by Cara Witter
Edging around the portly man and the squealing girls, Perchaya met eyes again with the man, who was turned around in the crowd—looking her way while the rest of the crowd waited for the princess to emerge.
He smiled and gave a little wave.
At her?
She forced herself to smile back—though she was sure it came out more as a grimace—and shuffled her way toward him, fighting the tide of the crowd.
Quite the excitement, Perchaya thought. That’s what she would say. And hope that some semblance of normal conversation followed after.
The crowd around her gasped, and toward the front, someone screamed. The man frowned and turned away from her, looking up at the palace steps. Perchaya stopped and shielded her eyes, following his gaze—
Just in time to get a clear view of the crumpling body of the princess, a crossbow bolt sticking at an angle from her neck.
Perchaya gripped her sack of cabbage as the crowd around her surged into an uproar. People shouted curses against Diamis while others screamed. Some cheered and some ran. The press of people, which just a moment ago she’d been trying to push through, began to push her, until she found herself stuck between a hay cart and a barrel of apples. Splashes and yells sounded as someone—maybe several someones—were shoved into the nearby canal in the chaos.
Perchaya looked up at the white stones of the palace, at the spot where the princess had stood before she’d fallen. She’d lost sight of the familiar man in the uproar, and she found herself wishing she’d made it to his side before the street had erupted.
Uniformed guards began to push into the crowd, and Perchaya’s body tensed as she realized she had no idea where the crossbow bolt had come from. Had the guards apprehended the shooter, or would they now begin detaining the members of the crowd until they found him? If these guards had any inkling who she really was, they’d arrest her, shooter or no.
No. She was just being paranoid. There was no reason for anyone here to know about that.
Perchaya stepped behind the cart, hoping to hide until the chaos passed, when a man pushed one of the guards right into it, knocking Perchaya to the ground. The guard stumbled slightly, then brought his club down sharply onto the head of the man who’d been moving away down the street.
The man slumped to the ground and Perchaya scrambled to get her footing, dropping her bag of cabbage to be trampled beneath the feet of a charging group of soldiers. Perchaya stared at the dead man as his body was equally trampled, his blood mixing with the mottled red and white of the vegetable mash.
Had that man been one of the assassins?
No, the streets were filling with guards now, all wielding weapons at bystanders who couldn’t possibly all be assassins. Yet many in the crowd were pushing toward the palace, raising what pitiful weapons they had against the oncoming torrent of soldiers and guards.
Whether the revolt had been planned or not, that crossbow bolt had sparked a riot, and the Sevairnese guards were going to make an example of them all. She had to get to safety, and quickly. The guards wouldn’t have to discover who she was to kill her if they thought she was part of the resistance.
Perchaya flattened herself against the building behind her and skirted along it. The crush of bodies choked her as she tried to maneuver her way out of the square. The tide of the crowd pushed her forward toward the palace gates, and she fought desperately against it. The linen kerchief over her hair had fallen off somehow, and a chunk of her blond hair had come loose from its bun and pressed against her sweat-slick neck. Someone trod across her toes, and although she cried out in pain, the din from the mob muted the sound.
She shouldn’t be here. Her family hadn’t resisted when the Lord General took over Andronim. The fighting hadn’t reached them, and her father said that one ruler or another mattered little, so long as the price of grain held firm. Perchaya had wondered if her parents made that decision in part to protect her—to avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention. But then Reisa had followed Iadan to the city, and Perchaya had in turn followed her, tempted by the opportunity to show her art to booksmiths who, unlike the lone smith back in Dov, might actually be able to afford to hire her as an illuminator.
She couldn’t do any of those things if she died here.
At last Perchaya reached a street corner and turned down an alley, able to run at last. She raced onto the next street, keeping near the shop-fronts for protection. She stopped short as, in the street before her, a lanky young man knelt before a large soldier garbed in Sevairnese livery. Perchaya watched in horror as blood dripped from the boy’s mouth. He spat and a tooth came flying out. It didn’t appear to be the first he’d lost.
Halting beneath the eaves of a haberdashery, Perchaya slipped behind a stout post and hoped the shadows were deep enough to camouflage her. The boy tried to say something, but his speech was garbled by the loss of his teeth. The soldier smacked the youth with the pommel of his sword, the boy fell back, landing a few feet away from Perchaya’s hiding place. She pressed herself against the post, holding her breath, praying not to be seen.
But she had a perfect view as the soldier’s blade streaked though the brilliant afternoon sunlight, impaling the boy. Perchaya was rooted in place as she watched the boy’s lifeblood pool in the sun-soaked street.
The soldier stood over the boy, and Perchaya tried to hold perfectly still, not moving, not breathing. He would only have to look to the side, into the shadow of the post, and he would see her there.
Perchaya heard a crunch from behind her, in the space between the tall buildings. She didn’t dare turn, but closed her eyes tight. If another soldier approached from behind her, he could force her into the open. She was no threat to them, but the occupying force from Sevairn didn’t seem to care.
When no attack came, Perchaya opened her eyes again, in time to see a rock hurtle over her head. It flew above the roof of the buildings and landed in the alley across the way, knocking a row of bottles from a cart with a crash. Glass shattered and the soldier turned toward it. He didn’t seem to know which angle it had come from, and he set about searching down the street.
Perchaya turned and looked directly into the face of the man she’d been watching on the street. The familiar one she’d so wished she could talk to. He grabbed her roughly by the elbow and pulled her back between the buildings. A cry rose in her throat and he whirled her about, his other hand clamping over her mouth.
“Perchaya,” the man said. His voice was soft and his eyes darted toward the street, looking for the guard. “Don’t scream or you’ll bring the guards down on us.”
He released her, and Perchaya stared up at him, dumbfounded. “How do you know my name?”
“I know lots of things,” he said. “None of which will matter if we die here.”
He was right about that, but Perchaya didn’t see how it excused him from answering the question.
The man looked quickly around, as if choosing which direction it would be safest to run. Glad she had a partner in that decision, Perchaya took the opportunity to study him. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he had the appearance of a common Andronish countryman, wearing brown trousers and a linen shirt, mostly covered by a plain, unbuttoned wool coat with a hood that hung down his back. His leather boots had clearly seen much use, but they appeared well cared for nonetheless. She couldn’t help but notice he seemed relieved that she’d agreed not to fight him, though his broad shoulders were still taut with tension. He was as worried about the guards as she was, though obviously far more prepared to deal with them. She noted he had two daggers sheathed at his side on his leather belt.
And, up close, he was even more handsome, if somewhat more abrupt than she’d imagined. Perhaps he knew her name because he’d been watching her from afar, as she had watched him, and he’d merely been more clever about it.
She opened her mouth to ask him about it again when a shout rang out fr
om behind them and he sprang into action, propelling her down the street and away from the shouts. Her arm ached under his grip and her chest burned, her breath heavy in her ears. A jelly-like feeling had settled in her legs and she knew that his grip on her was the only thing keeping her upright.
After a few blocks, he slowed and pulled her into a narrow unpaved alley, releasing her and studying the way ahead of them again.
This time, Perchaya thought she might approach the matter differently. “What’s your name?” she asked, between trying to catch her breath.
“Kenton,” he said. “Kenton Del Moro.” He looked at her, as if he expected this to mean something to her. Kenton was a common enough name, and it suited him. His last name sounded familiar, but Perchaya couldn’t say from where. She’d certainly never known anyone who went by it.
“And you already know my name,” she said pointedly, allowing him space to volunteer an explanation.
But he didn’t. His silence was beginning to make her uneasy, but she couldn’t help but be impressed by the way he moved through the city as if by instinct.
Finally he nodded, as if satisfied that they’d escaped for the moment. “Yes,” he said. “You’re Perchaya Dant of Dov. I’ve been looking for you for a long while.”
Perchaya drew a deep breath, taking that in. “You’ve been . . . looking for me?” A tremor in her voice gave away her nervousness.
But at least it wasn’t a squeak.
“Yes,” he said, looking right into her eyes. Despite her confusion, Perchaya went lightheaded. “Perchaya Spiras,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
She froze. Even the horror of watching the man die in the street, the boy beaten to death and then stabbed—these didn’t compare to the icy terror that cut through her now.
Spiras wasn’t Reisa’s surname, nor Perchaya’s father’s. Few people back home knew that the Dant family had taken her in when she was no more than a baby. Perchaya hadn’t even heard the name Spiras until she was twelve years old, when her father brought her into the cellar and, by the light of a candle where not a soul might overhear, told her the truth.
She’d been born a Spiras, to one of the ten houses of full-blooded Drim. Her grandfather had been the Drim Speaker, and he’d died a horrible death, along with everyone in her family.
Except her.
In the years since, Perchaya had always known the day might come when someone would find her, and that day would be her last, and also the last for her adopted parents and sisters. The chill in the air pierced her, but she held perfectly still.
And then, doing her best not to give any warning, Perchaya twisted in the direction they’d come, and she ran. She felt like she was flying—her legs still so numb she could barely feel them beneath her. She grabbed at her woolen skirts as she ran, praying she wouldn’t trip over them. She was aware that her muscles were burning, her body catching fire as she strained to get away, but she couldn’t feel anything besides rising panic.
Hands caught her from behind, jerked her to a stop. Kenton spun her around to face him and backed her against the wall, one hand over her mouth again, the other bracing her shoulders to pin her in place. Perchaya stared into his eyes—
And found that he looked concerned.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’m Kenton Del Moro. Perchaya, you and I, we’re the last of the full-blooded Drim.”
Perchaya stared at him, breathing hard against his hand. She realized then why his name had sounded familiar. Del Moro. Another of the Drim houses.
She forced her muscles to relax and nodded against his hand. Kenton cautiously removed it from her mouth.
“How,” she said. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve been combing through the Drim genealogies. Most of them don’t mention you, because you were so young, but I found a mention that the Speaker’s daughter had a baby just before the Scourge. But there wasn’t a name.” He paused, looking at her with wonder. “It took me years to find you. The last few days, I couldn’t be sure if it was you. But with the riots—I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.”
Oh gods. If he’d tracked her, the Sevairnese soldiers would have done so as well. They might already know where she was, might already have gotten to her family on the farm, or even to Reisa. “When were you sure?”
Kenton smiled. “Just now when you ran. I wasn’t even sure if you’d know you were a Drim.”
“But—” Perchaya said. She had to get home, and she certainly wasn’t going to take another Drim with her. She’d brought enough danger down on Reisa and her household for a lifetime. “It’s not a good idea for us to be seen together, is it? I understand if you’re looking for a connection to your history, but I hardly think I—”
“It’s not that,” Kenton said, and he reached into a pocket inside his coat, and pulled out a small wooden box with runes etched into the dark wood. “I need you to open this.”
Perchaya held her breath. She didn’t recognize the runes’ specific meaning, but she was familiar with the general design. Everyone was—the Lord General had papered Andronim with them immediately after the government fell, and some of the missives made it even as far as her farming community. Watch for these designs, the fliers had said. For the ones who use or wear them are Drim, and therefore enemies of the state. Perchaya had seen people arrested for wearing simple pendants which the soldiers claimed were designed after Drim runes, even though Perchaya was certain they hadn’t been.
If he was willing to hang people who weren’t actual Drim, Perchaya could only imagine what Lord General Diamis would do to those who had harbored a real one.
She stared at the box. “You need me to—”
“Here,” he said, thrusting it into her hands as if he were eager to be rid of it. “Try it. See if it’ll open.”
Perchaya held the box tight, fearing, perhaps irrationally, that it might contain a poisonous wood spider. She gripped the lid and the base of the box, searching with her nail for a clasp. She found none, and looked at Kenton quizzically.
“Please,” he said. “It should open for you.”
She sighed and lifted the lid, the hinges moving as if they were recently oiled. She peered inside and found only a simple silver band, etched with the same runes that had been on the outside of the box.
“That was simple enough,” she said. “I feel like you went to all this work for nothing.”
He stared at the box in amazement. “It wouldn’t open for me. Until this moment, I couldn’t be sure the ring was actually there.”
She watched him carefully. Had he not known who she was, she would have taken him by now for a common charlatan. Either way, the faster she could get away from him, the less chance she stood of being with him when he was caught with the relic—whatever it was. Perchaya held the box out to him, eager to be rid of it. “Well, it was wonderful to meet you. Glad I could help.”
Kenton made no move to take it, and on his face, she thought she saw something unexpected.
Hope.
“Put it on,” he said.
Perchaya shook her head. “The ring? I can’t be seen in that. If I got caught, I—”
“Only for a moment,” Kenton said. “It’s important. I’m sure it won’t harm you.” He lifted the ring from the box, which Perchaya took the liberty of stuffing into his belt pouch for him, propriety be damned.
Kenton slipped the ring onto his own finger, still looking at it in wonder. He held it up to show her, then took it off again and offered it back to her.
“Why?” Perchaya asked. “Why do you want me to wear it?”
“It was your grandmother’s,” he said. “Only Drim women can do magic, and—”
“I don’t know any magic. And besides, you can’t know what it will do. You said yourself you couldn’t even be certain it was there.”
Kenton sighed, looki
ng at her with frustration. “Diamis killed our families because he wants to release Maldorath. The power to do it—it’s in us. It was given to us by the gods during the Banishment. That’s why he wants us dead. We’re the only thing standing between the world and the return of the Age of Blood.” He drew a deep breath. “And putting on this ring is the first step to stopping him.”
Perchaya gaped at him. It was a wild story, and she was realizing that she had no proof that Kenton was who he said he was—only his word and his knowledge of her.
But Kenton put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently, as if he was trying to calm a startled animal. And then he reached for her elbow and ran his hand along her forearm, pulling her hand into his. He moved slowly, giving her plenty of time to react or jerk away.
She couldn’t imagine how putting on a ring could stop Maldorath—if he was even returning. But she knew the Banishment Chronicle as well as anybody. She’d once done an illumination of that particular passage, drawing Maldorath rising from his seal in the form of a rabid wolf. There was nothing in the Chronicle to suggest that’s what he’d look like, but Perchaya had grown up on a farm; it was the scariest thing she could think of. Now she thought the form of a Sevairnese guard might be more appropriate, but that illumination might well get her killed.
Perchaya put up her hand to stop Kenton before he slid the ring onto her finger. “What will it do, exactly?” she asked.
He smiled. “It puts out the call,” he said. “It calls the bearers together, so they can gather the godstones. So they can stop him.”
Perchaya gaped at him. She had known about her heritage for years, but she’d only thought of it as a danger, something that needed to stay hidden. The idea that she could have such a pivotal role in the fate of the Five Lands, that she could do something as important as call the godbearers to find each other . . .
