He is every inch a rogue hunter now, from the ready stillness with which he sits, to his measuring gaze, to the magical walls he maintains around us effortlessly. I can’t read his expression, can’t guess at his thoughts from the inscrutable mask he wears. His horse shifts, takes a step forward. I raise my hand, palm out, as if I could stop him with all the magic I can no longer use.
“Peace be upon you,” he says.
Peace. It’s a promise, in its way. An offer of safety.
“And upon you, peace,” I return, and find myself smiling crookedly at him. “Why the trap?” I ask. I can’t afford to make a mistake, even with such a greeting.
“I can’t spend all day chasing you.” He dismounts and approaches, reins in hand. The walls of the spell contract, pulling in until we stand in an elongated bubble of magic, much harder to detect now. It must also be easier to maintain.
I hold my hand up again as he nears me. “You have other things planned for your day?”
His lips quirk as he comes to a stop five paces away. “Not exactly. Though the Council would like me to hunt down Stormwind.”
“Because they don’t trust you to not let me go?” On the other hand, if he wants to prove he’s trustworthy, catching me and bringing me in will restore his reputation in the eyes of the Council.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps they’re afraid you’ll turn me against them, the way you did the lycan guard.”
“Bah,” I scoff. “I didn’t turn them. I explained the situation. I don’t think they like being misused.”
“It would seem not,” Stonefall agrees wryly. “Though the Council hasn’t yet realized you were at the root of the Guard’s defection.”
I eye him uncertainly. “But you said—”
“It was my guess, not theirs. I suspect I have a greater appreciation for your powers of persuasion than they do.” He looks past me to the end of the alley, then back over his shoulder. “Where are your friends?”
“I already told the Council I don’t have any.”
“You also told them I gave you no help at all, other than a way out.” He studies me as if I were a puzzle he can’t quite put together. And he is a man who is accustomed to working things out. “You made no mention that I told you where Stormwind was being held, or who had the key to her shackles.”
“I didn’t, did I?” I feel a smile growing, and then I’m laughing for the first time in what feels like weeks, laughing even though the movement sends ripples of pain down my arm. “You just want to know how I did it.”
Stonefall almost smiles. “I’m curious.”
An understatement, if ever I heard one. “And if I tell you, then what? You give me your spare horse and directions to a safe haven?” It isn’t a serious question. I’d no more dare tell Stonefall of Val’s bond than I would announce it to the Council.
“The horse?” He glances toward the chestnut as if taken aback. “She’s already yours.”
“What?” I ask, certain I heard him wrong.
Stonefall shrugs. “I kept two horses as a rogue hunter, but I won’t be needing her anymore. I resigned my post this morning as well — on the grounds of my own safety, given the nearly successful attack on my life. If you don’t want her, I suppose I can sell her.”
I stare at him. A rogue hunter resigning his post on the basis of personal safety sounds utterly absurd. A rogue hunter providing a mount to a fugitive seems equally outrageous. Laughter lurks in his eyes, the crinkle of his crow’s feet. “You’re serious.”
“If you want to escape, you’ll need to travel faster than a walk.”
“You really think I can escape?”
He blinks, startled by the question.
“I know you found me because of the glowstone. But I think they — the other mages looking for me — might have my blood. I don’t know how to escape that.”
He smiles thinly, all amusement gone. “You don’t have to. Brightsong wasn’t pleased when the mages who warded your room used your blood—she was there, and even registered a complaint about it with the Council’s scribe. At any rate, as soon as they were done, she evicted them from the room and had your clothes disposed of. Burned, actually. With the sigil itself destroyed, the Council doesn’t have anything to trace you with.”
“She— she did?”
“She was questioned quite thoroughly about it immediately after your escape.” He shrugs. “She pointed out both the health issues and the ethical ones, and suggested that they should have taken greater precautions beforehand so they wouldn’t be on the verge of violating their principles again. It seems half the Council was kept in the dark about the use of blood magic to hold you, and they are not pleased.”
I think I want to be just like Brightsong one day.
Stonefall removes the second horse’s halter and fits her with a proper bridle and reins. As he works, he says, “You’d better get moving. Zahra may be small, but she’s fast and was born in the desert. There’s a change of clothes in the saddlebags, plus some food and water, money, a couple of basic charms. Stormwind’s pack.”
“Stormwind’s—” I begin, and understand. No one has thought to demand the pack from him yet. Without it, the other rogue hunters won’t have anything to establish a trace with. “Why?” I ask. “Why are you doing this?”
He looks down for a moment, then meets my gaze. The anger in his eyes takes me by surprise. “I expected Talon to aid you. As far as I can tell, she did nothing. Then when you got out through your own means, I traced you, and you were moving far too slowly. Of course I’ll help you. I don’t know how you subverted the truth spell, but I do know you not only saved my life, but protected me from the Council. Because of that, I’ve had to answer for some of my actions — for letting you go before you caused any trouble — but I’ve retained both my honor and my freedom.” His eyes drop to my hands. “The least I can do is bring you a horse.”
“I see,” I say. “And I thank you.”
“I hope you can ride,” he jokes as he offers me the reins.
I take them uncertainly. “I … don’t think so.” The horse, however “small” it might be considered, is still taller than me at its shoulder. I eye the saddle warily. “How am I supposed to get up there?”
Stonefall rubs a hand over his mouth. “I’ll guide you through mounting. Once you’re up, put on the look-away and we’ll walk together for a bit, till you get a feel for it.”
I smile my thanks at him.
He takes my pack to lash on behind the saddle and pauses. “How long have you been traveling on foot?”
“A few hours.”
A line appears between his brows. “Do you have anything in here you can give me? Something with your scent?”
I grin and hold out my hand for my bag again. “You’d make a great criminal if you ever turned your mind to it.”
Stonefall shakes his head, the corner of his lips quirked. I dig out the skirt I’d worn from Stormwind’s valley on through the Burnt Lands and the desert. I’d changed out of it at the caravanserai, so that my spare clothes would be clean for my foray into the Mekteb. And it seems Kenta hadn’t thought to do my laundry. Even if the Council manages to hire a pack of mercenary lycans, the skirt probably reeks of me more strongly than my own skin.
Stonefall tosses the fabric over the back of his horse, straps on my pack behind the saddle, and helps me through the awkward process of clambering up on my patient new mare, with only my left arm to aid me, bruised fingers and all.
“Use the charm,” Stonefall says once he’s mounted his own horse. “It won’t hide the horse but at least you can use it for now.”
“How about this one instead?” I ask, sliding on the silver wristband.
He nods, eyes crinkling. “That will do very well. Let’s walk. Press your legs gently against her sides.”
On the second attempt, Zahra starts forward at a relaxed walk. Stonefall lets his spell go and urges his horse into step beside me. I suspect the spell had built-in shieldings
that kept others away, for no one even glances in our direction from the street beyond. Nor have I seen any sign of Kenta.
Stonefall rides beside me a quarter of an hour, murmuring instructions and twice correcting my grip on the reins. We bypass the town’s central square, taking back streets. He explains not only how to sit a horse, but how to care for it. Then, in another empty alleyway, we come to a stop.
“You really don’t have any other allies out here?” he asks. “Not even that sharp-toothed tanuki?”
I grin, hoping Kenta didn’t nip Stonefall too hard when he snatched the glowstone right out of his hand. “No— that was him leaving. I’m on my own now.”
“You need to find a guide to take you into the desert.”
“How do you know I’m going there?”
“We all know. You owe the phoenix a debt, don’t you? Ravenflight will follow you there whether or not she can trace you.” He gestures to my newly acquired mare. “You need to move fast, disappear among the tribes.”
“I have an idea about that.”
He considers me. I wonder what he can tell of me through the glamor. “You may have family in the desert.”
“I doubt they’d want me.”
He tilts his head, shrugging slightly. “Want has less to do with it than honor and responsibility. Blood ties in the desert are a serious thing.” When I don’t immediately answer, he says, “Think on it. They would do their best to protect you from capture.”
“I’ll think about it,” I agree finally.
He doesn’t look appeased. “The desert is not a forgiving place. Whatever you do, don’t travel alone.”
He cares about this, too. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me, after he tracked me down to give me his spare horse. But it does, and it makes me feel warm and hopeful despite the odds. “I won’t,” I promise.
He gestures to the wider road our street intersects with. “Follow that road east, and you’ll come to a small town that lies on the caravan route to Fidanya. You’ll be able to get better directions from there.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For all of this.”
He nods.
I knee the horse gently, as he’d taught me. She ignores me. I haven’t quite got this riding thing down yet.
“Hikaru,” Stonefall says. I turn to him, eyebrows raised. He thinks less of the name I gave the Council than the one Stormwind gave him.
“You’re…”
“Yes?”
“Very brave.”
I sit still for a heartbeat. “Thanks,” I manage as Stonefall departs, the word tinged with a faint inflection of awe.
I hadn’t expected to earn such a man’s respect.
The small town Stonefall directed me to is in fact tiny — composed of a smattering of houses, a smithy, and a small inn. It seems most caravans don’t stop here for even a meal, what with the city and the great caravanserai so near.
I leave my mare at a hitching post outside the inn and go in to ask directions. The owners, an elderly husband and wife with at least eight children to help them, are more than happy to serve me a meal of white bean soup and fresh baked bread, with a few olives and some information on the side.
“The desert, hmm?” the woman says, easing herself down on the cushions set opposite me at the low table. “Don’t have any guides here. Your best bet is to catch up with the caravan that went through here last night.”
I brighten. “How far would they have gotten?”
She snorts. “Not too far. They travel at night, and must have gotten a late start yesterday. They were through here near midnight. They’ll have just made the next town.”
Which means they likely won’t have heard of my escape either. Not unless someone else catches up to them bearing the news. And there is the small, no doubt absurd, hope that this is the caravan Huda joined to return to her tribe’s lands. It has only been a week or so since I bid farewell to Huda at the caravanserai, and she would have stayed there through the Festival anyhow. Even if she found a caravan that left before this one, she may be no more than a couple days ahead of me.
I thank the woman, leaving as soon as I’ve downed my meal. I stop only for a short break in the afternoon. This late in fall, the sun is still strong enough to make it clear why the caravan would choose to rest through the day. After a half hour’s nap, I pull myself back up on Zahra and continue on.
The road lies empty for the most part. I pass a few farmers, an equal number of wagons creaking along the road, and that is all. No couriers race by on lathered steeds, no mages pound after me, nothing makes me clutch the reins in fear. Not even a tanuki bristling with fury. Stonefall must have dragged my skirt through half the town before leaving to have shaken Kenta from my trail.
A couple of hours before sunset, I reach the next town, dusty and sore. One glance at the number of camels and horses grazing in the fields around the town tell me the caravan is here. I’m tempted to go straight to the small caravanserai to seek out whoever I can find, Huda or the owners of the caravan. But I can’t wear my glamor in her company, and my markings will stand out in the memory of anyone who sees me. There are still a few hours till sunset. I need to take Kenta’s advice right away.
The main square offers me nothing of use, but a few of the alleys have tiny shops squeezed in shoulder to shoulder. I’ve nearly given up searching when I finally spot a sign decorated with painted images of tigers and dragons jutting out from between a corner bakery and a tailor’s workshop: an ink shop.
I ride on until I find an empty back street, dismount, and remove my silver wristband. This is the dangerous part, walking about without a disguise. But I can’t see any way around it that wouldn’t arouse further suspicion. So I straighten out my patched tunic and lead my horse back to the ink shop as if I hadn’t a care in the world.
The proprietor stands at the door. He’s a wizened old man, his hair iron gray but his eyebrows still black. His eyes, like my mother’s and my own, mark him as having come from one of the eastern Kingdoms. Through the single, polished window I spot the tools of his trade laid out on a lacquered tray. I’ve guessed his heritage perfectly. He practices an eastern method of inking known as tebori, which uses slim sticks of bamboo or carved metal, each with a group of needles attached at the bottom.
“Greetings, uncle,” I say in Tradespeak, hoping language at least won’t be an issue.
He answers easily enough. “Good day, miss. Water for your horse?” He gestures to a small barrel along the wall.
“I thank you.” I remove the wooden cover. The mare dips her nose in, drinking thirstily. I’m not sure how well she’ll do in a desert, certainly not as well as a camel. I’ll worry about that when I must. If I can catch up with Huda — if she’s even with the caravan — perhaps she’ll know what to do.
I turn to the old man. “I had a design inked on my arms some time ago, and wanted to add some color. Can you help me?”
“Of course. Come in and we will take a look.”
Once inside, I seat myself on the cushions on the floor. He pulls up a stuffed bolster, positioning it under my arm. I start with my wounded arm, because at this point, having it braced on a bolster seems a heavenly idea. I roll up my sleeve, consider my markings. A touch of color on the backs of my hands, a swirl or two on my arms, and it will look much less like a death sentence even to me.
The old man murmurs with surprise. With a glance at me for permission, he studies the markings, turning my arm over carefully, his eyes tracing the pattern of interlocking designs. Then he asks to see my other arm. I can only hope they don’t look like something other than ink to his expert eye.
“Where was this done?”
“I went to a master back home.” Well, not a master inker, but close. “I don’t know when I’ll go back. The design’s a little too stark for me. I was hoping you could add some color here,” I touch the back of my hand, “and maybe a little more at the top.”
“Certainly,” he says, his gaze still moving over my arms. �
�Why the firebird, though?”
“What?” I ask, taken aback.
He taps the inside of my arm, where the design wraps around to meet. There, at the center, a phoenix flies, its wings outspread. I stare at it. I haven’t wanted to look at the markings. In truth, I’ve taken every opportunity to cover them, so I never noticed the phoenix. Now, having seen it, I wonder if I’ve been blind.
“I met one once,” I finally say.
“Ah,” he says. “That is special indeed. So, we will color it, and we will do your hands.”
“How long will it take?”
He shrugs. “As long as it takes. An hour, perhaps two. These things should not be hurried.”
Maybe not generally, but I have no idea how much time I have to spare, nor when the caravan will move on. He waits patiently for my response, so I make myself nod. If it takes too long, I’ll pay him for his work and pretend that I’ll return tomorrow.
After consulting me on colors, he sets to work. He stretches my skin taut with one hand, and uses the other to hold the tebori tool, resting it against his thumb as he slides the needles in and out of my skin. They make a faint, rhythmic sound as they pull out, sha-sha-sha. Compared to Splinter’s potion, they hurt about as much as a mosquito bite would after a lion’s.
The inker gives the phoenix its sunset flames, his tebori allowing him to create subtle gradations of color that transform the bird from a marking that imprisons me into a work of art. Well over an hour passes before he finishes both birds and moves on to my hands. The shadows outside have grown longer, the caravan that much closer to leaving.
I should have had him start with my hands — stupid to start with what few will see.
“I may have to leave soon,” I say as he adds more ink to his tebori. “I can come back tomorrow.”
“Only little while longer, miss,” he says. “This hand is nearly done.”
Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) Page 36
