Godfire

by Cara Witter

  Kenton sighed and pulled on his shirt. He wasn’t going to air dry in this muggy climate anyway. “All right. I’m on my way.”

  Perchaya gave a quick nod and disappeared again through the trees, not pausing to wait for him.

  Kenton finished dressing. The news about Jaeme did nothing to earn Kenton’s good will, but the dip in the stream had given him some clarity. Jaeme was a knight of Mortiche, in Kenton’s experience, they only responded to two things: women and the sword.

  Perhaps violence was the answer, after all.

  Kenton stalked back into camp with a heavy step. He walked up to Jaeme, who sat on a fallen log, cleaning his sword.

  “You keep saying that arm of yours is fine,” Kenton said. “Care to test it against me?”

  Jaeme looked up at him. The bruise on the side of his face had turned a vivid purple. “Pardon?”

  Kenton put a hand on the hilt of his own sword. “Care for a duel? If you win, you can leave freely, and I’ll make sure no one stops you. If I win, you come with us to Tirostaar, no more complaints.”

  Jaeme raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see anyone stopping me now.”

  Kenton met his gaze and held it. “Probably because you haven’t tried.”

  Jaeme straightened, lifting his sword. He looked over at Daniella, who was watching them both with a worried expression.

  “All right,” he said. “But a change in the conditions. If I win, you don’t say another word about me being the bearer of Kotali. If I have a gods-damned destiny, I’ll fulfill it, won’t I? I don’t need you meddling.”

  Kenton paused. “So you’ll stay with us regardless.”

  Jaeme stole a glance at Daniella. “For now.”

  That eliminated the need for the duel somewhat. But, as Kenton was reminded by Jaeme’s scowl, not entirely. “And if I win, you come willingly. And you help. Without complaint.”

  Jaeme sighed. “Agreed.” He stood, stretching his arm with a wince.

  Sayvil eyed them from near their fire pit. “If you tear the muscle, don’t come looking to me to make it better.”

  “I can handle it,” Jaeme said, lifting his sword with his left hand.

  For Kenton, that was good enough.

  Kenton marked off a circular area with the tip of his blade in the dirt, kicking aside some logs to make sure it was free of obvious hazards. The ground was dry enough here and relatively flat. Jaeme continued to stretch, pacing around Kenton like he meant to intimidate him.

  Not likely.

  Nikaenor spotted them and jogged over from the horses. “Wait, you’re fighting each other?”

  “It’s fine, Nikaenor,” Kenton said. “We’re just sparring. There’s a difference.”

  “Maybe where you’re from,” Jaeme replied, though he cracked a smile.

  Kenton said nothing in response, just cocked his head to the side. The others stepped quickly to the outside of the circle, although Nikaenor needed to be pulled out of it by Perchaya.

  Who, Kenton noted, was still not looking him in the eye.

  Kenton and Jaeme eyed each other briefly across the makeshift dueling circle. Then Jaeme rushed him, swinging an arc from the left that Kenton was pretty sure could have taken his arm off had he not been ready for it. He deflected the move with a satisfying ring of metal, which should have sent Jaeme off-balance, but the knight used the momentum to his advantage to swing around from the opposite direction, faster than Kenton had expected. He ducked, but only barely; Jaeme’s sword whistled past his ear.

  Kenton knew at that moment that he’d completely underestimated Jaeme. He was quick, and while Kenton hoped Jaeme had no real intention of killing him, he could tell the possibility of death was always real in a fight against him. Kenton grinned. This could actually be fun.

  With the clang of steel ringing in his ears, Kenton pushed to move from the defense to the offense, but Jaeme anticipated his motions, keeping Kenton parrying and dodging. Jaeme kept perfect form, his face focused, even though his arm must have been hurting like all hells. Kenton saw a small opening in a rightward thrust; he dodged Jaeme’s blade—barely, and was pretty certain the knight had drawn some blood from his shoulder. While on Jaeme’s left side, Kenton grabbed his wrist to keep him from swinging back. Using his right elbow, Kenton hit Jaeme square in the face.

  Jaeme stumbled back but stayed on his feet. He jerked back with his sword arm and caught Kenton in the shoulder with his hilt. The resultant fiery sting made Kenton very aware that there was, in fact, a cut there. He spun around and their swords struck again. After a forceful swing that Kenton hadn’t entirely been sure Jaeme could stop at the last second, Kenton found himself with Jaeme’s blade resting against his neck. Jaeme wiped a smear of blood dripping from his nose onto the back of his hand. “Do you yield?” he asked, his breath chuffing from exertion.

  Kenton was breathing hard as well. “If you do,” he said, with a brief downward glance to the dagger tip he had pressed against Jaeme’s gut.

  Jaeme looked down and laughed. It wasn’t the kind of cruel warning laugh Kenton remembered from some of the more vicious soldiers he’d sparred with back in training, promising retaliation in some form later. Jaeme’s laugh was sincere and good-natured. He stepped back and lowered his blade.

  Kenton found himself smiling back. Sheathing the dagger, he spared a glance to the cut on his shoulder. It would definitely need to be bandaged, if not stitched. Jaeme dropped his sword, rubbing his shoulder and groaning. He looked at the others standing outside of the circle watching them.

  Nikaenor’s mouth hung open, and Perchaya’s brows knitted together in tight concern. Saara was watching them with less certainty in her expression than usual, and Sayvil had taken several steps back from the rest of them. Daniella’s face was pale.

  “All right,” Kenton said. “No more whining.”

  Jaeme nodded. “And no more harassment about what some god may or may not want me to do.”

  “Agreed. As long as you help.”

  Jaeme wiped sweat away from his brow, looking over at Daniella again. “At your service,” he said.

  Kenton nodded, even though he wasn’t entirely sure Jaeme was talking to him.

  Thirty-nine

  Daniella walked through the city of Berlaith, her senses overwhelmed. Portly Andronish merchants haggled all around her, as did Sevairnese booksmiths with ink-stained fingers, and Foroclaean seamstresses with their colorful scarves and boisterous demeanor. A Vorgalian charm shop nestled next to a stall selling soul vessels in various shapes and materials for soul binding ceremonies. She even saw a small group of what appeared to be Tirostaari traders, serious men with deep bronze skin and slick black mustaches. One of them caught her openly staring at the large gold hoops hanging from his ears, and the intensity of his return stare caused her to stumble into Nikaenor in her haste to turn away.

  She could see why the scholar Erestis had said that Berlaith was “home to every man, yet claimed by none.” In the time since Erestis’s writings, however, it had obviously been claimed by her father.

  And held by hundreds of soldiers.

  “Hood,” Perchaya murmured, and Daniella tugged her cloak down lower over her face as they passed a group of city guards in their gold and black uniforms, swords sheathed at their sides. Even Saara was nervous about traveling with her; since they’d reached the town, she’d stayed half a block behind them, keeping them in sight, but not obviously appearing to be part of the group. Kenton said that Diamis had blood mage spies keeping watch through the eyes of people in every town, but Berlaith was so large they couldn’t possibly canvas the entire city.

  Despite her refusal back in Sevairn, Daniella was now starting to think that maybe Kenton’s notion of dyeing her hair hadn’t been such a bad one. Red hair might be common, and her face was hardly striking, but all it would take was one observant soldier who had se
en her before—one of Erich’s officers, perhaps, or someone who used to work in Castle Peldenar. After all, Jaeme had recognized her, and he barely knew her. He would have no reason to expect to see her tromping around the woods with—

  “Breathe,” Perchaya said gently. Her hand gripped Daniella’s, and Daniella let out the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. “They’ll never recognize you.”

  Daniella looked at her in surprise. “Are my thoughts that obvious?”

  “Only when we pass soldiers and you look close to fainting.” Perchaya smiled, and Daniella found herself returning it. “Which would probably bring us more attention than we’d like. So I recommend breathing.”

  “Noted.”

  “I recommend eating,” Nikaenor said hopefully, motioning to a stall piled high with baskets of colorful fruit. “Did Kenton happen to leave us with enough for a couple apples, or . . . hey, what about that big purple thing? That looks good.”

  Daniella would have been surprised if Kenton, who was off bartering with one of his apparently numerous disreputable contacts, would trust them with so much as a single bud. Even though he was the one more inclined to thievery.

  Perchaya shook a few coins from a pouch into her palm. “We don’t have much left, but you can probably get some fruit.”

  Nikaenor’s face split into the boyish, charming grin they had all been seeing more frequently the last few days, as he gradually lost his shyness. “Thanks!” He grabbed the buds and jogged towards the fruit stand.

  “Nikaenor! Remember to haggle!” Perchaya called after him, and he looked back with such an expression of mock offense that they both laughed.

  Daniella was struck suddenly by the ease of it, laughing. How long had it been since she had truly laughed, neither forced nor stifled? Back in the beginning with Erich, certainly, when they were alone . . . but he had always been so serious that even then it was rare.

  Yet, despite the danger and the dismal odds of success, she had found herself truly laughing several times in the last week at stories told around the campfire or awkward attempts at weapons training. She always felt self-conscious, as if her laughter somehow exposed her to them, these people she was coming to know. It felt so strange to have friends, if that’s what they were. Not Kenton, certainly, but perhaps some of the others.

  “I hope he comes back with more than that overripe eggplant . . .” Perchaya trailed off, then breathed out an awed, “Ohhh . . . look at that!”

  Daniella turned around. They were standing in front of a dressmaker’s shop, and in the front window was a gown fit for any grand ball Daniella could imagine. Layers of deep indigo taffeta, with pearls sewn painstakingly by the dozens into the corset bodice. This particular shop obviously had a clientele of high station, despite Adiante’s claim that the nobility of Foroclae were more fit to be among their farm animals than at court.

  “It’s beautiful,” Daniella said. Especially in comparison to the travel-stained wool skirts they were back to wearing over their trousers, now that they’d entered the city.

  “Can you even imagine wearing something like that?” Perchaya said. She looked over at Daniella with an amused expression. “You probably don’t have to imagine, do you?”

  Daniella paused. “I had a similar one, in green. For dinners with dignitaries, that sort of thing.”

  “What was it like? To wear something so beautiful?” Perchaya’s hand stopped just short of pressing against the glass.

  “Tight. Very, very tight.”

  Perchaya laughed. “Yes, I suppose it would be. They never mention that in the tales, do they?”

  “They leave a lot of things out.” Daniella wondered if that was why the old stories appealed to her so much; all the emotion and wonder without the hard crush of reality.

  “Surely there were advantages to living in a castle, though.”

  Daniella smiled. She didn’t particularly like talking with the others about the home and life she had so recently fled, didn’t like reminding anyone, least of all herself, of who—or what—she was. But Perchaya made almost any conversation seem natural. Easy, even. “Well, after the last week, I will never take a soft bed for granted again.”

  “That’s the truth. Or a hot bath.”

  Daniella elbowed Perchaya. “With a certain someone, perhaps.”

  Perchaya reddened but smiled shyly in return. Daniella had caught her drawing something in a small sketchbook just a few days before and had asked about it. To her shock—and Perchaya’s embarrassment—it had been a drawing of Kenton completely naked. The sketch had been so detailed that she’d had to extract the story of how Perchaya knew so many of the particulars.

  Still, Daniella didn’t want to embarrass her new friend too much. “How about a meal that I haven’t had to watch being skinned?”

  Perchaya smiled, looking over Daniella’s shoulder. “Or a certain handsome admirer of yours who happens to be coming this way.”

  “Or a . . . what?” Daniella’s eyes snapped open. There was a mischievous gleam in Perchaya’s eyes that Daniella wasn’t at all comfortable with.

  She was even less comfortable when she saw Jaeme walking toward them. His face was unhooded, his expression carefree, as if he was completely unaware that he was a Mortichean in an enemy-occupied city. There was something about him, though, that belied that sense of nonchalance. He seemed to position himself very carefully in every situation.

  Not that she’d meant to be watching him. He just had a way of appearing wherever she was. “He’s hardly that,” Daniella said, and tugged her hood down again.

  “What, handsome? Or your admirer?”

  There was certainly no denying he was handsome. Or that she’d been sharing a horse with him for days, his hands casually gracing her waist.

  But something about admitting it aloud felt terrifying.

  Jaeme stopped at the fruit stand to say something to Nikaenor. Perhaps he hadn’t been moving toward her after all. She turned back to look at the dress in the window. “I hardly know him.”

  Perchaya shrugged. “I wonder if he would say the same about you.”

  Daniella barely had time to glare at Perchaya before Jaeme passed Nikaenor and came to stand directly before them.

  “Good morning,” he said genially, as if this was the first time they were seeing each other today. The girls returned the greeting, although Daniella half-mumbled hers into her hood. “Kenton sent me off on my own once he decided he’d rather not have a knight around during his shady dealings,” he continued. “I guess he doesn’t realize how truly spectacular knights are at that sort of thing. By the way, whose idea was it to let Nikaenor spend five buds on a bruised eggplant?”

  Perchaya’s mouth dropped open. “I told him to haggle!” And then Perchaya was off to the fruit stand, muttering something about a thieving vegetable pirate. Daniella hoped for Nikaenor’s sake she was referring to the fruit-seller.

  Jaeme watched her go with an amused expression, then turned back to Daniella. She studied a mud stain on the hem of her skirt intently.

  “I’m glad I found you,” Jaeme said. He pulled something out of his pack, a small rectangle wrapped in silk. “I saw something in the market today that I thought you would like.”

  Daniella eyed him dubiously, and he smiled in that lopsided way Adiante had been so enamored of. The bruise on his face had gone down quite a bit over the last several days, though even that had given him a kind of rakish charm.

  “It’s an apology, of sorts,” he added.

  She frowned. “An apology? For what?”

  “For the first time we met. Startling a beautiful woman into a fountain isn’t something I’m proud of, and it certainly isn’t the first impression I intended to make.”

  Daniella felt her cheeks flush at the memory. She had hoped against hope that particular incident would never be mentioned again. Ev
er.

  Jaeme didn’t seem to notice. “Though I also didn’t expect to find you wandering through cow pens, so I suppose life is full of surprises.”

  It was definitely that. Finding him again in Bothran was almost like one of the old knightly tales of couples being drawn together. Not that she expected their relationship to continue that way.

  “You saved my life,” she said. “I don’t think any further apology is necessary.”

  His face was all practiced innocence. “Well, I’d thank you for allowing me to bask in your radiant presence, but I know from experience you don’t respond well to overblown flattery.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but her own lips betrayed her with a smile. She took the small bundle from his hands. “Thank you for the apology.”

  She unwound the blue swatch of silk that by itself was worth more than she was comfortable accepting from any man, then let out a little gasp. It was a book, the size of her hand from bottom to fingertips, bound in leather with gilded edging. The bottom corner was etched with the insignia of Mastersmith Derving, one of the most famous booksmiths in Sevairn, one of the few who continued to do their own work rather than parceling the copying out to apprentices. She looked back up at Jaeme, stunned.

  “You mentioned how much you enjoy the old legends. I was never much of a scholar, but I do remember enjoying this one,” Jaeme said with a dismissive shrug. “It’s a collection of tales, mostly from the Northern border of Mortiche. Originally compiled by a fellow named—”

  “Hedrich the Fourth,” Daniella murmured absently, turning the pages with a loving reverence.

  “Yes, exactly.” He sounded pleased. “It’s been years since I read it, though, so I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the translation. But it looks as though the booksmith kept all the gory bits.” He indicated to a page with a colorful illustration of the Wolf King standing atop his mountain of bones. “He also kept a few of the poems in the original Old Mortichean, the kind we only use for ceremonial purposes anymore. It’s beastly even for native Mortichean speakers, but I’d be glad to help you read it.”