“Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “We’re both filthy.”
Vera crossed the mossy shelf and hopped into the water with a light splash—leaving Bershad alone to make a decision. Bershad assumed that if he somehow managed to reach Burz-al-dun, he’d die there. Passing up one last chance at pleasure seemed foolish.
Bershad pulled off his clothes. Walked over to the edge of the pool.
Vera was standing hip-deep in the water. She untied her hair and let it drop past her shoulders. It was so long the tips touched the water and writhed around her in a black swirl. Her nipples had hardened in the night air, and the silver reflection of the moon outlined the shape of her breasts and collarbone and neck. The small, dark oval of her navel was just above the waterline.
She gazed up at him, scooping water with her uninjured hand and pouring it across her chest. The moonlight illuminated the outline of Vera’s lithe frame, but it also exposed Bershad’s own jagged scars and battered flesh. Notches cut from his shoulders. Dents and rends along his chest and rib cage. Scores of teeth marks dug out from his forearms and legs.
“Get in,” she said. “I’m not going to fuck you if you’re covered in mud and shit.”
He lowered himself into the water. Felt the warmth start relaxing his knotted muscles and stiff joints. The sandy river bottom was soft on his feet. He waded over to her. She kept a ghost of a smile on her lips as she raised her hands out of the water and rubbed her palms along his chest and arms. Massaging his muscles and then running her fingertips along his ruined skin.
He rubbed a hand along her arm and noticed a long, vertical scar running from hip bone to the base of her armpit.
“First big mistake I ever made,” she said when she saw him looking. She held up her left hand, with its missing pinky. “And I’m adding to the list more and more. At this rate, I’ll look like you before long.” She dipped her wounded hand into the water. Wincing a little at first and then relaxing.
“The warmth will help it,” Bershad said.
He ran his thumb over her scarred cheeks. Then Vera stood up on her toes and pressed Bershad’s shoulders down with her palms.
“Turn around and sit,” she said.
Vera guided him backward to dip his hair in the water, then she combed through the matted tangles and rings with her right hand. Explored his scalp with her fingers, massaging the base of his neck and just above his ears.
“Bad time to be short on soap,” she said, continuing to rub. “But I suppose this is better than nothing.”
Bershad turned around and pressed his face against her smooth belly. He kissed along her rib cage and moved one hand between her legs. She sighed, wrapping a hand into his long, wet hair. Bershad grabbed her ass with both hands and lifted her out of the water. Set her on the mossy shelf above the river. Her body was steaming from the heat of the river.
Bershad lay down on top of her. There was the slightest resistance and then he slipped inside. Vera gasped and then dug her nails into his back as he began to move in and out. She squeezed her legs around him and he took her by the wrists and pressed her arms over her head. Leaned in close to kiss her lips and neck.
Vera sat up just enough so that her full lips brushed across his ear. The mossy smell of the forest filled his head—traces of lavender wafting from Vera’s hair. A thousand summer insects vibrated their song through the trees and across the water like a great, secret heartbeat. Every scar on his body began to burn, and he felt his pleasure building deep down. Vera closed her eyes. Mouth open and skin flushed.
When it was over, they lay together on the moss, intertwined and quiet. Vera ran her finger along Bershad’s thigh, down to the place he’d been shot with the arrow.
She sat up. Face masked by shadow and hair. “How have you kept this a secret for all these years?” she asked. “Didn’t people notice?”
“Exiles have to keep moving. I’ve spent more time with you than anyone else in fourteen years, apart from Rowan. Most people only get glimpses of me, and they see what they want to see. The world wants a hero, not a demon.”
Vera ran a hand through his hair. Kissed him.
“I don’t believe in heroes,” she whispered.
20
JOLAN
Almira, Dainwood Province
When they were five leagues outside of Deepdale, Garret removed his cloak and stopped at a fresh spring to wash the dried blood off his hands and arms.
Back at the inn, he had stared at Jolan for a long time—hunting knife covered with gore and aimed at Jolan’s face. Then he had sheathed the blade and, without explaining himself, helped Jolan pack his belongings and sneak out of the city.
The spring where Garret had stopped was about a hundred paces off the road, and hidden by two ancient Dainwood trees that had twisted around each other in a complicated pattern.
“We’ll stop here for the night,” Garret said, eyeing the western sky. “No fire.”
Jolan nodded, but said nothing. They each found a comfortable spot beneath the trees and chewed on some dried beef while the sun went down. Jolan’s right eyelid had been twitching since they left the inn, and his hands were shaking so much that it was difficult to eat his food.
“Was that warden already dead when you cut his throat?” Jolan asked after a while. He’d been running the question over in his mind the entire day, using it like a drumbeat to time their fast-paced flight from Deepdale. “The one I hit with the pestle.”
“He wasn’t breathing,” Garret said.
“So I killed him, then.”
“Does it matter?” Garret asked. “Your stone or my dagger, those men were dead the second they burst through that door.”
“It matters to me.”
Garret let out a heavy breath, then produced his pipe, packed it with tobacco, but didn’t light it. Just sat with the pipe in his hand, rubbing at the wood with his thumb.
“You didn’t tell me you were a fugitive,” he said.
“You didn’t tell me you were a murderer,” Jolan shot back.
Garret narrowed his eyes but otherwise didn’t respond.
“I am not an idiot,” Jolan continued. “Lord Grealor hanging from a statue. Everyone talking about Lord Tybolt dead in Mudwall. It was you.”
“That’s right.”
Jolan swallowed. “How many other men have you killed?”
“More than you,” Garret admitted. “Less than others.”
“Why are you doing this? Did they … wrong you somehow?”
“They wronged someone. And that someone hired me.”
Jolan chewed on his lip for a moment. “You’re an assassin.”
“Is that such a bad thing to be?” Garret asked.
“Of course it is! You kill people for money.”
“So does every warden in Almira. But your average soldier has done far darker work than me. You ever seen a village after some bloodthirsty wardens have ridden through it? Every man and boy killed, and killed messy. Every woman raped. Every girl, too, usually. You Almirans are known for that type of bloodlust.”
“I saw what you did to Lord Grealor,” Jolan said. “Looked like pretty dark work to me.”
“He felt no pain,” Garret said. “Most of the men I’ve killed never even knew I was in the same room with them. I once killed a prince while he was on a pleasure barge surrounded by soldiers and bodyguards. None saw me. My work is clean.”
“Getting bitten by a dragon doesn’t seem very clean to me.”
Garret seemed to think about that. “Well, life is unpredictable. But I’m the best at what I do.”
“Being good at murder doesn’t justify the act. You’re still a hired killer.”
Garret shrugged. “We all have our roles, boy. If I wasn’t playing this part, someone else would.”
“So, nothing’s your fault?” Jolan raised his voice a little. “That’s pathetic. This is what everyone does. They hide behind gods and titles and dragonshit excuses so they never have to actually stand for
their crimes. Nobody can bear to look at themselves. Not honestly.”
Garret thumbed his pipe a while, his face unreadable. Jolan couldn’t tell if he was bored, uninterested, or about to stand up and cut his throat. “What about that apothecary?” Garret asked. “Do you take responsibility for burning it down?”
“After Morgan died, I didn’t know what to do, so I just went back to the shop and waited. Lord Nimbu showed up after he’d finished collecting his share of the oil from the dragonslaying,” Jolan said. “He told me that I was trespassing on his land, and that he’d have me whipped if I didn’t vacate by nightfall.” Jolan swallowed. “He didn’t deserve that shop, or the ingredients inside. So I put what I could into my pack, and burned the rest. It didn’t get anyone killed.”
“The flames didn’t. But what about all the people in Otter Rock that an alchemist could have saved while working from that shop?”
“Nimbu was going to sell everything. Even if I stayed in Otter Rock, it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“Who’s hiding behind an excuse now? You could have found a cure for that plague you talked about so much if you really wanted to. But instead you fled. And now there’s nobody to help the people of Otter Rock.”
“That doesn’t justify what you’ve done.”
“I didn’t say it did. But I’m not trying to dodge responsibility for the lives I’ve taken. You are. And you’re using sloppy logic to do it. Your Master Morgan wouldn’t approve, I don’t think.”
“Fine,” Jolan said, keeping his teeth together. “I take responsibil ity. I take responsibility for burning my home to the ground, and for killing that man back in Deepdale.” Jolan tossed his dried meat onto the forest floor. “I take responsibility for saving your miserable life. Twice now. And I will feel guilty about all those things until the day I go on the long swim.”
Garret blinked, but said nothing.
“And why haven’t you killed me yet?” Jolan asked. “I healed you. Got you into Deepdale. But I’m not useful to you anymore. Why didn’t you leave my corpse on the floor of that inn?”
Garret’s eyelid flinched. “You’re worth more to me alive.”
“How?”
“In my line of work, easy access to a good healer is valuable. I know you now. And I know that you’re a wanted criminal, which means you’ll have plenty of incentive to help me again in the future, should I require it.”
Jolan thought about that. “If you get yourself bitten by another dragon, it’d be easier to break into some alchemist’s shop and threaten his family than track me down.”
“Most people don’t argue so hard against saving their own life, Jolan.”
“I’m just pointing out sloppy logic when I see it, Garret.”
They stared at each other for a long time.
“Well, you’re a clever kid,” Garret said. “I’m sure you’ll figure out why you’re still alive eventually.”
Garret reclined against a tree stump. Closed his eyes. “I’m going to sleep now. One way or another, you and I will part ways tomorrow. I’ll leave the particulars up to you.”
Jolan watched Garret until his breathing turned regular with sleep. Then he dug out the alchemy supplies from his pack. There were enough ingredients to make a liquid poison that Jolan could soak in a rag and hold over Garret’s face. The assassin would be dead in three seconds. Maybe five. Or he could brew something else entirely.
His choice.
21
GARRET
Almira, Dainwood Province
When Garret woke up, Jolan had placed three glass vials on a stone in the middle of their camp. All of the vials were corked and filled with the same reddish liquid. The boy was sitting cross-legged a few paces away, staring at the vials.
“The tonic I made for you in Deepdale will stop the dragon rot in your bloodstream, but the wound is still vulnerable. That’s enough topical disinfectant to last three weeks,” he said, refusing to look at Garret. “Apply to the wound three times a day, four if it stays humid like this. Keep your arm dry and change the bandage twice a day, every day.”
Garret sat up. Checked his knife and his goatskin bladder. Everything was in order. Garret wondered if the boy had poisoned the vials while he slept. It was certainly possible.
“Which way are you headed?” Garret asked.
“Southeast.” Jolan’s voice was wary. “To the dragon warrens.”
“Off to save the world?”
Jolan shrugged. Looked away.
Garret stood up. “It’s north for me.”
Jolan stood as well. “You’ve taught me a lot about the world, Garret. I’ll remember it.”
He nodded. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Jolan.”
To his surprise, Garret meant it.
He watched as the boy disappeared into the forest. A twig snapped about a dozen paces off in the undergrowth, and then Garret was alone. He pulled a cork on one of the vials and applied the salve to his forearm. It burned for a moment, then went cool. Garret waited to see if the boy had killed him after all, but death didn’t arrive. Just a few squirrels venturing down from the trees and picking around at his feet, hunting for some scraps of dried meat.
Garret smiled to himself. Realized he would miss the boy and his chatty company. It felt good, knowing Jolan would be down here looking for mushrooms and moss. Living the peaceful life that Garret had never known.
He gathered his gear and headed north. It was a long way to Floodhaven, but Garret did not leave a job undone. And there was one final bit of work waiting for him in the capital of Almira.
PART III
22
ASHLYN
Almira, Castle Malgrave
Ashlyn Malgrave sat on the throne and tried to keep her back straight. It was early afternoon, and she had been taking audiences with the lords of Almira for almost five hours. The small of her back was wet with sweat, her throat was dry, and a fly had been buzzing around her head for the past thirty minutes.
Her coronation was still a week away, but Ashlyn had begun holding court early. It was a good way for her to build favor and respect among the small lords of Almira, which she needed now that almost every Malgrave warden was outside of Floodhaven.
“Your Grace,” said Crellin Nimbu. Ashlyn remembered watching the small lord ride into Floodhaven with his fresh lot of newly hired wardens. Now that he’d come into a fair amount of gold and soldiers, he was probably prowling Floodhaven for a wife. His handsome features and a perfectly trimmed goatee would help, but there was a rumor that he was fond of urinating on the women he brought into his bedchamber, which would not.
Nimbu knelt. “My family has always supported the Malgraves, even in the old days before your family had the throne. For generations, Blakmar has been the heart of Malgrave support in the northern Atlas Coast, in fact—”
“I am aware of your support,” Ashlyn said, interrupting him. She had learned that lords would not stop listing their accomplishments during audiences—no matter how small they were—unless she forced them to. “What would you ask of me today?”
Nimbu paused and adjusted the collar of his jacket, which was bright yellow with black buttons. “My queen, I have a grievance regarding the apothecary in Otter Rock,” he said. “According to your wishes, I hired an alchemist—Morgan Mollevan—into my service to help with the recent, uh, ailments of my people. I paid for his contract and provided him with three acres of land and a comfortable cabin for his business.”
Ashlyn had ordered Nimbu to hire an alchemist five years ago, when it became obvious the sickness related to the invasive red-shelled snails wasn’t going to leave the Blakmar province on its own. Hertzog hadn’t stopped Ashlyn’s request, but he hadn’t supported her, either. So Nimbu had tried to shirk the duty.
“As I recall, you required quite a bit of convincing before doing any of those things. For how many years did I give you a discounted tax rate on your wool before you hired Morgan? One? Two?”
“Three,
my queen.”
“Three,” Ashlyn repeated. She’d known that, of course. She just wanted to make Nimbu say it. “Continue, Lord Nimbu.”
“Well, Morgan was killed by a dragon not long ago. Afterward, his apprentice—a boy named Jolan—stole the most valuable tonics and ingredients, then burned the apothecary down before disappearing. I have posted a bounty on him, but if the boy cannot be brought to justice, I at least expect recompense from the Alchemist Order. By right, I owned the contents of that shop after Morgan died.”
Ashlyn had already heard of Morgan’s demise. A terrible loss. She also found it interesting that Nimbu had fought tooth and nail to avoid hiring the alchemist, but now demanded reimbursement for the loss of the shop. But Ashlyn could not afford to test Nimbu’s loyalty. He may have only brought fifty wardens into Floodhaven, but she needed all of them to fight for her if it came to that.
“The Flawless Bershad killed the Needle-Throated Verdun dragon after it killed Master Morgan, correct?” Ashlyn asked.
“Yes, my queen.”
“Let’s keep things simple, then,” Ashlyn said. “The alchemists are a fragmented, decentralized order, which will make it difficult to obtain recompense for apprentices with tendencies toward arson. Instead, I will cover the loss. As per the laws of Almira, you owe the Malgrave Crown a third of your share of the dragon oil that you harvested from the Needle-Throated Verdun. No doubt you brought it with you today.”
“I did, my queen. I wanted to deliver it personally.”
“Take it back to Blakmar. Or, if you prefer, I will have a steward load it onto a trading galley with the next tide and pay you the cur rent market’s expected profit in gold today. Will that make things even?”
“Yes, my queen.” Nimbu bowed, a smile spreading across his face. A third of a Needle-Throated Verdun’s oil was worth far more than the inventory of a well-stocked apothecary. “The gold will do nicely.”
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