by Carrie Ryan
Wind on my skin and night on my back, I have scarcely imagined the pleasures of adventure.
And scarcely imagined they are, when I find myself lost. Vernal is a good kingdom, better than most. But even the best kingdoms have brigands. Even the finest adventures have dangers.
Gavrus slows. Already exhausted, he’s now burned to a stub. To push him further would be to ruin him. Just as it’s true I’ve done little camping, I have done even less hiking—and it would be cruel to break such a steady companion besides. My drunkenness fades; I must face the situation on cunning instead of instinct.
Sliding to my own feet, I shiver when the ground sinks beneath me. It’s alive, I can’t help but think; it wants to swallow me. But that’s madness, unsettled thoughts fed by fear and unfamiliarity. I’m tired, and new-broken from riding, that’s all.
Just then, the sharpness of an evergreen distracts me. No, not evergreen—bay laurel. My stomach rumbles in confirmation. The scent isn’t as rich as when it rolls out of the kitchens, because these trees gleam with life.
Laurel trees are full of spirits—they’re the wooden bodies of maidens forever safe from ravishment. It’s a sin to cut their wood-made flesh. Leaving Gavrus close to the stream, I slip inside a fragrant cloud of leaves. They shiver and whisper, hanging thick on spindling branches.
I can barely see out; certainly no one will see in. In the morning, I’ll head east and hope that the three flaming witches exist. This is my last thought before I sleep.
“My lady,” a man says.
No, a boy—no, I’m not certain, only that he’s strange and broad and beautiful. He crouches, holding the laurel’s branches open to peer at me in the morning light. His hair gleams around his head, dark at his scalp, the curls bleached copper by the sun.
I manage only to blink at him in confusion.
“My lady,” he repeats, offering his hand. “I’m sorry to wake you, but you very nearly lost your horse.”
Joints crackling, I have no choice but to crawl out of my bower. Down is always easier than up, and I take his proffered hand. Hot and rough, it swallows mine. There is easy strength in it; he could pluck me off my feet if he wished to, I’m certain.
And I’m dwarfed beside him. At my full height, I can’t even see his collarbone. My nose brushes the rough weave of his shirt, and I breathe him, I’ll claim on accident, and discover he’s not perfumed but seasoned. Ginger and black pepper, a sting of cardamom—he’s an exotic giant in homespun.
He raises our still-joined hands and tips my chin up. “Can you speak?”
I want to say, Do you know your eyes are green as olives? But I don’t, as he must know, and it’s ridiculous besides. Blessedly, my voice comes out steady and regular when I do say, “Yes, thank you. What of my horse?”
He knits his brow and smiles crookedly. Letting my hand slip from his, he turns to gesture to Gavrus and another beast so massive, I hesitate to call it a horse. It’s a thick, wild thing, with tufts at its hooves and eyes as big as pomegranates.
“Carnifex and I found him a ways upstream.” Admiration creeps into his voice. “Never seen a finer mount, I must admit.”
My senses return bit by bit. Chest tightening, I stare at the animals and fend off a chill. He could have taken him—it’s not as though I would have known it. Then I’d be lost, on foot, and too far from home to save myself, let alone Lucia.
Now that I’m awake and aware of myself again, I reach for my satchel. “I’m in your debt. Can I reward you?”
His laughter rings through the grove, low and rich. “If I weren’t a gentleman …”
Because of my scars, no blush stings my cheeks. But it does burn my throat, an unpleasant prickling. I’m no innocent—my life has always been perched at the edges of court, and all its perversions and pleasures.
I don’t speak in innuendo, and no one’s ever mistaken me for it, either. I’m not a desirable thing, no matter the romantic notions that roll in my sister’s head. But I am a thing that desires. I want to touch this giant’s mouth and pull his curls straight; I wonder at the shape of him beneath his tunic.
This is stupid, and useless—and distracting me from my quest.
“I meant bread,” I correct. “That’s all I have to offer.”
“Company,” he counters. “Let me ride with you awhile.”
“Why?”
His crooked smile returns. “So I can moon over your horse.”
Some tiny spark inside me darkens. Shaking my head, I loop a hand in Gavrus’ bridle. “You can’t, I’m sorry. But I’ll make sure your kindness is repaid. What’s your name?”
“Valerian,” he says. He whistles sharply, and Carnifex stirs, wandering to him like a pup to its master.
From boxes at circuses, I’ve seen great cats coaxed through rings of fire, and pushed into pools to prove they can swim. Bears dance if encouraged with whips; elephants will too. But never have I seen a creature—much less a terrifying wall of creature such as Carnifex—greet a man so willingly, with so much affection. He butts his head against Valerian’s, and huffs when he’s rewarded with a fond stroke.
Ignoring the possibility that it’s madness to trust a horse to judge a man’s character, I relent. Climbing astride Gavrus, I remind myself that the prophecy is already ruined. If I’m no champion, there’s no reason to seek my prize alone. Turning eastward, toward the sun, I bow my head ever so slightly. “Have you a sword?”
Valerian reaches for the scabbard at his hip in reply.
“Are you accomplished with it?” I ask.
“Extremely.”
“Then please join me,” I say, and ride ahead of him, to let the wind wash the blush away from my throat.
Stopped at a crossroads, Valerian studies the signs with great interest.
If we keep to the east, we’ll ride into Alisca, a town bordered by farms and renowned for its spirits. To the north, we’ll find Castra Curia, a village that exists mainly to support the Anchorites of Vara, who live in the temple complex there. To the south are cliffs and sea, open to whatever world can be found on the back of a ship.
“It would help,” Valerian says casually, “if I knew where we were going.”
I twist Gavrus’ reins around my hand. There’s little point in lying. Nevertheless, I hesitate. It’s been a long morning ride to this crossroads. Valerian’s raced me down hills, and plucked blossoms from trees to weave in Carnifex’s mane.
He shared his wine bladder with me, and covered the place where my lips had touched it with his. This mad, happy creature talks to me easily. He looks me in the eyes. He looks at me.
And none of this is my purpose. Shame fills me. In her cool chamber, Lucia burns with fever, and what am I doing? Fantasizing and laughing and fooling myself. I pinch myself as a reminder. This is no game, no adventure for pleasure. I tell him the truth.
“My sister’s dying, and I seek the Fabled Cup.”
To his credit, Valerian doesn’t boggle. He merely looks thoughtful. “Which tasks have you finished?”
Nudging Gavrus with my knees, I look toward Alisca. The horizon darkens with smoke from cook fires, balanced by the white puff of sheep wandering the hills outside town. “I’ve only just set out.”
Amused, Valerian turns Carnifex, to come up beside me. “How far?”
“I’m still looking for the three flaming witches, if you must know.” I sound sharper than I mean to, but it’s embarrassing. I have no plan. My path is uncertain. And all I’ve got to guide me is wishful thinking.
“With that, I can help,” Valerian says. He turns Carnifex once more, urging the beast to leave the road. When I don’t immediately follow, he calls back. “If you don’t hurry, we’ll miss it.”
“Miss what?” I ask, but take off after him.
The fields give way to us, high grasses whispering against our boots as we ride through. Cottages dot the horizon, more sheep and cattle wandering in lazy waves. Everything smells sweet here, of fresh greens instead of the road’s dust.
Soon, we crest a hill and Valerian points at the rise of the next one. Something has cut into the earth, exposing long gouges of white chalk.
“I grew up here,” he says. “And do you know what we call those chalk cuts?”
Slowly, I shake my head.
“The White Witches.”
I turn back to the hill and say, “But I need three flaming witches.”
“They will.” His face brightens, and he looks toward the horizon. “Hop down. These good beasts could stand a rest.”
Dismounting, we let Gavrus and Carnifex wander. They find a shallow stream and stand there shoulder to shoulder. Those horses could be no more content in a fine stable; it’s plain from the way they flick their tails and drink their fill.
I follow Valerian to a small clearing in the meadow. Before I can sit down, Valerian bends his knee and offers one hand. At first, I don’t understand what he intends. Then he tips his head, his eyes glancing at his own shoulder.
“You’ll want a good view,” he explains.
My mouth drops open, and I close it with a snap. I’m not sure what possesses me, as I’ve never been especially graceful or brave. But I step onto his knee and let him heft me to his shoulder.
My heart races as I perch there like a falcon, curling my hand around his shoulder for balance. Banding my ankles with his hand, he doesn’t seem to notice that his touch makes me shiver.
The view is better here. From this vantage, I understand how the horses so easily found the stream. The grasses are darker along its edges, and it winds into the distance in a serpentine wave. Subtle shapes cast shadows from this height. I make out an old path, and a new stile, and even the nests of meadow birds.
“Here it comes,” Valerian says.
The valley fills with the sunset. It’s mostly orange, the fields drenched in bronze. But the longer light stretches to crimson. It strikes the chalk and the hill goes up in flames. A sound slips from me, one of surprise and wonder.
The witches flicker, playing with the sunset and strange shadows. Glimmering, dancing, they seem to bow and twist toward the sky. They’re alive. Until this moment, I’ve never seen a dragon or a spellcasting—I can’t say that I believed in either. But this is magic. True magic.
Just before the horizon swallows the sun, the chalk witches throw one last illusion. It burns like a brand against the hill, a cartographer’s symbol. It’s unmistakable, and for a moment, it seems like it will burn away the grasses to leave a permanent mark.
Then, at once, it’s gone. There’s nothing left but a crumbling rise and the coming of night.
“South by southwest,” I say on my first new breath. Thoughtlessly, I card my fingers through Valerian’s curls, and lean over so I can see him when I speak to him. “We should get going.”
Clasping my hip, Valerian bends so I can slip from his shoulder. When I hit the ground, my scarf comes loose. It snakes down my back, coiling at my feet. Valerian manages to pluck it up before I can, and he offers it to me.
He’s surprised—of course he’s surprised. Lucia’s the only one I’ve never caught staring at my scars. I’m a horror, and without his asking, I answer.
“When I was very small, my mother dropped me in the solstice bonfire. Gossip says my father planned to send her away, as he did all his mistresses, and to keep me.” I wind my scarf around my head once more, feeling strangely hollow. “Father swears it was an accident.”
“Was it?”
“Who’s to say what the truth is?” I shrug. “I don’t remember, and the result is the same. She died and took the answer with her.”
Instead of offering this time, Valerian simply takes my hand and nods toward the horses. We walk toward them, and I’m unsettled. It’s not dark yet, but it’s coming, and the air between us is much heavier than before. His grip is tight when he finally speaks. “What’s it like?”
I could answer so many ways. I decide on facts, which is probably what he means anyway. “Well. I’m sensitive to heat, and my eyes get dry. The physicians used to split the scars on my birthday, to let me grow. But not on the last one. They think I’m as big as I’ll ever be now.”
Towering above me, Valerian hums, and his expression is a mystery. I wish he would come down to my height; he’s so tall, this giant. And I don’t mind explaining. It’s a bit of a novelty to talk about it, actually.
Most people, the polite ones anyway, stare hard and try to pretend they’re not curious. (The rude ones call me an abomination and run me off their land with a crossbow.) To prove I’m not wounded by his silence, I add, “Sometimes I can’t tell my nose is running until I can taste it.”
There is silence. Then he starts to laugh.
“I’ll ask my mother if she has an extra handkerchief,” he says. He releases me, to give Carnifex a good petting before he climbs back into the saddle. “She’ll feed us tonight. I hope you like stew.”
“We mustn’t stay long. My sister fevers; she doesn’t have time to wait.”
“On my honor, we won’t even stay long enough to lick the bowls.”
Nodding, I put my foot in the stirrup and throw myself astride Gavrus. Valerian follows suit, and soon I’m following him toward a cottage just outside Alisca.
I cannot let myself wonder why he would present me to his mother, or honestly, why he’s still with me. If I did, I would suspect him of something. Court intrigue has taught me to examine every kindness twice over. I am not a desirable thing.
But there’s a sliver of my heart that doubts that when Valerian looks my way.
The stew is perfect. Its savory scent taunts me, daring me to wolf it down with no manners at all.
But Iulla, Valerian’s mother, watches me. Her eyes are gray as a petrel’s, and just as keen. She has wrested her thick silver hair into a crown of braids, and presides over her cottage as a queen keeps her court. I don’t dare eat like a beast before her.
“She says, ‘I’m a scholar, making a history of these lands,’ ” Valerian lies, smiling at his mother over the rim of his bowl. “So I said, ‘You’ll need a guide. I know these hills better than any.’ ”
Iulla smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You come and go with the seasons; you just needed an excuse.”
When Valerian stands, he has to bow his head so it doesn’t scrape the ceiling. His shoulders fill the room, and he steps over benches to get to the basin by the door. “It’s true. But this is my best excuse yet, don’t you think?”
“Be a pet and fetch your poor mother some water.”
Moving to stand, I say, “It’s the least I can do for the meal, please let me.”
“No, no,” Iulla says. She catches my wrist. Though her hands are birdlike, they clasp tight. There’s an edge of force to it, but she still smiles. “Let Valerian. It keeps him humble.”
Unaware of the strange tension that passes between us, Valerian smiles. He bows humbly, then sweeps out the door with a bucket in each hand. When he fades into the night, I look to Iulla and offer a smile of my own. “He’s a good soul. You must be very proud.”
Iulla ignores that. She lets go of my hand and catches my chin instead. It startles me; most people don’t touch me at all. No one but Lucia touches my face. Valerian’s mother tips my head sharply and before I can pull away, she retreats.
“Well, Augusta Corvina, Your Highness,” she says, cold creeping over her like a mantle, “isn’t it a pleasure to serve you?”
Her voice is brittle. It snaps and cracks, and honestly, it surprises me. She has been uneasy since she saw me, but most people are. That’s an impersonal sort of distance. This is frighteningly intimate.
Squaring the bowl in front of me, I shake my head. “If you know my name, you know I’m bastard-born. I have no title. I’m a citizen and subject, just as you are.”
“And what would a citizen and subject want with my only son?”
I blink. That question is just as sharp and cold as the last one, but now I recognize her look. Her meaning. She isn’t angry; she’s a
fraid.
“I don’t want anything.” Earnestly, I press a hand to my heart and swear, “He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Neither do you,” she says. Her words are clipped and direct. “Augusta Lucia is dying, and the king’s remaining heir is missing, believed kidnapped. There’s a reward for her safe return.”
“And you wish that reward?” I ask. The words stick in my throat.
A ripple of disgust crosses her face. “I have all I need, Your Highness. I have my home, and my hearth, and my son.”
Baffled, I say, “Then what—”
She cuts me off with a black finality. “If you’re safely returned, your father will forgive any method used to accomplish it.”
Now I feel her cold, from within instead of without. My father is a successful king by every measure of kingship. He sends young men to war and calls them into service. He can sentence the guilty and pardon them alike. Without hesitation, he does both. His power rests easily on his brow, but he’s not known as The Good or The Gentle.
He’s known as The Immovable.
How many people lie awake tonight imagining how they would spend that reward? How many would cut Valerian to pieces to get to it, knowing all their sins and crimes are already forgiven?
Quickly, I stand. I fumble for my satchel, pulling it over my shoulder. My belly turns to stone, and a tight band stifles my breath in my chest. I want to rail at the gods, at the sky, at my father. No one at the palace is supposed to miss me! There should be no prize for my return.
“Tell Valerian …,” I start, my gaze trailing toward the open door. He’s out there somewhere, bemused and carrying water. And safe—safer still, the more distance I put between us.
I never should have let him accompany me in the first place. I never should have held his hand, or—no. These are useless thoughts. I shove them down and open the back door. My voice cracks when I finally finish my thought. “Tell him thank you for me.”
As I creep away in silence, I doubt very much that she will.
