Godfire

by Cara Witter

  Apparently they weren’t going to let the rain stop them, and despite the aching in her muscles at the mere thought of getting back on a horse, she agreed. Her father’s men wouldn’t stop, and Kenton commented that the rain could be a great stroke of luck in hiding their trail. Daniella herself had nothing to pack; she’d brought nothing with her from the palace, not even a token of a life she could never return to.

  They left after another unappetizing meal of crusty bread and dried meat, and after Sayvil applied some kind of healing oil to Perchaya’s wounded hand and the bruise on Kenton’s face. As they rode, they huddled under their cloaks, talking little. Perchaya attempted to make some cheerful comments, but even she gave up after several hours of drenching rain. The trails turned to thick mud, and Kenton led them, keeping to the high ground rather than the valleys. Even then, there were paths where they had to dismount and lead the horses, slowly slogging through the dripping brush.

  This certainly bore little resemblance to the exciting journeys of the characters in her favorite stories. She never remembered hearing them mention sore buttocks and legs caked to the knees with cold mud. At least Daniella managed to keep the rest of herself relatively clean. Perchaya took a nasty spill into the mud when her horse spooked that left her looking like a Nichtee—one of the legendary Foroclaean swamp creatures Daniella had read about and always wished she could somehow see in person, though certainly from a distance. Sayvil checked Perchaya for broken bones, and Daniella was glad to see that she was fine, if a bit bruised and dirty. It did irk her somewhat to see how gently Kenton helped Perchaya back to her feet and onto her horse. If it had been Daniella who had fallen, he might well have left her there, laughing as he rode out of sight.

  If he had even the sense of humor for that.

  Thankfully, the rain had petered off by the time they stopped for the night near a large outcropping of red rock. The stone stood in places like bulbous statues among the trees, the huge boulders piled casually on top of one another as if placed there by the gods themselves. Some of the man-made and weather-worn carvings on them resembled the designs on Vorgalian charms; others were etched with angry, toothy faces that menaced them as they passed. She’d read of these—sentinel stones, erected an age ago to keep the Elder Races at bay.

  “How far are we from Bothran?” Sayvil asked.

  “Still several days yet,” Kenton said. “We should be able to get more supplies there without attracting notice.” He brushed his hands uselessly against his filthy breeches, then tossed a dagger from his boot onto the ground where Daniella knelt. “You can use this to cut your hair short. While we’re in Bothran, we can see about dyeing it.”

  Daniella stared at the knife. What he was saying made some sense, but she pulled at a curl reflexively. There was little about her appearance in which she felt any pride, but her hair—as unruly and unkempt as it often was—was an exception.

  “Red hair is common in Sevairn,” she said. “And dressed like I am in these rags, no one will recognize me.”

  “And what if they do? Do you want us to ring a bell and cry out, ‘here comes Diamis’ runaway daughter’ when we approach the town? Or will it be quite enough that your father will know where we are the instant we reach any recognizable landmark?”

  Daniella cringed, thinking of how closely she’d studied those stones as they’d passed. “If he could, why is it, do you think, that he hasn’t used me to slit your throat?”

  That appeared to give Kenton some pause. Daniella wasn’t much of a combatant, but from what she’d read about blood magic, she wouldn’t have to be. Her father could take control and use her body like a puppet. Her form, yes, but his skills.

  And she very much doubted even a man as brutal and heartless as Kenton could best him.

  “Leave me outside town while you resupply if you must,” Daniella said. “Or I can fake an accent in any of the mainland languages. But I’m not cutting or dyeing my hair at your bidding. Wanted or not, I’m still a princess, as you like to point out, and at some point, I may need to reveal myself to help your sorry cause. So I’ll be keeping my looks. They’re common enough as it is.”

  Kenton eyed her darkly for a moment, then picked up his dagger. “I suppose.” He turned and walked away from the camp. “I’m going to get us something to eat.”

  When he was gone, Daniella found a large rock to sit on. It was sharp in all the wrong places, but at least it kept her from squatting in the mud. Sayvil sat against the cliff on the other side of the small camp area, rifling through her pack and muttering about some herb or another that had gotten wet. The longer Daniella stayed with this company, the less faith she had that this was a holy mission, or that Sayvil was the prophesied bearer. She liked Sayvil and certainly owed her a great deal, but the raven-haired woman possessed none of the idealistic zealousness that Daniella would have associated with a chosen of the gods.

  Perchaya joined her on what little of the rock was left and regarded her carefully. “I know what it’s like to leave everything behind. The rest . . . well, I can’t pretend to understand. But if you ever want to talk . . .”

  Even after traveling this far with her, the sincerity in the woman’s voice took Daniella aback. Her experience with anything resembling friendship had been limited, and while she had occasionally confided in Adiante, the girl had always managed to use such confidences against her. Perchaya, on the other hand, seemed utterly guileless, and Daniella had enough experience with guile to know the difference.

  Daniella wished she could bring herself to trust it.

  “Thank you,” Daniella said. She pondered for a moment. “Do you think we’ll really manage to find the other bearers? Assuming we can elude my father’s soldiers for that long.”

  Perchaya shrugged. “We’ve found one. And if anyone is capable of simultaneously eluding the army of an empire and locating prophetical saviors, it’s Kenton.”

  Daniella tilted her head at Perchaya, who hastily explained, “He hasn’t been quite himself since Peldenar. He’s normally very kind and protective—”

  “Is that why you love him?” Daniella asked, whispering so as not to be overheard.

  A deep blush stole over Perchaya’s cheeks, and she looked around hastily as if afraid he might suddenly have appeared at their side. She tugged at her thumb. “Who says that I do?”

  Oh. Daniella had assumed their relationship was established, given the way Kenton seemed to tolerate Perchaya so much better than either her or Sayvil, and the fact that Perchaya seemed somehow capable of tolerating Kenton in return.

  “I didn’t mean to—” Daniella began, at the same moment Perchaya said, “Does it really appear—”

  They both stopped and looked at each other. Perchaya ducked her eyes. “Is that really how it looks?”

  Daniella remembered how it was, at the beginning of her relationship with Erich, before she saw him for what he was. She had probably glowed, then, when she spoke of him.

  “Probably only to those who understand what it feels like,” Daniella said. “But I wouldn’t worry. Kenton’s too busy glowering at me to notice what anyone else does.”

  Perchaya’s cheeks flushed, and Daniella wished at once she could snap the words back. At best, she’d made Perchaya’s case sound hopeless, and at worst, like she expected that Kenton preferred to shower his attentions on her. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “I only meant that he’s distracted.”

  Perchaya’s lips parted to respond, but Kenton stepped out from the bushy foliage to the side of the overhang. He held a rope from which dangled a few limp rabbits. “At least we’ll have a warm meal tonight,” he said.

  Sayvil eyed the rabbits speculatively. “I might be able to find some cullin root to help the taste.”

  “They’ll be a welcome change, regardless,” Perchaya said, standing up and moving quickly away from Daniella to take one of the rabbits off the
rope.

  Daniella avoided looking at Kenton. Not speaking to him for the rest of the night might be the best way to avoid another argument. She gasped, though, as a dead rabbit suddenly landed on her lap, its fur matted red.

  “There. You can prepare your own meal this time,” Kenton said.

  The black eye of the rabbit stared up at her. Unblinking. Accusing.

  There was blood on her fingers, smeared across her lap.

  She retched violently, only able to think clearly again afterward, when Perchaya was patting her back and Sayvil was waving a sweet-smelling flower under her nose.

  She didn’t know what was going to happen next, but of this much she was certain: she wouldn’t be surviving in the wilderness on her own.

  Thirty-two

  As they neared the border town of Bothran, Jaeme, who was irreligious at best and downright blasphemous at worst, was nearly on his knees in the dirt to thank the gods he was soon to be out of this soggy country. He felt worse for Nikaenor, whose own god had apparently seen fit to curse him with sprouting scales in a land so wet it was a wonder that he didn’t spend his entire life as an enormous spiny fish. At least Jaeme’s own curse was less obtrusive and much less painful.

  Whatever had possessed him to follow these two had done him infinitely more harm. It was bad enough that Jaeme had needed to write a half-witted letter to his uncle, explaining that Jaeme had met two unfortunate travelers in Farrowton and felt a knightly duty to see them to their destination, delaying his return. He didn’t know what Uncle Greghor would make of that; Jaeme was neither the type to trek across a swamp-ridden country to help a few unfortunate strangers nor the type—he had thought—to do so at the peril of a specific assignment from the Dukes Council.

  At least he’d been able to give his uncle a destination—the three of them had settled on Bothran, mostly because it was north of Berlaith, and possibly because it was as far as any of them felt comfortable setting foot in Sevairn. It was a country Jaeme had never imagined he’d look forward to entering—but if it were possible, he’d come to hate Foroclae more.

  They would get to the town of Bothran, and then, gods willing, the draw he felt pulling him there would fade, duty done, and he’d catch a bloody ship at the tip of the inlet and be on his way home again.

  And this time he’d avoid getting off the boat until he was back in Mortiche.

  Jaeme had long since removed his leather jerkin, and the linen shirt underneath clung to his sweaty skin. The rain began again, pushing back the bugs, but adding more annoyance than refreshment. Nikeanor hid himself fully underneath his wool cloak—and Saara’s and Jaeme’s as well, which had been part of Nikaenor’s load for the day.

  Jaeme shook his head. “I don’t know how you can stand to be under all of that in this heat.”

  A large, fat drop of rain landed on the tip of Jaeme’s nose and Nikaenor groaned. “Better than the alternative,” he said, staring up at the drizzling sky with an expression of betrayal.

  “I’ll be taking my cloak, though,” Saara said. “I’m not walking into town looking like a drowned ridge squirrel.”

  The folds of the cloaks parted and Jaeme could see Nikaenor’s round nose peek through. Water dripped off the sodden wool and onto the kid’s face as he peeled off one of the cloaks and tossed it to Saara, causing streaks of scales to emerge.

  Yes, Nikaenor definitely had it far, far worse.

  “You can keep my cloak,” Jaeme said. They couldn’t walk through the gates at Bothran with a fish person, that much was sure.

  A mile or so later, they saw the tip of the wooden city wall appearing on the horizon just as they crested a hill.

  “Kotali be praised,” Jaeme said.

  “I’m certain Kotali had nothing to do with it,” Saara said. “But I’ll take a godless nation if they have beds that don’t smell of mold.”

  Nikaenor, who had long since given up defending his homeland, whimpered with relief from beneath the layers of cloak.

  Then, as if mocking them, the sky opened up and poured down rivers that soaked not only what remained of Jaeme’s clothes, but his thick leather boots as well. “Dry beds tonight,” he said with far more optimism than he felt, ignoring the rivulets that poured down the dirt road, passing him by.

  They made better time than they had previously, all of them eager to get out of the rain. Nikaenor broke out ahead of them in spite of his heavy layers, leading the charge toward the city.

  They were all drenched as they reached the river at the edge of the city of Bothran. More than once Jaeme heard Nikaenor breathing in sharply, wincing and groaning in pain as he become more and more soaked.

  So Jaeme lengthened his stride to step in front of the boy as they crossed the narrow stone bridge and neared the city gate, which was made of thick wooden slats and lined on either side by the Sevairnese watch. They’d officially crossed the border and were in enemy lands now. Godless lands. And they were all three of them foreigners. That would have been enough cause for concern, even if one of them wasn’t presently an oversized fish.

  “Hello, there!” Jaeme called ahead to the guards. “We’ve come looking for lodgings. Is there an inn nearby that might have some empty beds?”

  The guards squared their shoulders at him, and Jaeme made sure to keep his hands where they could see them, but still carry himself casually, so as not to appear a threat. They’d be able to see the sword at his side, but surely plenty of people approached the gates while armed.

  “What’s your business?” one of the guards called back, when they were still several paces away.

  “Just passing through,” Jaeme said. “We’d love to make this quick and get out of the weather.”

  The guard who’d called to them crossed his arms, and Jaeme got the feeling he was in less of a hurry. He’d be here under the downpour until his shift ended, so his motivation to help out unfamiliar travelers would be limited.

  “Where do you hail from?” the guard asked.

  “Mortiche,” Jaeme said. “Grisham, specifically.” His accent would have told the guard that much anyway, and Saara’s looks would betray her homeland. Nikaenor could probably have passed for Sevairnese, but given that all he was presently revealing was a shadowed eye-slit between the folds of the cloaks, Jaeme didn’t want the guards looking too closely. Better to avoid specific introductions altogether. “And this is my serving staff. We’re only looking for rooms for the night.”

  The three of them came to a stop in front of the guards, the sconces sheltered on the wall casting light onto all of their faces but Nikaenor’s, who had wisely stayed a few paces back. The guards eyed him, and Jaeme could see the cloak rumpling as the boy fidgeted beneath it, adjusting the folds under his face.

  Good gods. He looked like he was trying to conceal a bad case of the pox. That or awkwardly trying to hide a face that had been stamped on wanted posters from here to Drepaine. Serving man or no, the guards were going to want to get a look under that cloak.

  And if they saw the scales, then at best, they’d be cast out into the rain for the night. More likely, they’d all end up in the lockup while the guards pressed questions that none of them could rightly answer.

  One of the guards took a step toward Nikaenor, and Jaeme held up a hand, forcing a charming smile. “That one is soaked to the bone and afraid of water, to boot.”

  The guard grunted. “No one enters the city ’less I get a look at him.”

  Nikaenor’s cloak rumpled more urgently, and Jaeme’s hand shifted instinctively toward his sword.

  Jaeme opened his mouth—wondering if they ought to use the pox as an excuse and make the best of it in the rain—

  The cloak shifted, and Nikaenor’s miserable face appeared beneath the layers of cloth—unhappy, but dry. His nose and cheeks were a bright red, which only served to further Jaeme’s story. “It’s okay, boss,” he said
. “I’m soaked, but I’ll live.” He gave the guard a plaintive look. “Especially if it means we can get somewhere dry in a hurry.”

  The guard eyed Nikaenor, then grunted. “So be it.” He motioned to his companion to open the gate.

  It wasn’t until the gate closed behind them that Jaeme began to relax. They entered the town by way of the square, which might have been more welcoming if it wasn’t one wide puddle. The air was still muggy around them, and Jaeme cursed himself for thinking it would be any different. The change in border might make the rest of them uncomfortable, but the weather paid it no mind.

  As they headed along the main thoroughfare, the streets were relatively empty, owing no doubt to the late hour and the deluge currently engulfing the town. Jaeme saw a few people moving in the shadows—cloaks pulled down over their faces, hurrying this way or that, most of them no doubt headed home or to a local pub. Under some eaves, he spotted a few well-armed men passing a lit stick of parchweed between them, each enjoying a long drag before handing it on. One eyed Jaeme and then elbowed his companion, and the group paused to look them over.

  Jaeme quickened his pace down the street, and whether Saara and Nikaenor noticed the guards, they matched his step.

  Saara surveyed the town as they continued down the street, not bothering to mask her disgust. “I expected Sevairn to be less . . . seedy.”

  “I don’t care,” Nikaenor said, “as long as they have roofs that don’t leak.”

  Jaeme was inclined to agree, but he couldn’t refute Saara’s assessment. Bothran looked to be borderline respectable at the best of times. It had the air of a haven for travelers of all types—the innocent and the not so innocent, a town where a man might hire a healer or hired sword, often in the same tavern. The street was paved with a thick coating of dung from—if the smell was any indication—a healthy livestock trade. Still, Jaeme found the city refreshing, if pungent. He’d take honest sleaze over hypocritical virtue any day. Besides, the ale was almost never watered down in taverns where the patrons would rough up the barkeep if they didn’t get the good stuff.