“Yes.”
“And maybe even a bathing room?”
She nodded.
“Sounds wonderful!”
“Keep your voice down. Look, we’re almost here.”
They passed through the outer gate, manned by a spearman on each side. The two gave their party scrupulous looks but said nothing and did not bar the way. Inside the walls, Mevon saw slate-roofed houses sitting in neat rows. Mothers chatted while balancing baskets on their heads. Fathers skinned the day’s hunt, or chopped wood, or smoked. Children ran between the legs of adults, chasing each other and squealing in boisterous delight.
“This seems a peaceful place,” Draevenus said. “A real community. Where people look out for each other, care for each other, and—”
“Keep especially wary of strangers,” Mevon said.
Zorvanya hushed him with a look he knew well. “Yes, that may be,” she said. “Just be courteous and say as little as possible. We’ll be fine.”
“Right,” Draevenus said.
Mevon nodded in agreement but kept feeling eyes on them as they strolled through the town. He hesitated to catch someone in a stare. He was supposed to be playing the servant, and it would not do to be seen as too curious for his own good. It’s my size, that’s all. I doubt these people have seen anyone as large as me in their lifetimes.
The thought seemed logical. But it did not reassure him at all.
Eventually, they reached the inn and stepped inside. Draevenus negotiated, briefly, for a room, and they soon marched up a narrow flight of stairs and into a room with three beds.
Mevon dropped the pack with a thump, staring at the mattresses. “Not sure if I’ll fit in any of these.”
“Oh, you can pull two together and sleep sideways,” Zorvanya said. “Draevenus doesn’t mind sharing one with me, do you, husband of mine?”
The mierothi rolled his eyes. “I’ll sleep on the floor if it comes to that.”
“Nonsense,” Mevon said. “Wasn’t it you who was slavering at the mouth just thinking about a bed? I’d not want to rob you of your fantasy.”
Zorvanya put her hands on her hips. “But you both seem to have no problem robbing me of mine!” Mevon glanced over at Draevenus, and was unsurprised by his friend’s look—a mix of shock, horror, and embarrassment.
Zorvanya laughed as her campaign of teasing—or terror, as Draevenus likely thought—the mierothi resumed once more.
“Very well,” she said. “I’m off to take a bath. Try not to stir any trouble while I’m gone.”
She plucked her small pouch of essentials and danced towards the door with swaying hips. Mevon moved aside to let her pass. As she neared, she whispered in his ear, “The bathing rooms here are private, isolated. You’re welcome to join me. If you’d like.”
He sighed. He hadn’t given in to her advances, tempting as they were, but neither had he yet told her off. Unsure if doing so was cruel or kind, he merely shook his head.
She pursed her lips but said nothing, nodding once to herself before pushing out the door.
Draevenus flopped, spread-limbed, onto a bed. A soft groan escaped his lips. “Thanks, Mevon. I owe you for this.”
Mevon chuckled. He hung up his travel cloak, then sat on the edge of a mattress, unlacing and tugging off his boots. He pushed backwards off the floor, squeezing the remaining two beds together.
Draevenus sat up, a horrified look on his face. “But I thought you said . . . ?”
“That’s for tonight. Doesn’t mean I can’t take advantage while our lady friend is otherwise occupied.”
The mierothi exhaled. “Ah. Well, in that case I’ll leave you to your rest. I think I might partake of the baths as well. In a separate room from Zorvanya, of course.”
Mevon smirked. “Of course.”
“I mean it. I have no interest in her. You know . . . in that way. I can’t.”
“Still afraid to let her see your scales?”
“Well . . .”
“Or is her assessment of your experience to blame for your hesitation?”
Draevenus ripped off his gloves. “Do these look made for tender caresses? These”—he spread his lips—“for playful nibbles?”
“Point taken.”
The assassin sighed. “I tried, you know. A few times. Relationships, and all that. But without the possibility for children, no human women could stand to stick around for long. And mierothi women? Pah! Don’t get me started.”
“Too temperamental?”
“Among our kind, everything is a constant power struggle. Sometimes, that gets literal.”
“I can see how that might put a strain on intimacy.”
Draevenus hopped off the bed and began pulling fresh clothes from the pack. “Besides all that, we both know it’s not me she’s really interested in.”
Mevon lay back across the double mattresses. “You see that, huh? Good. I was beginning to think you’d lost your edge.”
“Worry not about that, my friend. The closer we get to Ruul, the sharper I’ll become.”
Mevon closed his eyes as the door closed shut. The silence welcomed him, the stillness called. It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep.
His dreams, as always, were filled with blood.
He knew not how long he slept. Sometime later, the door creaked opened. He awakened at the faint sound and sat up immediately, one hand going to the hilt of a dagger.
Draevenus stood on the threshold.
“What is it?” Mevon said.
“The inn is too quiet, and I haven’t seen Zorvanya in three tolls. Has she been here?”
“No.”
“Not in the bathhouse either. Or the dining hall.”
Mevon stood, dragged on his boots and armaments. He was out the door in a beat.
Draevenus leading, they descended the stairs in a rush. The mierothi stopped dead in his tracks a pace after reaching the landing. Mevon looked past him and saw why.
The dining hall was quiet. Dark. Devoid of even the barest scent of food or drink. With no fire roaring in the hearth, a chill crept across Mevon’s skin.
A single figure stood shadowed before them.
Mevon saw clearly, though, as he knew his companion also could. He recognized the man. A blotchy bruise still clung to his temple from where Draevenus had struck him.
One of Hakel’s two friends.
The man lifted a hand, spinning a bone dagger around a thumb before catching it in his grip and waving. Mevon wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant as an invitation or as a taunt. The man turned and strolled out the tavern’s front door.
“Do we follow?” Draevenus asked.
“What kind of question is that?” Mevon pushed past him, bounding for the exit. He crashed through the door.
Outside, darkness greeted him. A darkness of two kinds.
Night had fallen, and a flickering ring of torchlight bathed the street in an orange glow. People crowded around the inn’s entrance. Their eyes burned, reflected as much from without as within. A weapon was in each hand he could see.
Hakel stood at the center of them. The fingers of one hand gripped Zorvanya’s hair tight, while his other hand held a knife to her throat.
Mevon shook. He felt something building inside him.
Draevenus stepped out on his left. “Let her go, Hakel.”
“No,” Hakel said.
“No? You obviously mean to use her as a bargaining tool. What use is she if you won’t negotiate?”
Hakel sneered. “She is not a bargaining tool. She is merely bait.”
More men pushed in behind the two of them, closing off any hope of escape.
Not that Mevon had been thinking of escape at all.
The storm . . .
“I see,” Draevenus said. “I’d ra
ther not have to kill a whole town full of men tonight. Why don’t you tell me what it is you want?”
Hakel jerked Zorvanya’s head back. She cried out in pain, terror. “I want this murderer to pay for her crimes. And I want her accomplices to share in that punishment.”
The storm is coming . . .
Draevenus shook his head, sighing. He cast his gaze around the crowd. “Is this how justice is done in these parts? Do you all swallow the words of a bloodthirsty lunatic without question? Do you kill a woman whose life is devoted to making yours easier without proof? Do you waylay strangers in the night because you don’t like the look of them?”
“These people trust me,” Hakel said. “They know I am a man who speaks truth. This woman has revealed herself to be full of treachery and lies, and anyone she touches becomes plagued by her filth. The only way to keep ourselves safe is to cut away the infection.”
The storm is . . . here.
Mevon inhaled.
The world slowed to a worm’s crawl. He felt every breath in the crowd around him, smelled every drop of sweat. Every twitching muscle became as loud as beating drums, and a single batting eyelash seemed to fall and rise for tolls.
Abyss take me, not now . . .
Mevon leaned forward, placing a foot to catch himself. Then another. And another. Before anyone could so much as widen their eyes in surprise, he’d reached Hakel. He drew up, towering over the other man. His raised hand quivered, screaming to be released, to crush flesh into pulp, to let the flow of blood begin.
It took every last ounce of his will to stay it and say three simple words.
“Let.
“Her.
“Go.”
Hakel growled.
Mevon saw the man’s bicep clench, the wrist curl inwards, the shoulder start to pull. A sharp edge touched trembling skin.
Mevon reached out, casually, and pinched the blade between two fingers. He yanked, sending it spinning through the air. It bit deep into the inn’s roof with a crack. A single tear of blood wept from the woman’s neck.
Hakel shoved her aside. “Get him!”
Mevon stilled himself, counting the moments in a breath as half a dozen daggers lunged towards him. He remained a statue as each pierced his flesh. He didn’t move. Didn’t cry out in pain. He barely even grimaced. The men who’d attacked him stepped back, hands falling from the blades wedged inside his body. Horror filled their gazes.
Mevon made the mistake of looking down.
So much blood, and for once, all of it my own. Is this the price I must pay for the peace I seek?
He did not know the answer. And now, the comment Draevenus made at the foot of the stairs came back to him in a new light. His friend wasn’t asking if they should try to rescue Zorvanya. He was asking if Mevon wished to keep blood off his hands. Even in this, the man was willing to protect him from his own nature, to safeguard his pursuit of peace. But that quest was a lie. He was merely attempting to escape the violence that had wholly defined his life.
It seemed he hadn’t fled fast or far enough.
Mevon lifted his eyes, drilling Hakel with his gaze. One by one, he grasped each protruding handle and pulled it from his flesh, tossing the bloody blades to the ground. When the last had fallen, he stepped once more to within a hand’s width of the antagonizer. There was so much he wished to say, but he knew letting loose the dam of words would allow other things to flood through. Other things, as it stood, he could barely keep contained.
“Let her go,” he said, finally. “Please.”
Hakel could only stare.
Zorvanya shrugged from the grip of the men who’d caught her. She straightened her clothes, then, chin held high, marched freely into the open space behind Mevon. No one moved to stop her.
Mevon spun and followed her, meeting up with his traveling companions. He gave them a nod. “I’m sorry, Draevenus. It looks like you won’t be enjoying that bed after all.”
Jasside was the first to see it.
She stood on the bench as the wagon rumbled beneath her on the coarse dirt road. Feralt held the reins at her side. She saw it again, there, through the trees, unmistakable this time.
A banner fluttering in the breeze.
“What’s that for I wonder?” she said.
“Something amiss?” Feralt asked.
She glanced down at him, smiling. Her near death at the hands—talons—of the shadow beast had given her a new appreciation for life. Perhaps she would never be ready to truly let Mevon go, but she could no longer imagine wasting what little youth she had left pining over a corpse. Feralt had proven pleasant company.
“A flag of some sort,” she said. “Flying up ahead. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Neither was I. Feel up to a scrap if it comes to it?”
Jasside probed her ribs, searching for any remaining tender spots. “It seems so. I’ll have to repay you for the healing somehow.”
“No reparations are necessary. I was glad to put you back together.”
When she’d stumbled back to the caravan, she’d been too embarrassed to ask Vashodia for healing even though she’d seen the mierothi pull people back from the brink of death without blinking. And since manipulating energy inside her own body with such precision was tricky, she’d asked Feralt to heal her instead. He’d done a splendid job of it.
The trees broke out into open ground of red clay and bristly patches of flora. Just ahead, a tent had been set up, and two hundred soldiers encircled it. Their armor and swords shone silver in the sunlight, their formations indicating they were ready for trouble at a moment’s notice. A sharp contrast to the rough-looking border guards who were playing escort. Professional soldiers, then. Whoever was in the tent must have been important.
A horseman broke out from the glittering ranks, trotting towards them. A scout or messenger, she presumed. The man reached the foremost border guard a hundred paces to her front and conferred with the captain. After a mark, the leader of their escort spurred his mount around and rode back towards her, drawing on the reins just beside the wagon.
“Your gracious presence is requested,” the captain said in tones that made it clear he was glad to be rid of her. “You and that . . . that great mistress of yours.”
“Who, me?”
The captain’s horse reared, neighing in a frantic voice that was mirrored by its rider. Jasside spied the black smear in the air, behind Vashodia, marking the path of her shadow-dash. “You can’t resist a chance to make an entrance, can you?”
“There are so many pleasures to be had in this life,” Vashodia said. “Why fight against them when you can instead indulge?”
The captain, at last, had brought his mount under control though he was a considerable distance away now. “As I was saying—”
“I heard you quite clearly, thank you.” Vashodia peered at Jasside. “Shall we?”
“Yes.”
Jasside energized, narrowing her gaze on a spot between the encircling soldiers and the tent. It was a good distance, but she knew she could make it in one go. She gestured forward and dashed.
Reality itself seemed to bend around her. She landed three paces from the tent’s flap, which was pulled back and held by tasseled golden ropes. Vashodia appeared at her side a beat later.
No less than thirty swords pulled free of their scabbards, bared tips pointed in at them.
Vashodia, shoulders squared on the tent, twisted her head around and gave the soldiers a sharp-toothed smile. “Would one of you be a dear and announce us to your king?”
Every blade dipped slightly.
A woman burst out from the tent. “What’s all this?” she said, then jerked to a halt and studied them. “Are you them? Of course you’re them. How many other little girls with scales and red eyes do I know of?”
Jasside’s eyes wide
ned. The woman stood as tall as most men, youthful and regal in posture and possessing a kind of indescribable beauty that drove a flush of envy through her. The woman’s auburn hair, twisted behind in an elegant bun, seemed to shine brighter than even the most polished soldiers’ armor. Jewels of every color glittered about her hands and neck.
Jasside almost missed seeing the crown on her head.
She leaned down and whispered to Vashodia, “What is the protocol for addressing a queen?”
Vashodia grinned deviously. “Just follow my lead.”
The queen raised an eyebrow. “Well, don’t stand there all day. My husband dragged me halfway across the country for this, and I’d really rather get it over with.”
“As would I,” Vashodia said. She strolled in past the waiting queen, and Jasside followed right behind.
The tent interior, lit only by muffled sunlight through the thin canvas roof, displayed an odd mix of rustic and luxurious appointments. Across from the entrance sat an old man on a simple wooden chair. A crown nested in his grey hair. Two men flanked the king, one on each side. One she did not recognize, but by his stance and the casual but confident way he carried the narrow sword at his hip, she took him to be a protector of sorts. The other was the emissary who had first greeted them two months ago. He did not appear happy.
The queen drew up to Jasside’s side and waved an arm in front of her. “May I present King Daryn Reimos of Weskara, the illustrious and magnificent and what have you. Here they are, o’ husband of mine, as requested. Do remember to be kind to them. They just did you a substantial favor, after all.”
The king straightened in his chair. He coughed, squinting. “That remains to be seen, Halice.”
The queen sighed. Loudly. “Oh have it your way, you distrustful old codger. Don’t blame me if they decide to fry the meat from your bones, as our dear emissary seems to think they will.”
“That one,” the emissary said, pointing at Vashodia, “outright threatened as much. And worse!”
“Yes,” the queen said, smiling slyly. “And I’m sure it had nothing to do with your humble-yet-charming personality.”
“None of that matters now,” the king said. “I have to see. With my own eyes.” He began to rise from his seat.
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