Rayne
If it was possible, the air on this side of the tunnel was even worse. There was the lingering smell of rot and decay. Breathing through her mouth, she followed Tierri to the middle of the three tunnels that led off of the main room.
“This way?” he asked, plucking a torch from a bracket and lighting it with a flick of his wrist.
“That way,” Old Sim confirmed. “Call if she slits your throat.” His hoarse laugh followed them down the dark corridor.
Firelight danced on the stone walls, and they passed three empty cells. She found herself wanting to ask him questions, how he knew what she was doing, how the knife had ended up in Wido's hands. Why he was helping her. But beyond even all that, she wanted to know about him. She wanted to know how he knew the jailer and why the jailer called him King. She wanted to know what it felt like to control fire when she couldn't even control her own feelings. Luckily, she didn't get to say anything because they rounded a dark corner and came up against floor-to-ceiling iron bars.
“Here we are,” Tierri said, knocking a fist against one of the bars. The sound echoed too loud in the small space, followed by the unmistakable scratching of small rat claws on stone as the rodents retreated.
Rayne took a tentative step forward and peered into the darkness. Rushes were spread thinly on the stone floor, and a wooden bowl lay discarded and empty near the barred door. Finally, a mound of rags moved. It was just a small shrug but it drew her eye. She motioned for Tierri to pass her the torch, and when he did she maneuvered it so that the firelight fell across the figure.
She was met with a face as black as the shadows around them, and dark eyes that narrowed as the prisoner hissed at her, more animal than human. Rayne took an automatic step back but then checked herself.
“Is it you?” she asked the prisoner.
“Rayne?”
Relief seized her limbs and she nearly stumbled. Tierri retrieved the torch and Rayne fell to her knees as Imeyna crawled toward her. Their hands met on the iron bars.
“I did not think to see you again,” Imeyna said, disbelieving laughter evident in her voice. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and there was a gap where a tooth used to be in the front of her mouth. She also braced one of her arms gingerly to her chest, as if it were sprained or maybe even broken.
“Imeyna,” Rayne said, nearly crying with relief. “I need you. I can't— I don't know—”
“Hush,” Imeyna said, but it wasn't a gentle, soothing sound. Instead, her eyes were focused past Rayne, on the general who stood watching them.
Rayne glanced over her shoulder at him, too, trying to see what Imeyna saw. He had the stiff military posture, his stern face flickering in sharp shadows cast by the dancing torchlight. But he was more than those things. He was bound and banded; he was a victim of her father as much as any of them. She was sure that he had helped Wido. And perhaps the fire he conjured in Edlyn's room had been meant to protect her, not fight her. Maybe, maybe. Did she hang her hopes on a maybe? She remembered that Wido hadn't wanted to risk it, but she wasn't Wido.
“I trust him,” Rayne said, turning back to Imeyna but not before she saw the spark of surprise on Tierri's usually stoic features. “Imeyna, I don't think I can do it. I can't do it, and Wido’s going to kill me—”
“Don't talk like that,” Imeyna scolded her. “The princess I know does not give up.”
Who was the princess that Imeyna knew? Rayne, headstrong and foolish, had run away from Dusk with a half-baked plan to find someone who would help her teach her father the error of his ways. She had molded herself to fit the image of the person she thought the Knights wanted her to be—confident, brave, unfeeling. And in exchange, they would give her what she needed—the tools to destroy her father. But now, facing her sister and her father, she was insecure and uncertain. Was she really expected to go head to head with her sister? With her father and Danyll? She wanted someone to tell her what to do.
Imeyna reached her long fingers through the iron bars and grasped Rayne's hand. “You have to find a way,” she said. “This cannot all be for nothing.”
There was something in her tone, a fierce anger that made Imeyna grind her teeth together. “Imeyna, where is Tamsin?” Rayne asked, afraid of the answer.
Imeyna lowered her eyes and that was all the confirmation Rayne needed. Sweet Tamsin who couldn't even swing a sword. Who had stitched Rayne's pants when she wore holes in the knees, who had comforted her at night when nightmares ripped her from sleep. Tamsin, who was the only one who could coax a smile out of Imeyna.
“How?” Rayne asked. She had to know.
Imeyna's eyes flickered back to Tierri. “She was tending to one of our wounded,” Imeyna said, “when a Crow cut her down from behind. An unarmed woman. An innocent.”
Rayne was crying now. She freed her hand from Imeyna's grip to swipe at her leaking eyes. “I can't do it. Even knowing that, I can't. I looked her in the face and I— I couldn't—”
“Knives and swords are not the only weapons,” Imeyna said. “Be creative. Use what you know.”
“Ladies,” Tierri said, appearing right beside her. He smelled like warm bread and leather, even in the cold dungeon. “We have to go before the changing of the guards. I don't want to get Old Sim caught if the new guard comes to check on him.”
“But—” She still didn't know what to do. She wanted Imeyna to stop speaking in riddles and to just tell her.
“Do you remember the sorrow tree?” Imeyna asked, not letting go of Rayne's hand. This close, her stale breath wafted over Rayne, bringing tears to her eyes. “Do you remember what Giles told us about it?”
“No,” Rayne said, her mind racing. She knew that in the Lost Fields, villages were built around the towering trees. When her ancestor had founded Casuin, he had disregarded the old traditions and most of the sorrow trees were chopped down, used for lumber, but some still grew, especially in Shade where they clung to some of the old ways. But what could Giles—the alchemist’s son—have told them that would help her? Imeyna obviously didn't want to say, perhaps not entirely convinced of Tierri's trustworthiness.
“We have to go,” Tierri interrupted, not giving her the chance to ask any more questions. Before she could object, he pulled another wrapped bundle from his pocket and offered it to Imeyna.
“How did you do that?” Rayne asked, watching Imeyna unwrap the linen cloth to reveal not only a roll of bread but also a stick of dried meat and a hunk of cheese.
Tierri winked at her, maybe the first time his face had shown any true kindness. “We all have our secrets,” he said. She couldn’t deny it, though her own secrets now lay bare and exposed in front of Tierri, while his were still shrouded in mystery.
It was hard to tear herself away from Imeyna, not knowing if she would ever see her again, not knowing which of them would die first. As they retreated from the dungeon, Rayne lifted a hand in farewell to her friend as she faded back into darkness.
✽ ✽ ✽
As soon as they reached the top of the stairs and emerged back into what was now a busy corridor, Tierri became the general again. It was a visible shift, the way his back straightened and his face hardened. She was beginning to doubt trusting him, thinking it had all been a terrible mistake, when he looked back at her and motioned for her to follow him.
The door he led her to was barely noticeable, just another small wooden door in a castle full of them. But when he opened it, a salty breeze wafted inside. Rayne gaped at what lay beyond—steep stone stairs leading to the beach, the very bottom steps buried in powder-white sand. The roar of the ocean drowned out all other thoughts.
“Care for a walk?” Tierri asked her. “I'm off duty for the afternoon.”
“Then why were you following me?” she asked, squinting at him.
“Curiosity.” He jerked his head to the door, obviously unwilling to say more in the palace.
Rayne led the way down the stairs, the wind tugging at her hair and skirts. She had never been this close to th
e ocean. Dusk was landlocked and her time in Shade had been spent mostly in Bricboro. She was unprepared for the way it made her feel—small and insignificant, like no matter what she did, whom she chose, where she went, there would always be something bigger than her out there. These waters had seen Malstrom queens and Crowheart refugees. It hid sea serpents and lost worlds. The sea was an unstoppable force.
At the bottom of the steps, she kicked off her slippers and buried her toes in the sand. It was nothing like the murky silt that lined the Tor River. Tierri was watching her, and she thought she saw some amusement in the tilt of his eyes, but regret, too, in the twist of his mouth. He pushed past her and began walking along the coast away from the castle. She ran to catch up, veering into the surf every now and then to let the water lap at her toes.
“Where are we going?” she asked, having to shout over the wind and the waves.
He spoke without slowing and without looking at her. “Once,” he began, “there lived a man in the land across the sea. We don't know his name anymore. He might have been a Crowheart, or he might have been from another of the original clans. Anyway, he killed a Kraken when he was our age, without realizing that the creature was the son of Aegis, goddess of the sea.”
Was he telling her a story? She didn't get to ask what he was talking about. She had to focus on keeping up, on straining to hear.
“He had three daughters.”
“Don't they always have three daughters?” Rayne quipped.
Tierri ignored her. “The oldest one was killed on the Impassable Strait when her ship was attacked by Kraken. Another drowned in a river when she was betrayed by Nokken. The man vowed to keep his third daughter safe and refused to let her go near the water.”
“I already know that won't work,” Rayne said.
“But it did,” Tierri said, holding up a finger to stop her. “She was the obedient, kind, beautiful daughter, and she did as she was told.”
Rayne scoffed, but Tierri continued.
“What the man forgot was that Aegis was one of Terbos's lovers, and so she called in a favor to the god of the earth. The next morning, when the girl went to gather leaves for their morning tea, she plucked a handful from the sorrow tree to add to the brew. It was a special occasion, you see, the anniversary of her oldest sister's death. It was an appropriate tribute. She steeped the leaves and her father let her drink first.”
He stopped walking and turned to look at Rayne. She had been so engrossed in the story that the sudden change surprised her and she barreled into him. He caught her and held her at arm's length, ducking to look at her. Her stomach twisted and the wind around them seemed to take a step back. The two of them were in the middle of a cyclone. At first, she worried that her shortness of breath was another of his tricks, but when it didn't get any worse, decided shamefully that it was just because of his closeness, because of his hands on her arms.
Then he spoke, his face inches from hers, his voice a throaty whisper. “She was dead within minutes,” he said, finishing the story.
Rayne had forgotten that one. She hadn't grown up with those gods from the Lost Fields; her one, true God was Enos, the Bloody God, the God of Conquest. But people in Shade and Hail had upheld some of the traditions and passed stories on to their children and their children's children, and now here was one, a Son of Enos, telling her a story of the savage gods. A story that was meant to be a clue.
“Are there any sorrow trees left?” Rayne asked. There had been one in Bricboro, but it was surely ashes now.
“There is one in Orabel's garden,” Tierri answered. “Your father hasn't been able to find anyone willing to cut it down. I'm sure he'll do it himself soon, but he hasn't gotten around to it.”
Poison. It would be discreet. It would be hands off. It was perfect.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked. He had been ready to kill her before, and now he was giving her the tools she needed to kill his monarch.
No, not his monarch.
His monarch, his queen, was dead or lost.
“Why shouldn't I?” he answered, echoing her own realization. “They are no friends of mine. In fact, they are just as suspicious of me as they are of you.”
“Of you?” she echoed. “Why you?”
“Because,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and taking a step away. He released the wind and it filled the space between them. “I'm Tierri Malstrom.”
“Malstrom?” Impossible.
“The last”—here his voice choked on the word—“known surviving relative of the true Queen of Hail.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sibba
It satisfied Sibba in a strangely gratifying way to know that all of her belongings fit into a tiny bag that she could carry on her back. There was nothing tying her to Ottar; if she didn't come back, she had nothing to lose except for the larger pieces of her mother's hoard that she had buried in the back of Estrid's land. But Estrid could have them, or maybe in a hundred years Estrid and Ari's grandchildren would uncover the treasure by accident and it would be a great mystery for the villagers to ponder.
Sibba had woken to find the house empty. After breaking her fast on a bowl of warm porridge and securing her belongings, she stepped outside into the welcome sunlight, at ease with her decision to go to Ydurgat and retrieve her brother on her own.
“I'm going with you.”
This had been Estrid's mantra for the last two days. They had been sequestered inside Estrid's home while a blizzard raged beyond their walls, coating Ottar in a blanket of white. She had nearly driven Sibba mad with her insistence, but Sibba had held strong, never once agreeing to take Estrid with her. The last thing she needed was to be responsible for someone else.
“You're not,” she said now for the hundredth time at least as Estrid came from around the side of the house, handing the metal milk pail to Ari and wiping her hands on her apron. Ari, who stood behind Estrid, his nose red from the cold, had made it clear he didn't want to come, but he had not tried to forbid Estrid from traveling. As Thorvald's chief boat builder, he was always busy during the snows, servicing the boats that had been hauled in for the season. He also probably saw her potential absence as an “out of sight-out of mind” situation. If Estrid were gone, the people in Ottar would find something else to talk about besides their illicit love affair and Vyion’s death.
“I owe you,” Estrid said. It was the same argument Sibba had heard before.
“You don't,” Sibba said in protest, but Estrid took one of her hands and squeezed it. The girl had no idea how her touch made Sibba's heart race, how the nearness of her full lips tempted her. But Estrid had made her feelings clear, and Sibba would not make a fool of herself again. She forced herself to look Estrid in the eyes. “This is not your fight.”
“And my trial wasn't yours. I'm indebted to you, but even if I were not, you're my dearest friend. I will not let you leave here alone again.”
Ari leaned on a fencepost and smiled. The fresh milk in the bucket by his feet sent steam into the air.
“I prefer to be alone,” Sibba protested, but she felt herself wavering. This was what Estrid did, convinced people with words and smiles. But knowing that didn’t make it any less effective.
“If I don't repay my debt,” Estrid said, leaning over and picking up a brown leather satchel that Sibba had not seen before, “I will not get into Elanos.”
Sibba had no response for that. The Fieldings believed that anyone who owed a life-debt wouldn’t be admitted into the Realm of Warriors. It would be easier to travel to Ydurgat without any baggage, without anyone depending on her. But it certainly wasn't worth an eternity without her.
She was already caving when Aeris appeared as if out of nowhere and came to perch on Estrid's shoulder. The girl winced at the sudden weight and the sharp talons but smiled up at the bird who sat staring at Sibba.
“Fine,” Sibba said. “But only because Aeris said so. The traitor.” And she turned around before Estrid could see
her smile.
✽ ✽ ✽
It did not take Estrid long to say goodbye. It seemed they had known Sibba would give in to her eventually, and most of her affairs had already been arranged. Ari would, of course, be taking care of her property.
“Bring her back in one piece,” Ari said, “and maybe there will be a reward in it for you.” He did not seem to seriously consider that it might not happen.
Sibba had scoffed and cuffed him on the ear, but he made light of her biggest fear. It was up to her to bring Estrid back. No one expected Estrid to be able to care for herself. If anything happened to her, Sibba would be the one to blame.
“The skiff is small,” Sibba said now as they cut through the market. The villagers were out in droves, making up for the time the storm had stolen from them. “It will not be a comfortable ride.”
“I didn't expect it to be,” Estrid retorted, the smile never leaving her face. Sibba didn't know if she had ever seen her so happy. Maybe she wasn't the only one who wanted to leave Ottar.
They would go by sea into Grimsson territory in the small skiff that Sibba had brought from Ey Island. It was not really seaworthy, but if they stayed in sight of the shore and away from any storms, it would be easier and at least a little faster than traveling over land during the snows. Ydurgat was a port town, situated on the western coastline, and an approach by boat made sense.
They wound their way to the front gate and passed through without incident. Estrid waved at one of the sentries, who raised his eyebrows at her but didn't make any other movement. Sibba rolled her eyes; the girl was just too happy. They were nearly to the other side of the river when someone shouted her name.
“Sibba!” The call came again and she paused, turning and looking past Estrid to see a figure running toward them. It was a boy, slender but tall, his curly black hair tousled with sleep. He was buried beneath a heavy fur cloak, and a longbow jutted out over his shoulder.
“Evenon?” Sibba wondered quietly. If she had been glad for the blizzard, it was because staying inside meant she hadn’t risked running into him after their disastrous first meeting. She flushed at the memory of her lips on his. If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.
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