“Look for Slicewing,” I tell Scrawny. He tilts his head at the strange request and flies toward the ocean. Meanwhile, I huddle in my hiding spot, ears attuned for any sound out of the ordinary.
A crash sounds above me. I gasp, barely holding in a scream, before realizing that it’s just Scrawny. He’s laboring mightily to carry something—it looks like a piece of wood tied to a string. The crow drops it at my feet, and I pick it up. It’s the tip of a wooden longbow that looks as if it’s been snapped off. The bowstring is still attached. I rub the wood between my fingers. Why would Scrawny bring me—
My hands pass over a symbol carved in the wood. A Shidadi letter I’ve seen before...
Dineas laying the bow reverently by his pillow as he lies down to sleep. Dineas running his fingers over the carved letter at the top.
“Dineas’s bow,” I whisper.
Scrawny perks up at Dineas’s name.
“Where did you find this?”
Scrawny cocks his head.
I hold the bow fragment in front of him. “Where did you find this?” I say again, and my voice shakes.
The crow ruffles his feathers at my tone, but he seems to understand, flying a short distance and looking back for me to follow. I check for soldiers and then scramble after him. Little by little, spurt by spurt, we make our way toward the beach. Every step I take is painfully loud in my ears, every snapped branch a thunderclap. Finally, I see the trail leading down the cliff. Scrawny flies ahead and waits for me.
I shake my head. It’s far too dangerous.
He caws and then launches himself into the air as two Amparan soldiers come up the trail. I stay huddled behind a boulder until they’re gone. This trail is far too exposed, but perhaps I can find some vantage point to see what Scrawny wants to show me. I crawl through the underbrush until I finally break through to the cliff edge. From here, I have a clear view of the beach below, as well as the trail leading down to it. Scrawny lands on my shoulder and scares me half to death.
“No, Scrawny. Keep going.”
He lifts up, flies a few circles, and then glides down onto the beach without me. He’s careful to avoid the soldiers training in formation near the water, and he gives the campfires farther back a wide berth. Instead, he flies toward the edge of the beach and lands on a small pile. I have to squint in order to see swords, armor, and other weapons stacked up.
See your soldiers murdered, their weapons piled up for the Amparans to divide among themselves. Karu’s words echo in my head.
No.
Maybe it was stolen. Maybe it fell off when he was scouting. But once again I see the look in his eyes as he runs his thumb over the bow, and I know that nothing short of death would part him from it.
I blink hard.
The sound of tearing cloth. A searing pain across my right arm. And then an arrow embeds itself in the ground in front of me. I clutch my arm and whirl around. An Amparan soldier stands ten paces behind me with an arrow trained at my heart.
I swallow. This was not the way I wanted to be reunited with Dineas.
The soldier frowns at the sight of my rosemarks and my clearly Dara features. I notice that he’s umbertouched as well. “Who are you?” he asks.
“Mercy, please,” I say. “I’m not a soldier.” Warm blood trickles through my fingers.
He glances down at the blowgun at my waist. “Drop the weapon,” he says.
I don’t move.
“Drop the weapon,” he shouts.
A blur cuts through the air, and Scrawny darts away with the arrow that had been at that soldier’s bow. As he yells after the bird, I grab my blowgun and shoot him in the neck. And then, once again, I run.
Shouts sound behind me, but I don’t look to check the pursuit. I simply flee up the mountainside as Scrawny flies overhead, thanking the Goddess that my wounded arm still works. An arrow whistles past my ear. As I duck and push myself to run faster, Scrawny turns and dives behind me. A man screams in pain.
And then there’s a bloodcurdling shriek. A crow’s shriek.
I turn to see an Amparan soldier clutching his eye. At his feet is a bundle of feathers and it’s not moving. My heart jumps into my throat. I fumble for another dart and shoot the soldier in the arm. As the man’s eyes roll back into his head, I run and scoop Scrawny off the ground. His eyes are open, and he twitches in my hand. I flee again, weaving between plants and scrambling one-handed up rock piles. My feet roll dangerously on the uneven ground, but I keep going. I have to get myself away. I have to get us both away.
I run until I lose feeling in my feet and legs, until my throat is a solid mass of pain. Finally I realize that there are no more sounds behind me. And even if there were, I don’t know if I’d have anything left. I stop and hunch over my knees, taking in giant gulps of air, cradling Scrawny in my hands. First Sarsine, and now Dineas. Please, not Scrawny too.
As if in reply, the crow opens and closes his beak. His eyes focus on me. I want to cry with relief, but then I notice he’s holding his wing at an odd angle.
I stare at it, feeling useless. I’m a healer for people, not animals. How in the world do I set a bird’s wing?
“Would you take to a splint, Scrawny?” Somehow I don’t think so.
I look at his wings again. Even if you can’t splint a wounded bird, you can still immobilize the injury. Moving extra carefully, I fold Scrawny’s wing close to his body. When he doesn’t complain, I use a scarf to wrap it to his torso. That’s as good of a treatment as I can make.
“How does that feel, you foolish bird?” I ask.
He gives a faint caw and what I hope is the crow version of a brave smile. I need a way to carry him. After some thought, I remove my cloak and tie it from shoulder to hip to form a sling. Scrawny doesn’t object when I tuck him in.
Dineas’s bow.
My hands go frantically to my purse and the pockets of my tunic. Nothing. I must have dropped it in the chase. Yet another loss to follow the others, but I swallow the lump in my throat. I need to be strong for Scrawny.
As I start walking again, my temples begin to throb. I hadn’t noticed it in the excitement, but now the headache becomes more insistent.
“We need to find someplace to rest,” I tell Scrawny. “We’ll wait for you to heal up, and then we’ll find the others. All right?” I’m not sure if I’m comforting him or myself.
Scrawny closes his eyes and opens them again.
I’m about to tease him for being taciturn, when pain shoots suddenly through my head, so strong that it leaves me gasping for breath. Along with the pain comes a fog at the edges of my vision. I fall onto the ground and curl into a ball, remembering at the last moment not to crush the crow tied to my body.
Scrawny gives a confused chirp, but I’m in no condition to respond. All I can do is squeeze my eyes shut until my breathing slows and the pain fades away. As the mountainside around me comes back into focus, so does the realization I’ve been denying for weeks now, the true meaning of the nagging headaches, the strange feeling of always being too warm, the tremors that overtook me in Baruva’s prison cell.
My rose plague fever has returned. Sarsine is dead, and Dineas likely gone as well. Soon, I will join them.
Gatha stumbles back, clutching at her chest. I catch her under the arms as she falls, stumbling under her weight. Where had that arrow come from?
Karu draws her sword. “Ambush!” she yells.
“Move, Dineas,” Gatha snaps through clenched teeth. “Get your guard up.”
I help her to the ground and draw my sword.
The forest comes alive. Amparan soldiers stream out from the bamboo. Karu and I move to flank Gatha on either side, and then the first soldiers are upon us. An Amparan sword comes down on mine with a jarring clang. Behind me, Gatha struggles to get to her feet but falls again, cursing. She grabs a horn at her belt, puts it to her mouth, and blows a short blast, only to clutch her ribs in pain. But she takes another breath, and the second peal nearly shatters my eardrums.
&nbs
p; An Amparan slashes at me and then sidesteps to get at Gatha. I move with him, blocking his way, and he suddenly collapses. I look down to see Gatha on one knee, her sword through the Amparan’s gut.
A distant cry splits the air. “To Gatha!”
“To Gatha!” a crowd of voices answers, closer now.
Arrows fill the air. Our arrows.
We make a ragged, pathetic procession through the forest. Some of us are lucky enough to walk. Others limp along, leaning on the shoulders of their comrades. Still others have to be carried. We sustained heavy injuries during this fight, but we can’t afford to rest. We need to get out of here and erase traces of our passing before more soldiers find us.
There’s an air of suspicion as we walk. After we defeated the Amparans, one of Vidarna’s men found a Shidadi scout’s body hidden a short distance away. That’s how the Amparans had been able to get to us without warning. We’d been lucky that it had been a small group of soldiers—we counted fifteen bodies. If the Amparans had brought the full might of their army against us, or even a tenth of it, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Which leads us to the question of why they’d sent such a small group. The fact that the first arrow hit Gatha was a disconcerting clue. Large armies are too obvious. We would have seen them coming, even if they’d managed to kill our scout. A smaller group to assassinate a leader, though—that might slip through our defenses. But small, targeted raids like this can only happen with information. Someone had told them where our camp was and where Gatha was likely to be.
Gatha raises a hand. “Quarter-hour rest,” she says. Her chest is bandaged now, and she’d waved off any offer for help getting around. Our healer says her ribs had stopped the arrow from going far in. Still she’s lost some blood. Her face is lined with pain, and far too pale.
At Gatha’s command, people drop to the ground. There’s hardly any talking as fighters quietly adjust bandages and gulp down water. Quite a few simply lean back and close their eyes. A man from Karu’s tribe doles out packets of healing herbs prepared by the Dara. I hear him tell someone that we’re down to his last few.
I sit alone, apart from the others. Even from this distance, the weight of the suspicion on me is heavy, and a knot of worry grows in my gut. Since my return, I’ve been disobedient and a bad soldier—that I’ll admit to. But now, after the attack, I realize I might be blamed for much more. As I try to ignore stares and dirty looks, I see Vidarna and Karu crossing over to talk to Gatha. My warlord doesn’t look particularly happy to see them. They talk quietly. Actually, it’s mostly Vidarna and Karu talking. Gatha just nods heavily.
Finally, Vidarna comes to me. “Gatha wants to speak with you.”
I was expecting this, though that doesn’t make me dread it any less. I’m not a traitor, Gatha. Not in the way they’re saying.
Gatha leans against a stalk of bamboo. She looks exhausted, as if her very spirit had been torn from her body and weighed down. Part of it is because of the wound, but I’ve seen her bear worse injuries before and not look so utterly defeated.
“Did you know anything about this attack, Dineas?” she says. “About who killed the scout?”
“I had nothing to do with this attack, Gatha.” My words come out fast, rushed. I wonder if there’s anything I can say that doesn’t make me sound like a liar.
Gatha’s expression doesn’t change. “Are there any witnesses who can vouch for where you were these past days?”
“I was alone, at the beach as I told you.”
“A beach with an Amparan outpost,” says Karu. I shoot her a glare of pure fury.
Gatha frowns. “I’ve tried to stand by you, Dineas. I’ve known you all your life, and you’ve served me well. But that trust can only go so far. I need some solid evidence in your defense. Some witness who can corroborate your story.”
I wrack my mind, trying to think of something, anything. “Gatha, any traitor in the camp would know to make it look so I’m the guilty one.” I wish I didn’t sound quite so desperate, but I’m starting to panic. “If I really was the traitor, would I be so stupid as to time the attack so close to when I was gone?” I point at Karu. “She was also there before the attack happened. Why don’t you suspect her? We already know she has no honor.”
Dead silence. One of Karu’s soldiers hisses. Karu herself simply sneers.
When Gatha speaks again, there’s a grief in her voice that I’d never heard before. “I wanted to believe better of you, Dineas. I really did.”
Her words eviscerate me.
“Warlord, please.” My voice shakes. Every bit of me is aware of how pathetic I sound, but as the reality of what’s about to come sinks in, all my dignity leaves me. “Please, Gatha. Give me a chance to prove myself trustworthy. I’ve disobeyed your orders many times, I admit, but I would never knowingly lead our people to harm.”
“We have no solid proof against you,” says Gatha.
I want to grasp at the hope her words offer, but there’s a heaviness in her voice that’s horrible to hear....
“That’s why I’m letting you leave alive and unharmed,” she says. “You’re banished from the camp, Dineas. You have an hour to leave. If you return, you will be received as an enemy of the tribe.”
The night that follows is even colder than the last. I dream about Dineas. He’s buried under a pile of armor and weapons and asks me why I’ve abandoned him.
I lie on the ground after I wake, feeling his absence like a tear through my insides. Part of me refuses to believe he’s dead. He’s careful, he’s skilled, and we’d made it out of so many hopeless situations before. Perhaps there’s an explanation. Perhaps.
It’s hard to remember, right now, why I’d tried so hard to keep my distance when he wanted more than just friendship. If it was to avoid pain for myself, then I’ve failed. If it was to protect him...did I even succeed in that?
I stare up at the leaves, wishing I could stay here forever, lie here and let the world do what it will. But then, next to me, Scrawny flaps his good wing. He looks at me, his dark crow eyes subdued. It’s because of me that he was hurt. He can’t fly right now, and he can’t forage for food on his own. If I give up, both of us will pay the price.
So I get up. Scrawny ruffles his feathers as I settle him into his sling, and he gives a satisfied click of his beak. Then I start to walk.
I run across a creek and give the wound on my arm a good washing. Thankfully, the cut is shallow and has scabbed over cleanly. My headache, as well, seems to have dissipated. After I refill my waterskin, I follow the creek, thinking that perhaps our people would settle near water. After a while, I start to worry about enemy soldiers, so I move farther away from the creek bank, still following its path but staying in the cover of the plants. Around midmorning, a sight stops me short.
The first body lies at the base of a small shrub. The rest are scattered a short distance beyond. Five bodies total—four Amparan and one Shidadi, so recently dead that their muscles have not yet stiffened. I stumble back at the sight, grabbing for my blowgun and looking wildly about for soldiers. There’s a rustling behind me, and I whirl around. It’s a pack mule, tied to a stalk of bamboo. Hand to my chest, I stare at the animal, willing my pulse to slow.
Then I hear the moan. It’s low-pitched and weak, so soft that I might have missed it if I’d been walking closer to the river. My heartbeat quickens again. I grip my blowgun tightly—more as a club than something to shoot with—and make my way carefully toward the sound.
I find him collapsed on the ground twenty steps past the dead soldiers—a dark-skinned soldier barely old enough to grow a beard. There’s a deep gash in his side, and his glassy eyes look up at me without recognition. He wears the Amparan livery that I’ve feared my entire life. He’s far gone. Even if his wounds were bandaged now, he’s more likely to die than recover.
It’s a strange experience to look at someone who needs healing and decide to keep walking, but that is what I must do. I wonder, as I look down at h
im, whether he was one of the troops that burned my village. Has he killed anyone I know? He looks into my eyes. There’s a flicker. He struggles to move his lips.
“Water,” he whispers. His raw suffering lashes at my conscience.
You’ve made vows before your Goddess.
Why would I cure this man, when he would simply go right back to killing my people? The Goddess asks too much. I turn and walk away.
“Water,” comes the plea again, even more desperate than before, though I hadn’t known it was possible. And I know I’ll continue to hear that plea, even if I keep walking and never stop.
I go back to him.
He has a waterskin hanging from his belt. It’s half-full, and I pour a tiny stream into the space between his slack lips. He sips. Chokes. Licks his lips.
There’s the problem of my rosemarks. It’s dangerous enough for him if I touched him while he’s fully healthy. But he has open wounds, and if our blood should mingle...
But then, if I don’t touch him, he’ll certainly die. If I try, he may still have a chance.
I rummage through my bags for gloves. He groans weakly as I pour water over his cut, then utters a sharp cry when I pull away the clothing stuck to the wound. There’s some vel flower left in my bag, which I sprinkle onto the gash.
What am I doing?
I cut a strip off his cloak and clean it as best I can before binding it around him. As I work, his eyes gradually drift closed. I would think him dead if not for the tiniest movement of his chest.
I leave him alone for the rest of the day. What he needs most is to rest undisturbed as his body knits itself together. The next morning, his color is better, and the bleeding has slowed considerably on his wounds. Late that afternoon, I deem him well enough to be moved to a small cave in the cliffs nearby. I’m not sure how I’ll move him until I remember the abandoned mule, whose suspicion of me lightens considerably after I feed him some stale travel bread. Bamboo, cloth, and rope from the mule’s pack serves to make a rough sled, and I wrap the soldier in a cloak before dragging him on.
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