by Angela Boord
Over the ridge of the wall, Arsenault looks up. His skin is paler than when I left.
“Where’s Silva?” Mikelo says.
“I let him go.” Mikelo looks startled, and I add, “He won’t tattle on us.”
Mikelo gets that rabbit look again. “You didn’t—”
I tug the horses over to a willow tree. The new green leaves wisp past my shoulders as I loop the reins around its slim trunk. “Do I look like a woman who’s spent her morning hacking a man to pieces?”
Mikelo takes a step back, and Arsenault surprises me with a chuckle. I watch him through a screen of drooping willow branches as I finish tying the horses. The bay mare bumps me with her nose, and I absently snake my arm under her head to stroke her opposite cheek.
“I suppose you don’t,” Mikelo says—grudgingly.
“He told you why he wanted to kill me,” Arsenault says.
It’s a statement, not a question. I push the willow fronds aside and walk over to them. “Something like that,” I say.
“You believed him.”
I sweep aside a pile of fractured terra-cotta and painted pieces of plaster with my boot and sit at a right angle from him, cross-legged, arranging my skirt over my knees.
I don’t know what to call the light that glimmers in Arsenault’s eyes. It might be amusement or merely curiosity. The color of his skin looks worse, sheened with sweat and pricked red along his cheekbones, but his eyes have begun to seem like those of the man I knew five years ago.
“He told me what he saw at Kafrin Gorge. I told him what I thought about what he saw. Then I told him what an ass he was being for causing his sister this kind of trouble. He seemed to understand, so I let him go.”
Arsenault idly scratches his chest with his right hand, then winces. “And what did he see at Kafrin?”
“You. Leaving Geoffre’s tent.”
Arsenault laughs, shakily. “That’s why he wanted to kill me?”
“It wasn’t the only reason. He said you walked out of the tent unmolested and thought that proved you were colluding with Geoffre. He said the Prinze did terrible things to the shepherds. His mother is dead. Some Prinze gavaros had their way with Meli. He was tied to a building.”
Both Mikelo and Arsenault wince when I mention Meli. It’s one thing to know such a thing has happened to a woman without a name…and another to know it has happened to someone who handed you a bowl of porridge in the morning or covered you with a blanket when you were sick.
“He thought I was involved with that?” Arsenault asks.
“No. He thought you could have done something to stop them and you didn’t. Or that you should have done something to stop them and you didn’t.”
I pick at the frayed ends of the linen around my right hand.
“He also said you deserted my father and stayed in the camp until the fire started, and then you walked away.”
More silence. I unwrap my hand and flex my fingers. Pebbles crunch against the broken stones, and when I look up Mikelo is getting to his feet. He places the sword beside Arsenault. “I think I’ll find some water.”
He walks away without waiting for an answer.
“You’ve stopped thinking he’ll escape,” Arsenault says.
“I don’t think he’ll leave you.”
When Arsenault doesn’t reply, I say, “I didn’t know what to believe from you. But I thought if I pressed you hard enough, I could find out the truth. And maybe you would remember it, too.” I pull on my sleeve, trying to make it cover more of my arm. “I didn’t want to believe that you were the assassin following me, but I think I knew, deep down. You seemed so familiar, even in disguise.”
“I haven’t seemed familiar to myself for a long while now. I have dreams. But when I wake…they’re only dreams.”
“What kind of dreams?”
He tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “It’s a strange state. Having died enough to recover some of my memories without dying enough to lose all of them. It’s only been—how long?”
“Since Kafrin? A year and a half.”
“A drop in an ocean. It feels as if I’ve only just awakened. I wandered…I don’t know how long. Everything that mattered, I had lost. I decided I would just drink myself to death and start over. For some reason, I thought you were dead. I had it in my head you were a commission I’d had, and I’d failed at my charge. I couldn’t remember anything but your name. But I remembered a serf girl… I couldn’t quite recall her face…”
He brings his head back up and opens his eyes. “This is how the god torments me, Kyrra.”
“But why? How?”
“Long ago, I made…a mistake.” He curls his hands into fists and looks darkly down at them. Then the expression crumbles, and he opens his hands and shakes his head. “No, that’s not honest. I committed a terrible crime. And I was sentenced for it. By the gods, since it involved one of their own. I was put at Erelf’s mercy for as long as he wanted to have me. He hasn’t given me up yet.”
“Arsenault. A crime involving the gods?”
Shakily, he rubs his chest. His skin has gone waxy and it makes the black stubble on his face stand out. “It was a long time ago, Kyrra. The gods were closer to the world then.”
“And Erelf steals your memories? That’s your sentence?”
“No. My sentence bars me from the afterlife for as long as Erelf’s vengeance isn’t satisfied, and he’s allowed to do whatever he wants to torment me. He’s the god of knowledge. He twists what I know and what I don’t know. Takes the memories I want to keep and leaves me whichever ones he thinks will torture me most. But I have to die first.”
I sit for a moment, trying to sort my way through his words. A hundred questions buzz in my brain at once—what crime, how long has Erelf’s vengeance lasted—but only one makes it past my lips.
“You really had forgotten all of me? Except my name?”
I curse myself for sounding so small and young—so like that girl I once was.
“No,” he says. “My plan was to kill you, too. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, I tried again. And again.” He glances at me. “That Nezar I shot—Razi? He was good. Protected you well. But when you pulled that sword and I saw it flare with my magic, it startled me so much that all I could think was that I needed to end things and get away. So, I pulled the gun and shot him.”
“Damn. If I hadn’t drawn my sword…”
“No, Kyrra. Don’t blame yourself. Blame it on me. And on Erelf.”
We’re sitting an arm’s length apart. I can smell him—that musty cellar scent and the sick-sweet smell of spent fever. His wrong-colored hair is rumpled and dirty, and his smooth, unmarred skin and the straightened line of his nose have taken years off his age. But it’s him. He was down there after all.
It’s a deep gulf to reach across, though. I lean toward him, hesitantly raising my left hand to touch him, and he moves toward me, catching my hand in his.
The crunch of footsteps makes us both look up, over the edge of the fallen wall.
It’s not Mikelo. It’s Silva, held by Mikelo, his arm twisted around behind his back.
“Dammit, Silva, I gave you a chance.”
Silva sprawls on the broken tiles where Mikelo shoved him down. I stand over him with my knife out.
“He was listening,” Mikelo says. “I came back with water, and he was down a few walls, making his way toward the horses. I hate to say it, Kyrra, but you might have been wrong.”
“I wasn’t coming to steal your horses!” Silva says, kneeling upright. “I was coming to tell you that the Prinze have got the city shut off. If you try and ride through the gates, you’ll be captured for sure.”
“And how are we to trust you?” Mikelo says. “Why didn’t you just make yourself known?”
“I was waiting for a good moment! Do you think I wanted to surprise her?”
I bend down next to Silva and hold the knife up to his face. “You had better be telling the tru
th.”
“I am telling the truth,” he says, violet eyes flashing. “After that speech about my sister, do you think I want to cause her more pain?”
“Did you tell her what I told you to?”
“Yes. But on my way down to the Youth—the streets are full of Prinze.”
I look to Arsenault. “You didn’t bring them with you, did you?”
“No. I left Geoffre’s spies in Liera.”
“Your time to choose,” I say to Mikelo. “What kind of game do you think Geoffre is playing?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “How should I know? How are we going to get out of the city?”
“I can help you,” Silva says quickly. “I know the woods and the gaps in the wall. If we follow the spring and wrap around Murderer’s Ridge, we can make it.”
“The spring? But it’s clogged with men!” Mikelo says.
Arsenault frowns thoughtfully. “We might be able to lose ourselves in the crowd,” he says. “It’s a good choice.”
“It’s your only choice,” Silva says, “as far as I can see.”
“You said we,” I point out.
“I can’t get hired again in Karansis, and I don’t want to make Meli work harder or longer to support me. I told her I was going with you. She argued with me, but in the end, she let me go. If you’re against the Prinze, I’m with you.”
I rise from my crouch and put the knife away.
“All right. You can help us out of town and we’ll see you off at the crossroads. That’s as far as you can follow. Did any of the Prinze see you?”
He scrambles quickly to his feet and shakes the dirt from his clothes. “Wouldn’t matter if they had. They’re not looking for me.”
“As long as you haven’t told them anything.”
“I told you I didn’t.”
“Arsenault, are you sure you can sit a horse?”
“No,” he says. “But it’s my only choice, isn’t it?”
There isn’t any arguing with that. Mikelo has already gone to the packs and dug out the rolled-up clothing. He sorts them out and hands a new shirt and a pair of trousers to Arsenault, then my dress to me. I bundle it in my hands and turn to Silva.
“Can you ride?”
“If it gets me out of here.”
“Good enough.” I shrug the peasant blouse over my head and shove my skirt down to my ankles. The air immediately cools the sweat on my bare shoulders as I stand there in my shift.
“Stop gawking,” I tell Mikelo and Silva. “You’ve seen women before, haven’t you?”
The town of Karansis forms a shield butting up against Murderer’s Ridge. The wall that fronts the town spreads out from the narrow spike of an entrance forming the handle of the shield, and then the town spills wide against the hillside. The founders must have considered the hills protection enough on the back side, because the wall ends slightly upslope in dense woods of oak, chestnut, and beech.
Or perhaps it was only that the founders thought no one would be fool enough to cross a ridge crested with black basalt monuments marking the sites of past murders.
Silva clings to the reins of an older chestnut stallion with intention, his face white as we jangle through the milling crowd of the marketplace. He doesn’t know how to ride. Mikelo continually catches at his mount’s bridle to bring it back into line.
We lashed Arsenault to the saddle so he wouldn’t fall, and I’m riding in front of him so he can lean on me. Having his arms around me, his chest at my back, and his thighs against mine is a strange and comforting feeling, though I’ll be the one doing the protecting if it comes down to it. Right now, he’s in charge of the reins, but it will be easy for me to take them if I need to.
I glance over my shoulder at him. His hood shadows his face, but the lines of stress at the corners of his eyes stand out clear.
“How is it?” I ask.
“A little pain,” he replies.
Mikelo brings his horse up close to the mare that Arsenault and I ride. The horses bump haunches, dance away from each other, and Mikelo leans over slightly in his saddle and murmurs, “Silva says we veer off on the path behind the bordellos, but he can’t lead. He can barely sit his saddle.”
“I’m going to keep an eye on both of you,” I say.
Mikelo’s brows hitch, but he nods and reins his horse away, ahead of ours so he can ride with Silva.
Battle is different from escape. I’ve spent many dull days quietly waiting for enemy troops to ride through a pass. But this isn't waiting. Instead, we must look so normal though the town bristles with Prinze. Silver and blue spike through the crowd. It isn’t just the town Guard, barring the gates; it’s a whole damn detachment sent to find us.
I lean back and Arsenault’s head dips down beside mine so he can hear me when I whisper, “What is Geoffre doing? Is he just trying to keep sight of me? Or is he going to take Mikelo back and kill me right here?”
“I don’t know,” he says, in an exhalation that sounds as if he’s trying to breathe his pain out. “Geoffre liked Mikelo on a short leash. Maybe he’s making a move to get him back.”
“You think he wants me to kill Cassis? He can’t be stupid enough to think I was telling the truth, taking his offer.”
“He may want you to kill Cassis. But if he does, he won’t let you get away with it.”
I frown, trying to sort that out. But my thoughts fly away from me again as we ride past a gavaro lounging on the side of the road, the sky-blue armband of Prinze service prominent on his gray shirt.
We’re almost past when Silva pulls his horse into a great looping turn. His foot slides out of the stirrup, and Mikelo lurches over the neck of his own horse to catch the chestnut’s reins. We cause a commotion in the glutted street, and someone calls out: “Ho, there, keep your mount under control!”
Whinnies, snorts, and the resounding ring of ironshod hooves on brick sound off on all sides. Arsenault tightens his legs against our mare’s sides, and she barrels her way through a hole in the crowd to get to Silva. We brush legs and boots on our way past. A spur rakes my dress, tearing the hem. I snatch it up, cursing, and a man who also wears a blue armband turns to look at me.
“Have a care for your boots, sir!” I shout at him.
“Have a care for your dress!” he shouts back at me.
I hate riding without reins in my hands. I want my hand on my sword, but my sword is wrapped tightly to my leg so that I can’t sit the horse properly, and with every swing and sway, I feel in danger of losing my seat. I can feel the tension that’s wiring Arsenault together behind me, and the gavaro is still watching me…
Then we’re out. Mikelo leans against the neck of his horse and mouths to Silva, “Ride.”
Silva is shaking, but his sky-blue shirt is an answer to prayer. He collects the reins in his hands, and his knuckles stand out from gripping them.
He hangs on and rides.
We hit the path that curves behind the inns at a fast walk. Gravel crunches under the horses’ hooves and then becomes hard-packed dirt when we find the path to the spring. When the path climbs into the woods on Murderer’s Ridge, the dirt turns loose, black, and thick with leaf litter.
We ride in a silence full of sound—Arsenault’s heavy breathing, the wind in the trees and the chirping of birds, the snap of twigs and the huffing of the horses and the gurgling rush of the river in the distance.
Arsenault’s grip begins to loosen and he slumps forward against me. I reach for the reins and he pulls on them too hard, readjusting.
Finally, the tall basalt markers lining the crest of the hill loom up against the spring blue sky like soldiers from another age, square and black. The sunlight traces the writing carved on their surfaces and makes them glow.
Murder markers. The territory of the dead.
“We’ll stop on the other side,” I say in a low voice.
Arsenault dips his head and gulps in air. It’s not quite a nod. “Kyrra—” he gasps.
I open my mouth
to tell him to be quiet, but a flash from out in the open, near the murder markers, catches my eye. Silva starts to break from cover, and Mikelo is about to follow him. I snatch under my dress to pull my sword at the same time that I shout, “Ware!”
In that moment, the men hiding behind the markers break their cover—five, ten, twenty—Gods, I can’t count them—running straight for Silva and Mikelo, their silver and blue flashing in the sunlight spilling down the bare crest of the ridge.
“Take them alive!” someone yells.
“Silva! Mikelo!” I shout. “Run!”
Battle.
This is the chance the magic has been waiting for, and it leaps to take it.
It rushes through me like too much liquor—a burning euphoria that sets my vision askew. Until the light winks out and I can hear, or I can see but there is no sound. Or blackness drowns everything except the brief feeling I’ve done something.
Arsenault leans over me, barely hanging onto the reins, and Mikelo backs his horse into the trees. The Prinze swarm toward him, weapons drawn.
Mikelo has a knife I gave him, but he has his hands out, open. “Stop!” he shouts.
“Get off the horse!” one of the gavaros yells.
“No!”
They pull Mikelo down, twisting and fighting, but without his knife.
I knock Arsenault’s arm away from me, slide off the horse, and smack it in the flank. Its hooves churn in the dirt as it leaps forward.
“Kyrra!” Arsenault shouts. Out of reflex my sword sweeps down to meet the flat of another blade. I shove the man to the ground with my boot and rake him across the thighs as I bring the sword back up to parry another blow directed at my head.
If they want to take me alive, they’ve not denied themselves the taste of blood first.
“Arsenault!” I cry. “Get Mikelo!”
The sound of hoofbeats is all that answers me, pounding out before I’m even done speaking.
I stop trying to be aware of anything else, and with a shout, devote myself to battle.
