Sunshield

by Emily B. Martin

  I make a wide circle around the perimeter of Pasul before finally reaching the edge of town. I’m cramped with cold and dogged by fatigue, and I can almost hear Mama hollering from here.

  Listen to your body, she shouts, she whispers, my face cradled in her palms. Your body is smarter than your brain. It tells you what it needs. Listen, Veran, listen to it.

  But I can’t right now, Mama. And I can’t listen to my head, either. I don’t know what I’m listening to—the truth about Lark has knocked all sense out of me.

  I hope Mama and Papa will understand. I hope they won’t blame Rou. I hope he’ll be all right—I hope Eloise will be all right.

  I hope I haven’t used the last of my luck.

  And Lark . . .

  I have no idea what to hope for her, so with a kick, I urge Kuree forward. She springs over the flooded flats.

  We thunder back into the Ferinno.

  Tamsin

  Iano reins the horse in on top of the ridge overlooking Pasul. We had almost no time to select a mount from the corrals, and even less to properly saddle it, so we’re on an old, bow-backed mare with only a blanket beneath us. But I’m light, and the poor animal so far seems sturdy enough, bringing us to the crest of the trail just as the thunderstorm slackens.

  We sit for a moment, watching the dark clouds tumble away into the desert. Every now and again a stray bolt leaps from the sky to connect with the earth.

  “By the colors, I hope they’ll be all right,” Iano says. He’s in front of me, his waist a solid trunk for me to cling to. I lean my head on his shoulder blade, gazing out at the open sky and absently worrying the amber beads on my too-loose si-oque.

  He twists on the mare’s back, turning to look me over with anxious eyes. Things are lightening now into an early sunset made brilliant by the streaks of clouds still left in the west. His damp skin and hair are glazed with red and orange.

  Tekonnsi. Urksi. Energy. Contentment.

  I feel neither of those things.

  He reaches back to brush my cheek with his thumb. He runs his fingers through the fuzz of my hair.

  “Tamsin . . . I’m sorry.”

  I am, too. I don’t know what this thing looks like now, this bridge between him and me. It feels like every peg and rafter holding it together has gone up in flames, and all that’s left is a smoking scaffold waiting to collapse.

  How long before this giddy relief at being reunited wears thin?

  He takes my hand and presses my fingers to his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them again, the light has shifted, as it did so often in my cell window. It slides from the tekonnsi reds into dequasi golds.

  New beginnings.

  That one, maybe, is more appropriate, though a beginning, at present, sounds exhausting.

  He squeezes my fingers again before letting them go and turning back around.

  “It’s a day over the ridge, and then another to Giantess,” he says. “We’ll have to be careful of the crossroads. You’re sure Soe still lives there?”

  I’m sure. It’s been three years since I shared a locked room with her and a dulcimer in the Blows, but I stopped to visit for a day on my way out to Vittenta all those weeks ago, before this disaster came roaring into my life. And anyway, all the other possible refuges I can think of are noble houses in Tolukum, and it’s not safe for either of us to depend on those. I nod.

  “All right. To Soe’s. You’ll let me know when we should stop?”

  I pat him tiredly in affirmation. He releases a breath and nudges the horse forward.

  “I hope . . .” he begins, and then falls silent. We sway with the mare’s movement as she steps over a crumbling log.

  “I hope we can figure this thing out,” he says.

  I run my index finger down his spine and trace a few letters on his back.

  WE WILL

  He straightens. “Sorry, I missed that . . . ?”

  Too complex. I revise.

  I WILL

  Lark

  By midnight, the last dregs of the storm have been defeated by the desert as if it never was. The moon beats down in a harsh half slice, just bright enough to catch the big rocks and rough spots in time to weave around them. But not bright enough to track my trail—for that I’m grateful. With any luck someone following will only have a general direction, and not the direct line I’m cutting across the barren flats.

  Rat whines from the saddle. He hates being on Jema’s back, but he was lagging, and I can’t risk slowing down for him. He squirms against my hold on his ruff.

  “It’s okay.” I try to scratch his ears, but I can’t lift my hand or else he’ll worm off my lap. “It’s okay.”

  It’s not okay. Jema has slowed to a plod and is tripping over stones—soon I’ll have no choice but to stop and let her rest. I can’t stand the thought of stopping, because if I do, that current of memories I’m just managing to outrun will catch up with me, sweep alongside, carry me away. It’s like the flash floods in the canyons—they never give any warning. There’s just a moment’s sound of grinding rock, a wash of rising water, before a torrent of debris eats a path through the earth.

  Come with me.

  Things could be different.

  Jema catches a hoof on a rock, and I lurch to grab the saddle horn. At once, the images I’ve been staving off prickle my brain—that unhinged Cypri man lunging for me, hands out. The sweet, smooth face of the girl, all freckles and eyelashes and soft curves. Tamsin’s sharp, shrewd stare. Veran, utterly aghast, clutching his face. That name, tossed at me over and over, as if hoping it would stick.

  That smell, of dark coffee and cinnamon, drunk hot in ceramic mugs rimmed in gold.

  I shake, brushing myself, slapping my vest—I can’t get that scent off me, can’t get rid of it. It overpowers the water-flushed sage and wet dirt, the smell of horse and dog and old leather, the smell of my own skin and hair, the back of my bandanna, which is up even though it’s dark and damp, the sooty grease spread thick on my cheeks. Every single thing I’ve ever been and ever trusted, drowned.

  Jema stumbles again, and I kick her harder than I mean to.

  “Come on,” I urge her. “Please, Jema, just a little farther.”

  She snorts and plods a little faster, head drooping. My stomach surges with every tired step.

  Three Lines. Three Lines is my only chance now. I’ll put Rose on the ox, with Sedge leading it, and little Whit with Andras on Pokey. Lila can take Moll on Jema, and I’ll walk with Weed. We won’t have time to pack, or disassemble the lean-to, or bring coals with us. We’ll leave things as they are—the fire rings, the rock walls, the deep, sweet water pocket that never ran dry. We’ll head north, into the plains. They’ll expect me to go south, or east, into familiar territory, but I won’t. We’ll find someplace in the endless bison grasslands, or farther, into the wolf-wilds, where the grass turns to talus and the trees disappear. Somewhere nobody will find us, not ever.

  For the hundredth time, I wonder where Saiph is—if he’s back in Pasul, or if he never made it there at all, or if he got lost or hurt or killed on the road. For the hundredth time, I wonder if Rose is still alive, or if she died because of this disastrous decision to leave my campmates alone.

  For the hundredth time, I curse Veran Greenbrier deep in my gut.

  Rat whines again. Not far away, a single coyote croons a lone, mournful note, perhaps expecting an answer and receiving none. I shiver at the sound and the slice of wind through still-wet clothes.

  “Farther, Jema,” I call. “Just a little farther.”

  Epilogue

  In Tolukum Palace, this night is not a time of rest.

  Queen Isme stands in her parlor, clutching a crimson robe around her throat and listening to her private guard nervously report that there is still no trace of Prince Iano—or the Eastern translator.

  Kimela Novarni sits before her mirror, turning her head this way and that as she scrutinizes which jewels to wear for her debut performance—a perfor
mance she’s determined to give despite the sudden disappearance of the prince.

  Minister Kobok paces the rug in front of his fireplace. He’s dismissed all his servants and forgone his elaborate evening ritual. Every now and then, his gaze strays to the small box on his mantel, and his pacing quickens.

  Many floors below, Mistress Fala tries to concentrate on cataloging the pungent cleaning solutions in the supply closet, but her thoughts keep straying to the halls above. So much in the palace has changed in so short a time, and the work that had seemed so safe now seems fraught with danger around every corner.

  Throughout the rest of the palace, the halls bustle with hushed activity. A girl hurries from fireplace to fireplace with her bucket of ashes. A boy scrubs the colored tiles at the roots of the silent cedar trees. Outside, a glass cleaner pauses his precarious ascent to pick up a dead sparrow from a windowsill, tucking it into the bag on his belt with several others.

  There is no rest.

  The work goes relentlessly on.

  Acknowledgments

  If Creatures of Light was my first dip into the waters of publication, The Outlaw Road has been my cannonball. I’ve wanted to write this story for at least a decade, even if I didn’t quite realize it. The story and characters were first born while I was a ranger in Yellowstone National Park, and fittingly, the finishing touches were put on it while I was back in the same park, wearing the same hat, four years down the line.

  The first big thank you goes to my agent, Valerie Noble, for latching on to this story right away and championing Lark, Veran, and Tamsin with as much enthusiasm as she did Mae, Mona, and Gemma. Thank you to my editor, David Pomerico, who believed in this story from the very first synopsis, and who attended to it with his usual precision and discernment, making the story as strong and shiny as it could be. And thank you to Mireya Chiriboga, Laurie McGee, Lauren Grange, Paula Szafranski, and the rest of the publication team at Harper Voyager.

  Thank you to my parents, who continued to answer weird plot questions and chided me to write a more satisfactory ending. Thank you to the rest of my family and in-laws for always supporting this effort, without fail. Thank you to Caitlin, for taking this journey with me and always being by my side. And thanks to Eliza Gallagher, Josh Frye, and Whitney Lessem for helping me name Jema, Lark’s horse.

  As usual, I have to thank the ranger crew that was subjected to working with me while under deadline—the Grant Village rangers of Yellowstone National Park, 2019. Thanks for buoying me through edits and giving me great fodder for future projects. West Thumb, Best Thumb.

  And finally, thanks to my husband, Will, for pushing me to pursue a career as an author and for weathering the roller-coaster ride that’s come with it. And thanks to my girls, Lucy and Amelia, who are the best cheerleaders I could hope for, and my constant inspiration.

  The character of Tamsin is written in memory of ranger and mentor Lisa Free, who taught me how to play the mountain dulcimer.

  About the Author

  EMILY B. MARTIN is a park ranger during the summer and an author/illustrator the rest of the year. She lives in South Carolina with her husband, Will, and two daughters, Lucy and Amelia.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Emily B. Martin

  Creatures of Light series

  Woodwalker

  Ashes to Fire

  Creatures of Light

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  sunshield. Copyright © 2020 by Emily B. Martin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Harper Voyager and design are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers LLC.

  first edition

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover illustration by Larry Rostant

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock

  Maps and boot illustration by Emily B. Martin

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Digital Edition MAY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-288858-7

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-288856-3

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