by Dawn Cook
He put his hands on his hips and looked at me, his beard looking wild and unkempt. “What about Duncan?”
I felt my face go ashen, and I took a step back, remembering Duncan asking me to take his name and be with him forever. “I . . . I gave up love for the game,” I said, dying inside all over again. “I hold to that promise. Even now.”
Thoughts unknown pulled his eyes into a scowl as he turned to the old woman, poking a stick at a jellyfish that had washed up. “Ma’am,” he called out, and she looked up, smiling with her broken teeth. “Does anyone nearby have a horse?”
My shoulders eased. He wasn’t going to leave without me. He wasn’t going to tell Kavenlow. I could figure this out if I had some time to think.
“Horse?” she rasped, leaving the stick in the blob of flesh and hobbling our way. “No. Not enough to feed a horse. Ponies, though. Sharp Bend is north of here about a day’s walk. They’d have horses. Nothing here but birds and fish, and those cursed crabs. Keep eating my bait off my lines if I don’t watch ’em quick.”
North was the wrong direction, but at least we knew where we were. My eyes met Jeck’s, and I felt ill. Two days of hard foot travel.
Breaking his stare at me, Jeck swung himself onto the raft, the grace starting to come back to his movement as his muscles loosened. “Can I borrow your knife, ma’am?” he asked, his hand out. She hesitated for a mistrustful instant before untying it from its red ribbon and handing it to him. He nodded his thanks, and, still not having looked her in the eye, he cut the sail down. I watched in confusion while he ripped two narrow lengths from it. My head bobbed in understanding when he used them to wrap his feet.
I tugged my dress back up over my shoulder, waiting for him to tear two more lengths for me, but instead, he tucked the knife in his waistband and began rummaging amid what was still tied to the raft. As the old woman talked about last night’s storm, he made a pile in the center of the downed sail. I shifted from foot to foot, wanting to excuse myself and have a moment of privacy behind that bush, but all my pressing needs were forgotten when Jeck bundled the canvas up, turned, jumped off the raft, and walked away with it slung over his shoulder. No good-bye, no nothing. He had everything of value. All that was left was his ripped sash tied to the mast.
“Hey!” I exclaimed, taking an achy step after him. “You still have her knife!”
He didn’t stop, but his neck stiffened, and his pace became stilted.
The old woman pinched my elbow, hissing in my ear, “Let him have it. It’s not worth getting beat over.”
Face warming, I lurched into motion, the sticks and shells in the sand sharp on my left foot, dull on my right. My muscles protested, but I was too angry to listen. The wind snuggled in my head behind my ear swirled to life, whispering. “Give her back her knife!” I exclaimed, then wished I hadn’t, as my throat felt like it was burning. What had I done? Screamed all night?
“She said I could borrow it.” He never slowed. His broad back was hunched. He knew he was doing wrong.
“She didn’t mean forever. Give it back.” I caught up with him with long, hurting strides. The old woman had turned her back on us, her posture telling me she was afraid to interfere. I grabbed his arm, and he yanked me off-balance when he pulled out of my grip.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, his voice threatening as he turned.
I stared at him, surprised. “Then give her the knife back,” I said, suddenly unsure.
“No.”
Anger sifted through me. He was bigger and stronger than I was, and he was going to use it to keep her knife, the chu slinger. “It might be all she has,” I all but hissed. “Give it back.”
“Or what?”
It was so childish, I could have just screamed. The son of a dock whore, I thought, as he turned his back on me and walked away. A heady, hot feeling rose unbidden from my belly and swirled in my head. The wind in my thoughts tugged at the bindings I had shackled it with. It flooded me with the memory of mindless power. My anger at Jeck gave it a clear, undeniable direction. Panic shocked through me as a killing force rose unbidden to my hands.
No! I thought, jerking my hands from Jeck before it flowed from me to him unchecked.
My hands exploded into hurt, and I gasped. I hunched into myself, clenching my hands until my nails bit my palms. The growing force came on me with the sensation of embers rolling under my skin. I stood in agony, unmoving and with my head down as I rode it out and my anger vanished in a wash of fear.
The wind in my head saw its chance to escape. It rose from a zephyr to a breeze to a storm in a heartbeat, swirling through my thoughts, heard and felt only by me.
My hands still resonating with death, I yanked the wind back, shackling it, pushing it down, making it behave. It beat at me, and I panted, forcing myself not to listen as it promised in words I didn’t understand that it would teach me to fly. God help me. I am breaking apart.
Jeck jerked to a halt and turned. “What?” he said flatly, seeing me suddenly afraid. From the annoyed look on his face, I guessed he didn’t know I had not only almost killed him but had also nearly gone insane in the span of two heartbeats.
“Keep it,” I whispered, swallowing hard. It had almost gotten free. The wind had tricked me, and I’d almost killed Jeck over a stupid knife.
He glanced at me from head to foot, hoisted everything of value from the raft higher upon his shoulder, and walked away. I could tell his thoughts were already miles ahead of him at the capital. “I’m telling your master, Princess,” he said, not looking back. “You aren’t safe, and he needs to face up to his mistakes.”
“Princess!” the old woman called out, looking up from tugging at the empty water barrel.
“That’s just what he calls me,” I said, standing in the sun with my arms clenched about me, colder than the deepest winter. But the woman wasn’t listening, now talking to the dead rays that had washed up on the beach around us.
Eighteen
The number of times I had been alone in my life, really alone, I could count on one hand and still have fingers left over. Always there had been Kavenlow, or my best friend, Heather, or any number of people. In the palace, guards were within shouting distance even if I had the illusion of being alone. Beyond the palace walls, Kavenlow was with me. The only time I had ever truly been alone was last year when I’d been traveling through a springtime woods fleeing a palace takeover and trying to find Kavenlow. And even then, Duncan had been with me most of the time.
And here I was, running through a cold woods trying to reach Kavenlow again.
The wind gusted, somehow finding its way under the trees to play with my lank curls. Its sly presence had set up a steady whisper in me, settling in for good within the spot it had made in my mind. A soft litany of longing had begun, the memory of wild abandonment swelling, hurting my spirit and mocking me.
“Go away,” I breathed, trying to watch my footing in the growing dusk under the trees. I had been able to ignore the wind most of the day when the spring-happy birds and dappled sunlight distracted me. But now that it was getting dark, I heard it more clearly.
My right leg was going numb again, and I hadn’t felt my right arm since the sun went down and the nearly full moon rose. Like a dead thing, my arm had hung until I tied it close to me under the cloak the old woman had given me. She had also given me a cloth-wrapped packet of food, tying it to my waist by a strip of red fabric. A white shawl of the most detailed weave I had ever seen graced my shoulders under her cloak. The shawl had been her wedding present from her husband’s family, and she had given it to me freely after only a moment’s hesitation, claiming she had been wanting to give it to her daughter-in-law but that the woman never came to see her anymore since leaving her son.
The truth of it was her son lay in a well-tended grave twenty steps from the house, his wife and baby’s grave right beside it.
The woman lived utterly alone, her mild insanity protecting her from the more severe madness of isolati
on. Her second-best knife hung from my waist from a braided cord, and she had given me the boots her son’s wife had once worn. I had refused to take any of her blankets though she gummed her bad teeth and scowled at me. But that had been most of the day ago, and the woman’s voice was lost to me now, scattered among my memories by the wind’s insistent whispers.
The natural breeze came in the trees again—and the zephyr in my head sang out in its melancholy, answering it.
I was so tired. It was getting harder to keep my feet moving and my thoughts from lingering on what the wind promised. I had to keep up with Jeck. If I didn’t, he would tell Kavenlow about the punta bite and how dangerously out of control my magic was and that my bite was replenishing the venom every time I drew on it.
Kavenlow, I thought in indecision as I forced myself to keep moving. If my levels didn’t drop, I couldn’t be a player. Punta venom was the weapon of choice for a player. One dart from a rival and not only would I lose whatever game I was playing, but I’d be dead. But what could I be if I wasn’t a player? I knew the secret of the players’ existence, but I couldn’t play the game. Not a player, not a piece: I would be little more than a target to be used against Kavenlow.
“I could leave with Duncan,” I whispered, not finding as much joy in the thought as I should. It wasn’t that I didn’t care for him. Even now, my face warmed with the memory of lying on the sand under him, the bliss of his kiss and how I had felt about it. I knew he could make me happy, but I didn’t think that was the problem anymore. The real threat of being removed from the game had brought into clear focus the realization that I needed more.
Duncan could make me happy. Together we could travel where we pleased like nomads, secure in his world-savvy and my abilities to earn a coin with my reading and writing skills. And while a part of me longed for the simplistic adventure of it, I knew it wouldn’t be enough, and eventually I’d grow to hate Duncan for making me choose him over the life that had been promised me. Seeing to my security was too easy—I had been trained to see to the security of an entire kingdom, and without that challenge, I would wither, one day at a time.
I had been trained from birth to succeed Kavenlow. To rule, even by stealth, was what I was good at and what I enjoyed. But to do it, I would repeatedly run the risk of losing Kavenlow’s game, kingdom, and probably my life. And Jeck knew it. It would give the rival player a foolproof piece of blackmail. There was no choice to make that I liked. There was nothing I could do to find peace. My options were as dark as the footpath I now stumbled upon, my head lowered to avoid the low-hanging branches, much as I avoided making any decision to delay the coming heartache.
Perhaps, I thought as I reached out with my good hand to fend off a briar, I would die on the way to the palace and wouldn’t have to decide. Jeck would try to kill me anyway, as soon as it suited his game. He told me he would. Kavenlow’s fondness for me put my teacher in a precarious position. And Jeck wouldn’t hesitate to use it or my new vulnerability to venom. I was lucky he didn’t have any, his stash stolen by Captain Rylan before he sank my boat.
My descending foot landed upon what was probably an acorn. Pain raced up my right leg through my borrowed boots, shocking it from its numbness. I stumbled, falling to my knees. My left arm wasn’t enough to break my fall, and I went farther to hit the ground hard. All my body cried out in hurt, making my head throb.
I was so cold, so alone. I hurt all over. Holding my breath, I pushed myself up off the ground in painful stages, forcing my right arm to help. Hurt, I stared up at the branches making a more certain dark against the night. “You will not beat me,” I said to the pain, fatigue, and the wind in my head. “You won’t!”
Let me go, the zephyr whispered. Venom trickled into my veins, and my arm went tingly.
“Be still,” I said aloud, but the toxin had been loosed, and my focus blurred.
Would have, should have, it sighed, inciting the wind in the trees to quicken. Let me out to play.
“No.” My throat hurt, and I squinted to see my feet in the gathering dusk since the rising moon couldn’t light the path under the trees. Shivering, I stumbled, lurching to catch my balance.
Let me play, the wind in my head said, and the sighing of the trees seemed to echo it, growing as it fed upon both my weakness and rising venom.
“If I let you out,” I muttered, talking to myself, “you’ll kill me.”
If you don’t let me out, I’ll drive you insane, it said, the soughing of it sending a shudder through me.
“Stop it!” I shouted, hearing it come out as a harsh croak. I tottered into a faster pace to try to outdistance it. “Leave me alone!”
A soft rattle of last year’s leaves brought my head up from the dark path. A fire glowed in the near distance. “Tess?” came a familiar hail, and my heart seemed to stop.
Jeck? My pace faltered, and I stood, hunched and squinting to find him sitting beside a small fire just off the path. His eyes were wide in the firelight, and he pulled himself straight, clearly trying to hide his surprise and find the mystique of a Misdev captain that he had lost somewhere between my boat burning to the waterline and his stealing the old woman’s knife.
He had a fire. That was all that mattered: not my pride, not my self-respect, nothing. I lurched forward, up the small rill and off the trail. I fell to my knees right before the flames and held my hands so close they nearly burned. Sudden shivers shook me, absent until I stopped moving.
Jeck said nothing, a shadow at the edge of my awareness. My throat went tight, and I refused to cry. I wouldn’t cry in front of him, even if this was the most miserable in mind and body that I had ever been. I was so cold and hungry, and the wind had made even my thoughts painful.
Jeck put another stick on the fire, and I looked at him, the first hints of warmth stirring me back to a wary distrust. I didn’t see the woman’s stolen knife, but the sail was about him like a blanket. The bottoms of his makeshift shoes were black from dirt, and I saw him look at my sturdy boots. “Where did you get the cloak?” he asked.
“Where do you think?” I grated, pulling one hand away from the fire to clutch it protectively about me. “It’s mine!” I exclaimed, suddenly fearful. “Touch me, and I swear I’ll hurt you. I will. I can hurt you now!”
His face was empty of emotion, but he didn’t move, so I inched closer to the flames. “She gave it to me,” I said, hoping he would start talking. The wind in my ear hadn’t liked Jeck’s voice and had gone to hide in my memories. “Her name is Penelope. She gave me water, too. I’ll give you some if you talk to me.”
Surprise flashed over his bearded face, making the powerful man hunched under the sailcloth blanket look even more vulnerable. “Talk . . . to you?” he questioned, the new firelight making flickering shadows on him.
Shamed, and not wanting to admit I found comfort in his voice, I looked into the fire.
He said nothing as I rearranged myself into a more comfortable position, pushing away the sticks and leaves to find the damp earth. Sitting on damp ground would probably leave me with a cold, but it wasn’t as if I had anything better to sit on. I felt as if I might break if I moved too fast. I knew Jeck had food as I had watched him take it all, but the water barrel had leaked. I had walked the same path he had today, and there had been no water. He was probably parched.
His gaze was intent as I splashed a miserly amount of water into a deep, pink and pearl shell Penelope had hung from my waist. Untying it from me, I set it at arm’s length. Jeck waited until I leaned back before he scooted closer for it.
Jeck moved with what I thought was a forced casualness, taking it up and draining it in one gulp. It hadn’t been nearly enough, and I jealously tucked the flask in closer. If he came near me, I swore, I’d hurt him. But Jeck stayed where he was, silent while I unpacked the biscuits and strong goat cheese the woman had given me.
My fingers were cold, and I watched them to be sure they were doing what I wanted. With the returning warmth came pain, will
ingly suffered. The biscuits had been crushed, and it was only the thick, strong goat butter she had slathered them with that kept them together. Tears pricked at my eyes. She had been so kind, and I had given her nothing in return.
Jeck moved, and my head came up.
“Stay away from me,” I growled, remembering his scorn when he refused to give her knife back. He had saved my life, but he had taken it away in the process. I didn’t know if that made us any more rivals than we were before or not. But I didn’t want him touching me.
His eyes dropped to the wickedly sharp filleting knife dangling from a red cord about my waist. “I wasn’t going to touch you.”
His eyes said different. Watching him, I jammed a bite of biscuit in my mouth and wiped my lips. “I know you aren’t,” I threatened.
Jeck’s attention went to the water flask. “I’ll sing you to hell and back in a basket if you give me that water.”
My hand dropped to the ceramic flask she had tied about my waist. Thirsty? I silently mocked, but knew better than to say it aloud. “I’ll give you half. When I’m done with it,” I added, and he nodded, his eyes going to the fire and his posture easing. I hadn’t even realized he was poised to move until he slumped. A shudder rippled through me. If I had said no, he would have risked death to try to take it from me. As it was, he would humor me to get half without risk.
I breathed easier when he settled himself back to the earth. He rearranged the fire and left the stick to burn, and I watched him in mistrust, reminded of the first time we had shared a fire in the woods. I had been shackled to a tree without my boots. He had stolen everything from me. Of course in the morning, it was me stealing his horse and everything on it.
“I heard you shouting,” he said, then licked his dry lips when I took another drink.
My jaw gritted, then relaxed. If I didn’t tell him why, he would invent something worse. And he knew most of it anyway. “I was talking to the wind,” I said, picking up a crumb on my knee and eating it. “It was getting annoying.”
