Outside, the sky was black and clouded, hiding every star. I trudged up the grassy knoll that concealed part of the cave—the nomads’ temporary base as Garreth and Zabelle debated what to do next, where to go now that Ghost Village had been destroyed—and stared at the rolling hills stretching as far as I could see in every direction.
Should I take Wraith and leave again? Or would Garreth ride after me as he had before, threatening and begging until I returned with him?
It had been a week since Stony Harbor was invaded. Since Draki chased me through the forest and I’d leaped from the northern bluffs rather than become his captive. I was only alive because a vengeful god had willed it, thinking I could free him.
I held my hand out, staring at the veins crisscrossing beneath my skin. I could hear the scrape of blood pushing through my body. I could taste it—the tang of earth and iron mixed with something ancient, like tendrils of an ageless sentience on my tongue. If I closed my eyes and concentrated, I could hear the rustle of a blade of grass a half league away, taste the dew collecting on its edges. I heard my brother snoring in the cave below, tasted the leather and steel of the armor he wore even while he slept.
I didn’t know what sort of power now resided in me. There was my heightened senses. And the trail of rats and birds that often followed me, the impression that I was connected to every creature in Glasnith. But beyond that? I had no way of knowing. Veronis had not spoken inside my head since telling me to sing underwater so the Brine Beasts would come, though I’d been listening for his voice, waiting.
Patience had never been a strength of mine. It was why I’d stolen off last night, heading for Stony Harbor. To search for Ishleen. To help any survivors escape.
To kill Draki.
I’d not realized how foolish my plan was until Garreth caught me and talked me out of it. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try again. The alternative was endless, useless waiting. And thinking. And dreaming.
Of Reyker.
Though she moved with stealth, I heard Zabelle coming long before I saw her walking nimbly up the hill. She sat down next to me, stretching her legs out in front of her.
“I don’t need a keeper, Zabelle.”
“I am not offering.” She pulled a flask from her long coat and drank deeply, then held it out to me. “I have enough trouble looking after my own people.”
Accepting the flask, I took a swig to match Zabelle’s and instantly regretted it. The foul liquid tasted like sulfur and burned going down. I wiped my whiskey-numbed lips on my sleeve. Zabelle’s sleeve, actually; she’d lent me some of her clothing—trousers that were so long I had to roll the cuffs up, a flowing tunic that I cinched at the waist with a belt, and soft hunting boots. The wardrobe suited me well enough that I’d sworn off dresses indefinitely.
“Let me tell you a story,” Zabelle said. “When I was a small girl living with my mother in an Aukian brothel, she used to send me out to beg on the streets while she worked. I was so ashamed of her for being a whore, ashamed of myself for being a beggar and a whore’s daughter. But when I told her so, Mama would say this to me: ‘In this life, we cannot control what gifts we are given. We can only use them as best we can. So keep your head bowed and your hands open, and no matter what someone gives, smile at them like you are grateful, because even the smallest bit of coin puts bread in our bellies so we may survive one more day.’ ”
My life had not been easy, but I sometimes forgot how privileged it had been compared to others. “You’re telling me to appreciate everything I have—my brother, my abilities, being alive when so many are dead—and do the best I can with those gifts.”
“I am telling you to be glad you are not a starving beggar living in an Aukian brothel.”
A laugh burst from my chest. How long had it been since I’d laughed? Zabelle laughed with me, and we passed the flask back and forth once more.
“I’m sorry about Mago,” I said. “He seemed like a good man.” The exiled mercenary had been captured by Dragonmen and flayed alive by a Daughter of Aillira with a gift for torture.
“He was,” Zabelle agreed, her expression softening. “He would be grateful to you for getting Eathalin away from those monsters. We are all grateful.”
“Don’t be. Not until we find her.” When I’d last seen Eathalin—another Daughter of Aillira, a gifted spell-caster—she’d been boarding a boat bound for Selkie’s Quay. I wasn’t sure if she’d made it. Garreth had sent scouts to find out, but they had yet to return.
“We will. Nomads don’t abandon our people.” There was weight to her words, an unspoken invitation. I wasn’t a nomad, but I could be. Like Garreth, I could join a new clan to replace the one I’d lost.
“Garreth assumes I’ll stay with him, but I’m not sure I belong with the nomads. I don’t even know who I am anymore. All I know is I want vengeance for my clan.” On my backstabbing uncle. On the tyrant warlord.
“When I feel as you do,” Zabelle said, “I find that whiskey helps. So does a good fight. Or seducing a spirited man or woman into my bed.”
The thought of someone other than Reyker in my bed—someone else’s hands on me, someone else’s mouth on mine—made me ill. “Is that what Garreth is to you?” I asked.
Zabelle’s eyes narrowed. She started to say something, but I shushed her as sounds drifted toward me from across the hills. Clomping. Wheezing. A horse and its rider, a league or so away. I tasted the salt of sweat, the tang of iron. Blood. There was something familiar to it. I knew this person.
“Someone’s coming.” I was already on my feet, hurrying to where the nomads’ horses had been corralled, Zabelle following close behind.
“Friend or enemy?” She didn’t ask how I knew, simply accepting that I did.
“I can’t tell until we get closer.” The horses had all turned, every pair of dark eyes trained on me. There was a bubbling in my blood, a spike of energy. The herd moved aside as Wraith trod through their midst and stopped in front of me, waiting, as if I’d called aloud to him.
We mounted our horses and led them to the cave’s mouth so Zabelle could warn the guards. “Should we wake the prince?” one of them asked.
I answered before Zabelle could, shaking my head. “Let him sleep.”
With nothing but a thought from me, Wraith headed into the hills. Zabelle’s horse caught up quickly. “Garreth will be angry,” Zabelle said.
“I don’t need my brother hovering about everywhere I go. Besides, you and I can handle whoever is out there.” I flashed her a grin. “Perhaps a good fight awaits us.”
We beckoned our horses to run faster, closing in on the lone rider.