by Anna Holmes
"I’m awake," I insist. This time, I think it’s true. My head still feels impossibly thick and my limbs are sluggish, but the shadows of the rapidly darkening room stand out sharper than they did any of the other times I’ve tried to open my eyes today.
I head for the door and immediately stumble. That’s right. I’m not built to run anymore. I grasp the doorframe as my leg sears under me. Tressa rolls her eyes a little. "I’ll get the horse."
"Thank you," I say, hobbling aside to make room for her. The guards in the hall eye me as though I’m simply waiting for her to leave before I start trying to claim the corridor for Rosalia. I lean my head on the doorframe and grasp for a breath.
It would have been tempting once for me to take this pardon and run with it. Back to what’s left of my hometown, pretend as though this had never happened at all. The throb of my leg and the ache in my chest would never let me forget. That’s impossible now. If she falls because my shoddy miracle only worked halfway…
It shouldn’t have worked at all. I heard the alchemists exclaiming about it over and over again between waves of sleep. Some of them were hers and some of them had been Legion and not a one of them could tell exactly what I had done. All they could agree on is that the poison isn’t gone, not completely. Enough of this green shit and they think what’s left can be neutralized.
With days, maybe weeks of bedrest. I knew that keeping her down would be a struggle. I didn’t think I’d need to chase her. I rub at my throbbing head and try to push down the anger fueling the ache. I’d have run, too. Am running. They don’t know what’s wrong with me, either and here I am, running.
I suddenly understand Tressa’s eyeroll.
She’s back with Maribelle not long after, and my eyes water at the feel of her hide under my hand. Caelin tried to leave me with what I need, but even Maribelle is poor compensation for what she had to take.
Tressa’s hand finds my shoulder. "She can’t have gotten far," she says.
"I don’t know. That horse of hers," I say with a soggy sounding laugh.
"Well, then we’d best be off," she says, hoisting me up so I can clamber onto my patient mare. "Come on."
"You’re being suspiciously nice."
She gives Maribelle’s flank a stout whack and we start off. "I’m still watching you, Northshore."
I can’t help but feel a little relieved by that.
The paved path to the drawbridge doesn’t yield any tracks, but Tressa carries on back to the trail we took yesterday, undaunted. "How do you know she’s gone this way?" I call to her as she gallops on ahead.
"She’s not familiar with this part of the island," she answers confidently. "She’ll stick to what she knows. And she knows the nearest airship port is in Mountainside."
"Brilliant," I mutter.
She bows at the waist to examine a divot in the damp earth. "Dear gods."
"What?" I ask, rattled.
"His hooves are huge," she remarks, setting one of hers alongside the print. "I think that’s bigger than my face."
"Don’t do that," I sputter.
"It’s all right, prince. As long as we keep the trail, we can catch her up."
"Can we?" I ask, clenching a hand over my roiling gut. Because I know how that horse of hers runs, and I know how badly she wants to reach the capital before tomorrow. We might find her if she pushes both of those things, but by then…
Tressa lifts her head again, glancing back at Navigator’s tracks. "I told you, prince. I never miss a mark."
She reaches into her belt pouch and produces a brass whistle like the ones the ships’ captains carry to mark the changing of shifts. When she places it to her lips, though, instead of the high reedy sound I’m expecting, nothing but a blast of air comes out. Far from checking for defects, she just puts it away. I stare. "What was that?"
She lifts her eyes to the sky for a moment, gauges the wind, then looks back down at the tracks. "I called a friend."
"A friend?"
"I’m not much for public airships. The restrictions are too tight." She rubs absently at her throat, and mine clenches. I know that motion. She remembers the feeling of metal clamped around her. I start to open my mouth, but she cuts me off. "Simon’s ship is faster than theirs, anyhow. It’s getting a bit dark, though. The tracking’ll be tough."
I look at her a moment. "Is he trustworthy?"
Her mouth twitches. "Uh…well…" I lift an eyebrow, and she admits, "He’s Kennian."
Ah. A merchant lord. Wonderful. "And how expensive is his silence?"
"I get a discount," she says with a shrug.
It’ll have to do. Maribelle and I aren’t up to riding all night, and I can’t imagine that the flights into the royal city would be terrifically easy to catch on the night before the wedding. For those of us who aren’t the princess, anyhow. We both fall back into searching in silence until the waiting gets to me. "How long will it—?" I start.
My voice is drowned out by a gust of wind and a series of whirs and clicks, like a particularly large, particularly angry clock. The tops of the trees bow, and Tressa motions to me. "Plug your ears," she yells.
I cover one ear and press my other ear to my shoulder so I still have a hand free to steady Maribelle. In the last strains of the sunlight, an odd bronze box lowers itself to the road behind us. The ticking is reduced to a still loud, still insistent whum noise. All airships are odd, big stone and steel contraptions that only manage flight through the complicated manipulation of magical energy derived from the crystals mined from the edges of the island. But this one…I don’t feel the steady hum of flightcryst in concert with my magic. The capsule’s rickety little legs set down in the dust, and a door unseals itself in its side. A silhouetted figure appears in the gap, shouting something over the roar of whatever ungodsly mechanism powers this thing. Tressa rolls her eyes. "Shut it off," she appears to shout back.
The figure leans forward again, and Tressa frowns, pulling her hands from her ears to cup them around her mouth. The man steps into the light of some alchemist's fire suspended in the doorway and mouths, what? After a moment, he shakes his head and disappears back into the ship. All at once, it lets go of a hiss of steam, and the surging winds and the ticking both come to an abrupt halt. The pilot jogs down the ramp, the long skirt of his purple brocade coat trailing behind him. "Sorry, had to shut her off," he tells Tressa. "Couldn't hear a blessed thing. What are we doing this time? Deserters? Arsonists? Spies?"
Tressa pushes back her braid and rubs at her forehead. "I wish. Simon, Alain, Alain, Simon."
The man notices me for the first time, whirling to extend his hands to catch mine. For a merchant lord, he's surprisingly subtle—only three rings on each hand, and his hair, while rakishly arrayed over one eye, is a normal mousy brown. "Simon Arrow, private pilot and purveyor of fine and unusual goods," he says, pumping my hand up and down in both of his. "Any friend of Tressa's is a friend of mine."
I catch her eye. Is that what we are? She shrugs as if to say why not. "Hi," I manage.
"Forgive his manners," Tressa tells Arrow. "He's been asleep all day and we're in a bit of a rush."
"Where are we going?" He wants to know, one visible eyebrow raised.
"Well, if things go well, all the way to the Royal City," she answers. "But we've got to establish this trail first. I wasn't expecting you so soon."
He tilts his head back and lets out a petulant ughhhhh. "I hate this part. Tell me when it gets interesting."
She waves him off. "Go play with your toys."
"Those are carefully calibrated instruments, madam," he sniffs, stomping back up the ramp. "Fran and I will just be over here awaiting your pleasure."
"Who is Fran?" I ask.
Tressa shakes her head. "The ship."
"The finest ship," he blares unseen from inside. "And she's beginning to resent how you talk to her dearest Simon."
Tressa turns back to the path, bending to examine the trail. "Tell you that, did she? Funny how she
always seems to take your side."
"As if there's any other side," he scoffs.
I turn to look at her, not even really intending to convey anything, but I can feel my eyes widening and the worry tugging at my face. "He really is a good pilot," she assures me.
There are so many words vying for usage right now and most of them are impolite if not obscene. Curtly, I eke out, "How are we meant to follow this trail from the sky?"
"That's what I'm working on right now," she answers. "Typically I'd mark the trees, but that'll take a bit—what are you doing?"
I ease off Maribelle, landing on my knees and a hand in the damp dirt. With the other, I reach out and run my fingers through the soil. We're a little too far from the shore for me to feel the resonance of the crystmines, but I concentrate, cast about for the layers of earth most recently disturbed. It’s like trying to coax wet wood to set aflame, but at length, I force a spark of magic from my center, through my arm, into the dirt. Navigator’s truly massive hoofprints take on a blue sparkle. Tressa laughs in disbelief. "Well. That should do us—"
A second set of tracks lights up nearly right in stride with Navigator’s. My throat catches. "Was anyone else missing?"
"Not that I was told."
I brush the dirt from my hands and stand slowly. Who on earth could it have been? The only other friend she seems to have made was the sergeant, still recuperating from her bout with the stunning elixir. "Tressa," I start slowly. "What happened to Jori?"
"You don’t think…"
Neither of us can breathe enough to finish that sentence. She hauls me to my feet, takes Maribelle’s reins, and leads us both up the ramp into Fran.
I spend most of the flight trying to pretend I’m still on the ground. If feeling for the leylines was difficult before, it’s even harder now, hanging in the air hundreds of feet above them. Not hanging; hanging would be more comfortable. We are speeding over the Elyssian countryside. It’s all I can do to make sure my magic keeps up. Arrow glances over his shoulder. "How’re you doing, lad?"
I’d be better if people didn’t keep asking me that. It’s like I’ve left my stomach below and Fran’s dragging it along behind her, and the rest of me feels like it’s crackling. Maybe I can get him to make it easier. "You don’t use any flightcryst at all?" I ask.
"Nah. Just a little bit of alchemical lightning, boxed air, and some clockwork’s all you need. She’s something, huh? Fixed her up when the cryst dependents left her for junk."
It’s probably the lightning I’m feeling. Tressa looks over at me where she sits, arm looped around a metal post for support. The clockwork clicks in exacting circles all along the walls behind us. I perch precariously on a bench, afraid to jostle anything. "I don’t think he’s complimenting your ship, Simon. What do you need?"
"Privy’s in the back if you’re going to be sick," he adds helpfully.
All at once, the invisible line connecting me to the faint traces of light we’re following snaps. I gasp, hugging myself about the middle. Tressa stands abruptly and grips my shoulder. "It’s ended," I say, shuddering.
"What’s down there?" She asks.
Arrow slows the ship and consults a map spread across what’s meant to be a copilot’s seat. It’s clear from the junk strewn across it he hasn’t had one in a long time, if ever. "Lakewood’s airship port," he says, frowning.
"Lakewood?" She leans over to look out the window. "That’s not right. There’s no public port there."
I pick my head up. "It’s not public. It belongs to the guard."
Arrow’s frown creases ever deeper. "Who is it we’re chasing, exactly?"
Neither of us answer. From here, there’s no way of knowing where she’s gone. The trail ends at their gate, where the cobblestones scraped the horses’ hooves free of the dirt I’ve been following. Tressa looks at me. "There’s nothing for it," she says. "We’re just going to have to go to the royal city."
"And if she didn’t make it on a ship?"
She purses her lips, trying not to answer. We both know that if she didn’t make it on a ship, it’s too late for us to do anything about it.
Arrow throws a lever, and Fran stops in midair so he can swivel his seat and stare at us. "Who didn’t make it on a ship?"
Tressa glances at me, and I shake my head with a subtle jerk. The Kennian merchant lords turned the tides of the war simply by appearing to have information to sell. I’m sure there are plenty who would pay handsomely to know of any Elyssian weaknesses. She glances at Arrow. "I don’t suppose there’s any way we could catch a guard ship…"
His frown shifts, and he draws himself up. "What are you saying, lass?"
"I know they’re pretty fast."
"Pretty—" he shakes his head. "Sit down and hold on. I’ll show you pretty fast."
Tressa inches back over to her spot near the door and settles again, lifting her eyebrows at me. I give her a brief nod. Arrow whirls back around and snaps a small glass box of something vividly purple and pulsing to the helm. He releases Fran from her hover and we push up, lifting higher than any airship I’ve ever flown in. And with only rudimentary alchemical components? "How—how are we doing this?" I ask shakily.
Arrow shrugs. "Just a genius, I guess. Hold on. There’s going to be one more bump when we hit the cloud blanket."
Bump is a severe understatement. Tressa gets knocked nearly to her hooves again, and I shoot forward. One of my pouches spills open. Dread fills me as I try to figure out which one it is. The gold is important, but the other contains life itself. I hear two clinks and then a dragging sound as the vials roll to the front of the ship. "No," I say involuntarily, jumping up and trying to chase after them.
I am too slow. One smashes against a wall, its contents spilled on impact. The other tumbles straight to Arrow, who throws the lever again and reaches down to pick it up. My heart plummets as he holds the vial up between two long, tan fingers. "What is this?"
His smile is gone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alain
Arrow’s gaze slices like a razor as he holds the vial up to the dome of alchemist’s fire bolted to the ceiling. The liquid sloshes around the vial, much like my innards are churning watching it in his hands. I look at Tressa pleadingly, and she stands. "Simon—"
He holds up a hand. "Not this time, lass," he says, his voice deathly calm. "I want to hear what the boy has to say. I know a strong antidote when I see one, which leads me to wonder where the weapon is."
I’m mired in panicked calculations. Is it a good idea to put possibly the only man who knows how to fly this contraption to sleep in midair? Do I have an icicle’s chance in summer of threatening him? At last, my mind wraps itself around what he’s getting at—Cole’s habit of carrying the antidote to his poisons in case of accidents or second thoughts. Arrow’s eyes bore straight through me. "Where?"
Around a mouth like a desert, I say, "It’s done its damage and been destroyed. Please, I need that back."
"If you no longer carry it, then what’s so important about this?"
He tosses the vial up into the air. I reach out, try to pull it to me, but magic seems to be shying away from me after I just dragged it through the dirt from up here. It falls back into his hand with a heavy glass thunk. "Alain, just tell him," Tressa sighs.
How can I? How can I tell him that I think I lost some of my own life when I heard the first vial smash? How can I tell someone whose livelihood is based on state secrets that the princess has not one but two weaknesses aboard his ship right now? I finally manage the breath to say, "The weapon wasn’t mine."
"Show me the wound, then."
"It isn’t mine! The weapon or the wound. Please."
"Then whose is it?"
"Someone very important. To me." My heart thrashes too close to my ribs, my words too close to a betrayal.
Arrow tosses the vial again. "Someone important, all right. The deadliest poison either side of the war had to muster. Who’s worth that?" He holds the
vial high, his eyes locked with mine. "I will smash it."
I square my shoulders, set my jaw, try to summon my best impression of Alain Northshore. "Don’t."
He seems to be on holiday. An order from him once silenced an entire riot. He’d be awfully useful about now. Instead it’s a mewling ragamuffin I get, my don’t high and pleading. I try again to pull the vial to me, but the magic still seems to be avoiding me. Tressa cuts in again. "Simon, please. You don’t want to know."
His visible eye flicks to her, then back to me. In place of despair, a roiling anger starts boiling behind my ears. "All right, I love her," I thunder. "Is that what you want to know? My love is dying in the royal city and you’re playing games with the one thing that can save her life if we’re quick about it, so would you please just give it back?"
Above, the alchemist’s fire flickers brighter, then extinguishes, and Fran’s floor starts to rumble. Tressa reaches out for the bar behind her. "Alain," she starts, alarmed.
I take a new breath, trying to calm the energy pulsing just out of my reach. The alchemist’s fire flares to life again and Fran stabilizes. Arrow stares at his surroundings a moment, sobered. At last, he holds out the vial to me. "Sorry, lad. Had to be sure."
I snatch it and tuck it away in my pouch. "Of what?" I snap.
He pulls back the obnoxious sheaf of hair. A jagged pink scar surrounds nearly the whole of his opaque eye—the same ice blue that rings Caelin’s wound. "Not every merchant is as nice as I am," he says. "You’ll forgive me if I didn’t want to be the one that delivered a toxin like this to the royal city."
Tressa shakes her head. "Damn it, Simon, I could have told you.”
"He’s a caster. They’re clever." He glances at me with both eyes now. "This sweetheart of yours. Anyone I know?" I press my lips shut tighter, and he sighs. "I don’t do politics, boy."
"That I can confirm," Tressa says wearily. "Simon’s an exile."
I can’t help it. It’s possibly the stupidest question I could ask right now, but my jangled nerves and shaking knees put to much pressure on me to keep me from blurting, "What do you have to do to get kicked out of Kenn?"