But not Slay.
He didn’t see her as someone who needed saving or who had been broken. He saw someone who had survived against astronomical odds and was still here, still fighting. Worthy of alliance, a useful partner. To Prince Alastor, she would always be the broken doll he’d pulled from the executioner’s block. And to Tycho Vega, she would always be the toy he could never own. Not as he wanted, down deep in her soul.
“I don’t care if you offended him,” she declared. “I’ll tell you when we’re meeting someone who might prove consequential to our endeavors.” That was a proper obfuscation, and Slay stared for a few seconds, working out the hidden meaning.
“Ah. Understood.” Then he smiled, and oh, it was dazzling.
Suddenly, she flashed on a memory of him in Ash Valley. Then she hadn’t known who he was; his striking appearance drew her attention at first, but her gaze lingered because of the crushing sorrow that etched his features. Ro had been dallying in the park that day, marveling at the snow. Slay had stood in the cold, watching a small woman walk away. He’d clenched his fists, seeming like it took all his resolve not to chase her. Back then, his hair was longer, hanging to his shoulders. He had been much brawnier too, but life in the undercity pared people away, leaving only the minimum to sustain life.
Before she or Slay could say more, the supervisor herded everyone back inside. Long hours passed in monotonous labor. She’d worked these machines before, in between summons from the tyrant, and her muscles remembered the patterns. At eight bells, she stumbled out along with everyone else, exhausted but not ready to return to the alcove where they slept.
Here, there were variations on amenities available above, but nothing was free. They didn’t use coins in the undercity, but goods and services were bartered. Currently, she had nothing that anyone would want—it had all been taken from her in a traitor’s tax—but she needed to make connections and start stockpiling.
Slay moved after her, long lazy strides that still covered the ground at a deceptively rapid pace. “Where to now? We’re not headed back to base?”
“That’s a kind word for it.”
“You prefer flophouse?”
“More accurate.” Arrowing through the warren, she added, “I thought I’d see who’s still doing business in the market.”
“There’s a market? What do you use for currency, hair and bone?”
“Someone would probably take it,” she admitted. “Though you’d better not think too long on what they’re using the bone for.”
“Don’t try the mystery soup, got it.”
Yet again, he startled a laugh out of her. For Rowena surviving had been serious business since the day she was born, so her sense of humor rarely surfaced. She watched the world with a grim, faintly worried demeanor, and it used to trouble Prince Alastor, who wanted her to be happy above all things. She’d had the worst time making him understand that she was content in his service; it just wasn’t easy for her to show it.
“You have a nice laugh,” Slay said.
“Thanks.” It was the first compliment she could remember receiving that felt wholesome, without asking for more than she cared to give or at least implying that it would be desirable.
I’m safe with him.
The surety came to her, easing a tightness in her chest that she’d scarcely acknowledged. She didn’t dwell on it, focusing instead on navigation. Everything here was carved from stone or hastily erected, temporary baffles that could be yanked down and carted away on the run if a patrolman decided to be a hard-ass. Long ago, she’d surmised that those who were assigned down here as guards must’ve pissed someone important off in Golgerra. Problem was, they took their ire out on random prisoners.
“I didn’t even know this was here,” Slay said. “Granted, every time I ran for it, I was looking for a way out, not taking in the sights.”
Rowena tried to see the market as he would. Some entrepreneurs with energy to spare hunted vermin in the tunnels, and that was the meat they had on offer, charring on skewers. It wasn’t a good idea to light fires with such poor ventilation, but people did what they wanted until they got caught. She wrinkled her nose at the smell and peered through the smoke, trying to spot someone she recognized from the old days.
They can’t all be dead, right?
“How far did you get?” she asked.
“First time, I made it out of the undercity. Beat the hell out of a bunch of guards and sprinted up like a thousand stairs, but they overwhelmed me in the lower plaza, dragged me back down. I spent hell knows how long in the box after that run.”
“That’s incredible. It’s a wonder they didn’t execute you as an example.”
“At that point, they were still hoping to get some intel out of me.”
That made sense. “Right, you’re a political prisoner. They might ransom you eventually.”
“I’d rather stick with you. We’re a team now, yeah? You gave me your bread and everything. That means you love me more than life itself.” He grinned to show he was teasing, and she smiled back.
“Oh! There’s Old Wendell. He can point us in the right direction.”
Slay raced after Rowena, almost lost her in the crowd because she was like a dancer, spinning away from obstructions with preternatural grace.
He sniffed the air appreciatively. Seemed like they were barbecuing but—
“I wouldn’t,” she said over her shoulder.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Try the skewers. It’s likely to be rat. Possibly bat. Either way, they carry diseases and it’s an ugly way to die.” She ran an assessing gaze over him. “I’m not sure how your enhanced physiology would handle that.”
“Diseases are different than injuries,” he said. “There are issues that our systems can’t handle without help. Otherwise, we’d have no need for doctors.”
“That’s right. I traveled with Dr. Halek for a while. Did you know she’s…involved with Prince Alastor? They were quite happy together in Hallowell.”
Slay thought she seemed a little melancholy about that, and gods knew he could relate. “How the hell would I find that out? I’m getting all my news from you.” He paused, wondering if he should ask. “How was it in Ash Valley when you left?”
“They were rebuilding. The dead had been mourned and they had some defensive plans that I wasn’t privy to. Otherwise, I don’t know anything. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He wished it was.
She cut across a cluster of tables displaying bits of junk and stopped in front of an incredibly old man. To Slay’s surprise, Rowena squatted beside him, speaking loudly into his ear. “It’s Rowena. I won’t ask how you are because you always say—”
“I’m still here. Bored with life, too mean to die. It’s not good to see you, girl. I enjoyed knowing you were out there somewhere, living it up for all of us.”
Rowena’s silvery eyes misted over and Slay refused to look away. Rather he should confront her history. Right now he was walking the paths that made her who she was and he respected that.
“I did,” she said softly. “The first time I changed, I flew. Down here, I never got the chance, but once I went up… it was like I’d been waiting for the sky.” Softly she described the open space, the feel of wind on her skin, the shine of the sunlight on the water, different types of trees and finally, snow and rain, with more patience and poetry than Slay could’ve mustered.