There was a knock on the door. Every widow in the room moved her hand to her blade. Hayden stepped outside for a moment and came back in.
“My queen, there is a sentinel outside who says he has ridden from Deepdale with a message for you. I’ve checked him for weapons; he is unarmed.”
“Bring him in.”
“My queen,” the sentinel said, kneeling. He was a tall man with long brown hair and dozens of blackheads on his bulbous nose. He was wearing Grealor colors, but they were covered in mud and grime.
“Rise,” Ashlyn said. “Is Elden on his way back to Floodhaven yet?”
“No, my queen.” The sentinel swallowed once. “Lord Grealor is dead.”
* * *
“How could this have happened?” Ashlyn said to nobody in particular.
After the sentinel had delivered his message, Ashlyn sent him away, then moved up to her observatory to figure out a response. Only Hayden and Shoshone came with her.
“There are still plenty of Bershad loyalists in Deepdale,” Hayden said. “The Jaguar Army in particular. If Elden was trying to raise a host of wardens as you requested, he might have added enough pressure that they lynched him.”
“No,” Ashlyn said. “The Jaguars are soldiers. They don’t murder lords from the shadows. This is different. And familiar.”
“Familiar how, my queen?” Shoshone asked.
“A lord dies—there are no witnesses. And chaos follows. Same as Mudwall.”
The sentinel had brought other news from Deepdale. Three of Elden’s sons were in the city when he died, and all of them believed they should inherit Dainwood. The oldest had already been killed in a duel—the other two had entrenched themselves in different parts of the city and divided the southern wardens’ allegiance. To make matters worse, both brothers had come to the same conclusion as Hayden and blamed the Jaguars for Grealor’s death. Problem was, the Jaguars had responded to the accusation with drawn swords. They’d won several skirmishes despite being vastly outnumbered, then disappeared into the jungle.
“You think Mudwall and Deepdale are related?” Hayden asked.
“I think that Cedar Wallace has benefited from both events.” Ashlyn stared at the map. Looked at her ledger. “I can’t rely on another lord’s wardens to resolve the situation in Deepdale. I have no choice but to send Malgrave wardens south.”
Hayden frowned. “Half our wardens are already in Mudwall. With all the traffic into Floodhaven, our men are needed here to keep the peace. And protect you.”
“We have Shoshone and her widows to protect me now,” Ashlyn said. “This is what will happen—three thousand Malgrave wardens will go south tomorrow morning. That leaves enough men in Floodhaven to guard the walls. We will use the small lords of the Atlas Coast and Linkon Pommol’s wardens to fill in the gaps within the city until our forces return from Mudwall and Deepdale.”
“That leaves you far more vulnerable than I am comfortable with,” Hayden said. “Especially if Cedar Wallace’s wardens show up before ours return.”
“If there was a better option, I’d take it,” Ashlyn said. “But there isn’t. I’ll prepare the orders right away. Our wardens need to stabilize Deepdale, then bring as many wardens as possible back to Floodhaven. Hayden, organize the men and let them know that they ride south at dawn.”
19
BERSHAD
Skojit Territory, Razorback Mountains
Three of Vera’s fingers were dislocated. They twisted away from her hand in an unsettling way. Her smallest finger was destroyed—the bone poked through the flesh in two different places and her nail faced her wrist.
“Most of this can be salvaged,” Bershad said, examining her hand in the firelight. “But that pinky needs to go.”
Vera winced and nodded. “Fix the others first.”
“It’s going to hurt a lot,” he warned.
She just motioned with her other hand for Bershad to get on with it.
Bershad gripped her first finger.
“On three. One—”
He snapped her first finger back into place. Vera sucked in and pounded her foot hard against the ground.
“Two.”
He snapped the second back into place.
“Three.”
The third was the farthest out, so Bershad had to yank hard before he felt the bone lift and slide back into place. When it was done, he handed her one of the Skojit’s wineskins. Vera took four or five big gulps.
“Piss for wine,” she muttered.
Bershad drew his dragontooth dagger, wiped it clean, and held it over the fire for a few moments. He untied a leather pouch filled with Spartania moss from his belt and opened it up. There was a bolt of silk bandages on top, which he set aside, and then he pulled several clumps of moss out and crushed them between thumb and forefinger. He placed the pellets on top of the silk, and then picked up the knife again.
“The moss will keep it clean when I’m done,” he said.
He guided Vera’s hand to a log that one of the Skojit had been using as a seat. He pressed her recently relocated fingers together—isolating the ruined pinky.
Surgeons and alchemists always made a big deal of tying people down and drowning them with opium before things like this, but Vera seemed calm enough. Besides, they didn’t have any opium—he’d left his pouch with Rowan.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
Bershad slammed the knife down, severing Vera’s pinky just below the knuckle.
Before her blood had time to spurt, he plugged the wound with Spartania moss and wrapped the silk bandage around her finger stump and hand. He cinched the silk tight using a small twig as a lever and then sat back on his haunches. Vera was breathing a little heavy, but overall hadn’t taken the loss of her finger with much drama. She picked up the wineskin and drank some more. Bershad watched her white throat bob up and down.
“What now?” she asked, wiping off her mouth with the back of her undamaged hand.
Bershad squinted at the eastern sky through a copse of cedars. “Dawn soon. We best head back to where we spotted them and keep on climbing.”
“You sure this is the last of them?” Vera asked.
“No. But a camp full of dead men has a good shot at convincing any other Skojit we’re not worth keeping after.” Bershad took the wine from her and drank. She was right, it tasted like piss.
They made it back to the rock shelf as the gray glow of dawn was burning off into daylight.
“The very last thing I want to do right now is climb this cliff,” Vera said.
“Life’s full of disappointments.”
* * *
Vera was slowed by her wound. Every time she lost her grip on a rock or missed a handhold, she muttered a Papyrian curse under her breath. Eventually, they reached a drainage that finally allowed them to cut back toward the rushing river. Bershad had hoped to find an easy crossing, but instead they just found more rapids and currents that pounded down on the rocks in an endless roar.
Bershad dipped one foot into the current and was nearly swept away by the ankle. He had to grab onto a small bush to avoid being sucked into the torrent.
“Not crossing here,” he called to Vera. It was hard to believe a broken trunk had caused such an inconvenience. Their only option was to keep climbing.
At midday Bershad called a stop.
“Need to change your bandage,” he said, between breaths.
“So soon?”
“Sweating and battering it against the ground like this, it’ll rot faster. Better a bandage change than a black hand that I have to cut off, right?”
Vera examined her hand, as if checking for signs of rot, and then sat down against a twisted tree and let him do his work. Bershad unwound the old bandage, packed it away to boil in water later, and removed the used clump of Spartania. He replaced it with a fresh piece.
“You’re good at all of this,” Vera said as he worked.
Bershad grunted as he plugged the finger stump
with fresh moss. “I’ve had some practice.”
“If that’s true, how come you didn’t put the moss in your arrow wound?”
Bershad looked up at Vera. Her dark eyes studied him.
“Don’t say it wasn’t bad enough,” she continued. “I’m not an idiot.”
Bershad hesitated, keeping both hands on her wrist. His instinct was to hold back the truth, like he’d done with Ashlyn. Like he’d been doing for years. He hadn’t put moss on his wound because he didn’t want Vera to see how quickly he’d heal when it touched his skin. Seeing that would only lead to questions he couldn’t answer.
“It’s a long, dangerous walk over these mountains,” he said. “Figured we best conserve.”
Vera squinted at him. “You’re lying.”
“Honesty was never part of our agreement.” Bershad finished with her wrist and started packing up the moss and bandages. “Let’s go,” he said, motioning with one arm.
“No.” Vera grabbed a chunk of moss from the pouch and wadded it up.
“What’re you doing?” Bershad asked.
“If you won’t tell me the truth with your mouth, I’ll get your leg to do it,” Vera said. She unlatched the sling from her thigh and, like a snake, wrapped the leather around Bershad’s wrists and strapped them to a tree over his head.
“What the fuck?”
“Quiet.”
He struggled but it didn’t do any good. Vera grappled him into submission easily, yanked his pants down, and jammed the moss underneath the bandage on his leg. She pulled his pants back up roughly. Then she put her hand around Bershad’s throat and looked him square in the eyes.
“If you take that out, I’ll tie you up, cram it back in again, and we’ll never get anywhere today. Clear?”
Bershad glared at her. He’d have to kill Vera to stop her, and he didn’t want to do that.
“Have it your way, widow,” Bershad said. “But you won’t like the place this path takes you.”
“I’m used to that problem,” she said, releasing his hands and stalking off into the forest.
* * *
Normally, the plants and trees would have thinned out as they climbed higher, but since they were heading toward a dragon warren, the opposite happened. Tall, colorful flowers became more frequent. Moss carpeted the ground. Vines stretched up the trunks of every tree and snaked along the limbs, sprouting bright yellow parasol flowers that intermingled with the green pines. Their beauty was deceptive. Beneath the vibrant colors, the warren plants were strangling the natural forest to death. The slow, insidious struggle for power and resources was easy to mistake for peace.
Near dark, they came across a calm and lazy stream that fed into the impassable river. The water was warm and filled with fat, colorful fish darting around in the clear, moonlit water. Their heads popped up sporadically to feed on the evening wave of insects.
“How is the water so warm?” Vera asked, breaking a five-hour silence. She held her hand over the steam that was rising off the surface of the river.
Bershad didn’t respond. He was still pissed at her for the moss.
It was too dark to keep moving. They found a spot to camp at a horseshoe-shaped bend in the stream that overlooked a deep pool from a mossy shelf. Near the bank, a great tree had been pulled down by vines—the roots yanked halfway out of the earth, creating a space with a decent overhang for shelter. Bershad worked on a fire while Vera prepared her fishing line and began making casts into the pool. After the lines were drawn, she picked at the spot on her shoulder pauldron that had been sheared off by the skinny Skojit, as if there was a way to regrow the ruined armor. Neither of them spoke. Bershad finished the fire, then checked and cleaned his weapons. The moss had been doing its work all day. He knew what Vera would see when she removed the bandage, and he wasn’t looking forward to her reaction.
It didn’t take long for Vera to pull two of the enormous yellow-and-blue fish from the river. She gutted and cleaned them and set them to cook on a flat stone she’d placed in the fire.
“Strangest river fish I ever saw,” Vera said.
“All this comes from the dragon warren higher up,” Bershad said, realizing that continuing the silent treatment was both useless and childish. “It changes the landscape. Makes it richer. The fish are like fat lords high in their keeps and castles. Gorging themselves on the world below. Well, above in the fish’s case. Everything up here lives longer, too. You might have just killed a hundred-year-old fish.”
She gave him a queer look. “How do you know so much about warrens?”
“The Dainwood is full of them,” Bershad said. “I used to explore them as a kid. They aren’t as dangerous as the stories make them out to be, just hard to understand. Nobody knows how the dragons create them or why the creatures inside grow like they do. And when men can’t comprehend a thing, they get scared of it. Spin up lies about demons lurking amid all the fertile wealth, guarding dragon eggs.”
Vera grunted. Checked the fish with her undamaged hand, then leaned back and gave Bershad a long look. “Are you going to make me tie you up again or are you going to show me that leg?”
“You’re sure you want to see this?” Bershad asked. “I can get you over these mountains and into Balaria without complicating things for you.”
“I’m sure.”
Bershad stood up and unbuckled his pants. Pulled them down and flicked the moss away. The firelight made it easy for Vera to see that his arrow wound was healed—nothing but a pink, raised scar remained.
“Happy?” Bershad asked, pulling his pants back up and sitting down.
Vera fiddled with the bandage on her hand. “That is not what I expected,” she said without looking up.
“What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure.” Vera raised her eyes. “This is how you’ve survived all these years?”
Bershad nodded. “The third dragon that I killed gored me in the back. Pierced my liver and a kidney. Rowan plugged it with Spartania moss out of habit—every warden knows how to keep a wound clean—but we both figured that was the end. He stayed up with me in a barn, waiting with a seashell in his hand. But I never needed it.” He shrugged. “We were back on the road a week later.”
The fire crackled. Flames reflected in Vera’s eyes. “What are you?”
“Most people would say I’m a demon. That’s why I’ve hidden it for so long.”
“I’m not most people,” Vera said.
Bershad leaned forward and picked at the fish a little. He was tired of lying, but wasn’t sure how to begin explaining it.
“Tell me what it feels like, at least,” Vera said, seeing his struggle.
Bershad thought about that.
“It’s as if there’s something inside of me that doesn’t belong. Just like the dragon warren doesn’t belong at the top of this mountain. And it’s getting worse. The last time someone put moss in my body, it gave me a wild strength that was so powerful I threw a spear through a dragon’s forehead. Do you know how much force that takes?”
“More than a man should have,” Vera said.
“Exactly.” He paused. “What would you do if you were me?”
“I would search for the truth,” Vera said. “No matter the cost. It is like you said, men are most afraid of things that they do not understand. You’ll never be able to control something that scares you.”
“I’ve been searching. I’ve asked every alchemist and shaman I’ve met for the last fourteen years if they’ve ever seen anything like this. None of them have.”
“Search harder,” Vera said. “Then use the strength to protect the people you care about. That’s what I would do, anyway.” She studied him. “But you aren’t traveling to Burz-al-dun to protect someone, are you?”
Bershad hesitated. “I have a debt that I need to repay.”
“A debt,” Vera repeated. “You’re talking about what you did in that canyon?”
“That, and every black thing I’ve done since.” Bershad rubb
ed the tattoo on his forearm. Thought of all the dragons that were burned forever into his skin. And his soul.
“And rescuing a kidnapped princess you’ve never met, from a country that’s exiled you, is going to pay that debt? I haven’t known you for very long, but I don’t believe that for a second.”
Bershad grunted. “Anyone ever told you that you’re irritatingly observant?”
“Silas, what are you planning to do when we get to Burz-al-dun?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
“Why?”
“Same reason Ashlyn didn’t tell me Felgor’s part in all this. The less you know, the less you can tell a torturer.” He paused. “I’ll help you get to Kira. But then I have to go my own way. I made a promise to Ashlyn Malgrave that I intend to keep, no matter the cost. You understand that, don’t you? You’ve come all this way because of a promise you made to a Malgrave, too.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I can still help you,” Bershad said. “Having a demon on your side is a good thing.”
Vera looked out at the river for a long time, then stood up. The leather of her armor sighed as she stretched both arms over her head, then dropped them down to her hips. “You don’t look like a demon to me, Silas. You look like a man.” She licked her lips. “What do I look like to you?”
Bershad frowned. “You’re not afraid of me?”
“Do I look afraid?”
“No.”
“Then answer my question.”
“You look like a woman, Vera.” He paused. “A beautiful woman.”
Vera released the straps of her sharkskin breastplate and pulled it off. Then she unwound the sweat-stained linen shirt beneath and tossed it on the ground. Her nipples were small and dark, encircled by the smallest areolas Bershad had ever seen. She pulled the leather ties around her hips loose and shucked off her pants and boots in one smooth motion. Between her thighs there was only a small tuft of smooth black hair, glistening like silk in the orange firelight. Her body was nimble and lithe. Even while naked she carried herself with the balance of a killer. Vera turned around and took one step toward the steaming river—the muscles of her back and thighs defined by the flickering shadows cast from the fire.
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