
And he almost gave it to me, but then he drew back at the last second. “Not wearing my gloves. It’s too hot here.”
“Right.” I looked down at my boots, the toes sinking into the sand. “Lost my hat when the Cethorelle sank.”
“Tannie.”
I didn’t look up right away. Not until I felt my hair ruffle in a slight, cool breeze. A strip of black grazer hide swirled in front of me. Then Mor flicked his fingers, and the strand formed itself into a hat—a tricorn sailor’s hat, like my other, but this one didn’t have a silky ribbon or fluffy plume. It was less ornamental and more functional. Like a real sailor’s hat.
After a brief pause, Mor made another strand—sparkling blue—and it twisted into a silver hat pin with a glittering blue crystal at the end. The pin wove through one side of the hat. The whole thing dropped into Mor’s hands.
He held it out to me. “There. It’s the hat of a real sailor. But with a little something extra.”
“I guess that’s what we could call me.” I took the hat. “Though the ‘little something extra’ might be a lack of sailing skill.”
“You’ve improved.” He smiled, but his eyes didn’t crinkle quite the same as they used to. Everything Mor did, everything he said, everything he was, was now edged in grief.
“Do you want to visit her grave?” I asked.
“Aye.” He looked away.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
There was a pause. “Aye.” He started to reach for my hand, then stopped himself. “Blast. I forgot again.” He nodded toward a grove up ahead. “This way.”
Mor led me away from the hut by the shore, toward the tropical trees. I had to wonder how much loss a person had to suffer before that edge of grief became permanent. I didn’t want to find out.
But I wasn’t sure I’d have a choice.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
TANWEN
We stood before a flat stone pressed into the earth, just like the dozens around it. But carved on this particular stone was Digwyn En-Lidere, fever.
Just like that. One line. Three words. Her whole life summed up in her name and the way she had died.
What would mine say? Tanwen En-Yestin, cursed, probably.
“I’m sorry, Mor.”
“It’s as I expected.” His reply was more to himself than me.
“But not as you hoped, and that’s hard.”
He gave a slight nod.
An intruding voice made me jump. “You. Come here.”
I whirled around to find a woman about the same age as Narwat, half concealed by the trees of the jungle. She was staring at Mor, long and hard. Then she beckoned to us.
Mor placed himself between me and the stranger. “Who are you?”
“I am Ibu.”
Mor studied the woman. “What do you want?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Please, I will not hurt you. I must”—she hesitated—“must see your eyes.”
Mor looked back at me, and I shrugged. She didn’t look dangerous, but what did I know?
He moved closer to the woman and let her look at his face. She peered into his eyes, and hers filled with tears. “I have watched since you came to the island, and now, you come here. Are you . . . are you Digwyn’s brother?”
Mor recoiled. “Yes. Did you know her?”
“I . . .” She looked over her shoulder again. “You have her eyes. And her name.”
“Yes.” Curiosity laced Mor’s voice. “You knew her?”
“I know her.”
I rushed up beside Mor. “You know her? Do you mean she’s alive?”
Ibu looked around anxiously. “My son returns soon. Kawan will tell you. Please do not leave the island before you speak to Kawan.”
“Speak to me about what?” A young man, taller and wider than Mor by a foot, approached. He frowned at us. “What is this, apa?”
She fired off some Kanaci words, then nodded to Mor. “Look.”
The young man squinted at Mor, then drew back. “No. Cannot be.”
“Is this your son?” Mor asked Ibu. She nodded briefly, and Mor turned to the young man. “Do you know my sister? Digwyn En-Lidere. I am Mor Bo-Lidere.”
Kawan stared at Mor and looked at me. Then back to Mor. “Do you swear it?”
“Aye. I swear it. Please, tell me what you know.”
Kawan’s eyes churned with indecision. After a long pause, he said, “She is not there.” He nodded to her headstone. “You will come to her island.”
“Her island?”
“Yes. Oh, but she will not like this.” He shook his head ruefully, then strode toward the beach. After a few long paces, he turned around. “Are you coming?”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
TANWEN
Mor was full of questions while he helped Kawan paddle the canoe. “Why is there a headstone?”
“Needed one,” Kawan answered.
“But why?”
“They were going to take her back to the ship.”
“She faked it?” I asked. “She faked her death to escape the ship?”
Kawan nodded.
My eyes widened. “Who else knows?”
“Me. Ibu, my mother. That is all. The bounty is great.”
“She still has a price on her head?” I glanced at Mor.
“Ya.” Kawan nodded up ahead. “Heliake is the island of Digwyn.”
It wasn’t far—just one of many tiny specks of land out in this tropical bit of the Menfor Sea. After less than an hour, we reached the shore.
The canoe skidded up onto the beach. Mor and Kawan pulled it until it was well out of the surf, and I sat on the canoe’s bench, nearly as useless as I had been on the Cethorelle. But Mor had told me to sit, and for once, I listened. I’d barely gotten my strength back, and there was no use spending it on dragging a canoe when Mor and Kawan were capable of handling it themselves.
Mor helped me over the side and turned to Kawan. “Where is she?”
“I shall call her. You wait. Be patient.” He walked a few yards into the thick of the tropical forest. Then he let loose a series of whistles that sounded very much like a birdcall. I’d not have realized they came from human lips if I hadn’t witnessed it myself.
Several moments passed, and nothing happened.
Mor eyed Kawan, and I could see distrust swimming there. “Is she here?”
“She lives here. I do not chain her to the island.”
<
br /> “So she leaves sometimes?” A note of panic arose in Mor’s voice. “Tell me the truth. Is she really alive?”
“Mor.” I put my hand on his arm.
For once Mor looked at me like I was a stabilizing force, an anchor, and not like a complication.
I offered him a reassuring smile, then turned to Kawan. “Do you know where she dwells? Maybe we could find her there.”
“I usually call.”
“I understand, but she’s not answering.”
Kawan looked uncertain. “She does not like people to come without signaling.”
“Yes, but it’s her brother, after all this time. Please.”
“Ya.” He looked at Mor. “Follow me.”
He disappeared back into the trees. Mor and I trudged through the sand after him. We’d walked for no more than three minutes when Kawan stopped and held up a hand.
“There,” he said. “In that clearing over there.”
I strained forward. I supposed there was a small area in the jungle that looked clearer than the rest, but I wouldn’t call it a clearing. And I didn’t see a dwelling anywhere. Maybe Mor was right. Maybe Kawan had led us astray. Maybe he meant us harm.
But then I remembered the Corsyth. There were means to hide a dwelling if you didn’t wish it to be found. Just because I couldn’t see Diggy’s home didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
Kawan stepped back. He held a few palm leaves out of our way. “Go.”
Mor paused, then stepped into the clearing. I followed, but a twinge of fear drew me to a halt. The brush had rustled.
The sound of someone walking. And humming.
I saw Mor still his breath, as though he knew the hum. Or perhaps just the voice.
A moment passed, and there she was, stepping into the clearing with a basket full of water on her hip.
I almost did a double-take, so like Mor she was, and yet so different. Tiny, barely larger than a child, but with the corded muscles of someone who ate little and worked a lot. Her hair was dark, nearly black, and very long, but she had most of it tied up loosely. Her eyes sparkled seastone-blue. Black tribal tattoos snaked from her hands to her shoulders, and she wore something midway between Tirian peasant garb and the clothes of the islanders. A linen shirt with the sleeves sliced off. A pair of leather shorts that bared most of her tanned legs.
And strapped to those legs were half a dozen knives.
She froze like a statue. Blinked at Mor, then peered closer, as though she thought herself mistaken.
I couldn’t see Mor’s face, but his voice sounded choked with emotion. “Diggy.”
She reared back, her eyes burning. “You!” she cried.
And she tossed her basket of water all over Captain Mor Bo-Lidere.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
BRAITH
Braith sat on her throne and stared in silence at Cadwyth Bo-Balas, captain of the palace guard, as he finished reading his report for the council and gathered courtiers.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I wish I brought gladder news. But as you heard, we have completed our investigation into your father’s murder and have made no progress in discovering the culprit. Nor were we able to confirm exactly how he died.”
“But you told me he had been strangled.”
“Indeed. And I believe he was. But there was nothing in his cell he might have been strangled with. The cell remained locked at all times, and all the guards swear no one passed through the dungeons that night and not one of them entered Gareth’s cell.”
Braith was puzzled. “Surely there must be an explanation.”
Bo-Balas paused a moment. “I have only two theories, and I pray you’ll forgive the absurdity of them both.”
“Please continue.”
“The first would be a conspiracy. Yet all the dungeon guardsmen would have to be participants, for they all swear they are telling the truth. I do not believe them capable of this deed.”
“Because you trust them all implicitly?”
“No, but I do not trust that they could maintain such a united front or lie so convincingly for so long.”
Braith sighed. “And your second theory?”
“Dark magic, Your Majesty.”
Derisive laughter rippled through the court, but Braith did not laugh. She studied the captain, always so straightforward, serious, and honest. It was for that reason she had chosen him as captain.
These past four moons had shown Braith there was much about the world she didn’t know. Weavers possessed abilities her father had tried so hard to stamp out. Could there be a different side to the weaving gift? Something that might be very much like dark magic?
“Captain Bo-Balas, thank you for your report.”
He bowed.
“If there’s nothing else,” Braith said to her council, “we’ll conclude for the day.”
For once, no one seemed to want to linger with petitions or objections. Not even Sir Fellyck.
All Braith’s councilors rose, and the courtiers filed out of the throne room. Braith was alone except for Kharn, who remained by the council table, and her personal guards at the back of the room.
Braith leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
“Are you well?” Kharn’s voice twinged with concern.
Her eyes opened. “I’m just weary, I suppose. I had hoped . . .” Braith trailed off. What had she hoped?
“That you would get some answers, at least,” Kharn finished for her.
“Yes. But this is worse, somehow.”
“I’m sorry, Braith. Truly, I am.”
“Thank you.” She allowed a small, tight smile.
“These are not the ideal circumstances for this conversation, but I am afraid I cannot put it off any longer.”
Braith frowned at him. “You cannot put what off any longer?”
Kharn was looking at her intently. “Lady Braith, will you marry me?”
She stared at him. “Kharn, that isn’t funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Are you honestly asking me to marry you?”
“You’re surprised by this?” Kharn smiled. “I thought my intentions had been obvious.”
“I thought you were seeking to depose me.” Braith rose so they were at the same level. “History’s politest deposition, perhaps, but a dethroning just the same.”
Kharn laughed. “I should have been clearer, I see. No wonder you are so guarded with me.”
“I am guarded with everyone, Sir Kharn. I have to be.”
“But not with your husband, I hope.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Why do you keep saying that when I’m not jesting?”
“I’m not used to you being serious.” Braith studied him. “But you are, aren’t you?”
“Quite. We would rule so well together, Braith.”
And the moment he said it, she knew it to be true. “I suppose it would be very convenient.”
“Convenient?”
“To unite the throne.” Braith’s mind was filling with possibilities arising from such a union. “Now I feel foolish that it never occurred to me. I had always supposed it would be one or the other of us ruling, but never both together.”
“Braith.” Kharn reached out. “May I?”
After a pause, she allowed him to take her hand.
He held it tightly. “What you call convenience I call wisdom. But that is not the only reason I make this proposal.”
“No?” Braith was startled.
“I have always admired you.”
She laughed. “You dipped my braids in ink when we were children.”
“I’m not above that now, you know.”
Braith smiled at him. “I believe you.”
He returned her smile, but as he watched her, it faltered. “You’re going to say no.”
“I . . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. You’re asking me to marry a stranger.”
“That isn’t entirely true.”
“You’
ve been out of my life for thirteen years,” she protested.
“I’ve been back for two moons now. I have been trying to show you how well this would work. How well we would work.”
Braith let go of his hand. “How can you possibly know that?” Ruling together was one thing. A personal relationship was something else entirely.
“Because I may have been gone from your life, but you were never gone from mine. The life you’ve led has been public, and I’ve watched from afar as you ruled better and more wisely than either of your parents. I watched a young princess fight for goodness—for mercy and justice. And that princess, this queen, was the same girl whose braids I dipped in ink. You have not changed, Braith.”
Braith’s gaze wandered to one of the Tirian banners hanging along the wall. “Do you know what my one private rebellion against my parents was?”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“I always insisted I would marry for love. It drove my mother mad, though Father generally indulged the fancy.”
“Royals don’t often marry for love.”
“No, indeed. But I did not want my husband to be selected for me because of his land holdings or the size of his country’s army. I did not want to be loved for my father’s empire. I wanted . . .”
“To be loved for your own merit, not your title.”
“Yes. It is foolish, perhaps, and naïve. But it’s what I always wished for myself.”
“Braith.” Kharn took her hand again. “That is what I’m offering you. Even if it doesn’t seem that way to you, I will prove it. Don’t answer now,” he added quickly. “Think it over. Take a week and discuss it with Cameria or your councilors or whoever else you like. Just don’t say no right away.”
“Kharn . . .”
“Promise you will think about it. Or I’ll dip your braids in ink next council meeting.” He grinned.
“You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly handsome?” He bent and kissed her hand.
Braith smiled wryly. “You have your moments.” She turned serious again. “I will think about it, Kharn. I promise.”
“That’s all I ask.” He bowed, kissed her hand again, and took his leave.
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