by Cara Witter
A sword slicing perilously close to his face forced him to jump back. Kenton’s leg caught against the bench behind him and he toppled backwards over it, his back hitting the floor hard and knocking the breath from him. His sword flew out of his hand and skittered across the floor. The soldiers closed in, and Kenton reached in desperation around him, his hand finding a heavy pewter tankard, which he immediately tossed at the large soldier’s head.
The soldier dodged the tankard, but before either could react, there was a loud crack, and the other soldier toppled forward, revealing Nikaenor’s mom standing behind him holding a wooden chair. Her tear-streaked and bruised face shone with fury as she turned on the large soldier, who backed up in surprise.
Kenton smiled. Maybe she hadn’t been scrambling to hide in the corner, after all.
Kenton climbed to his feet and grabbed his sword. With only one soldier against both him and Nikaenor’s mother, he afforded a quick glance around the room. Nikaenor was still occupying the guard holding his sister, the three of them engaged in almost a dance across the room, as the guard continually backed up and around tables, holding the writhing girl in front of him for defense. There was no sign of Perchaya or the soldier she had burned. Kenton’s heart dropped, heavy as iron in his chest.
Where had they gone?
Kenton turned his attention back to the soldier who was dodging another chair blow from Noreen. He couldn’t leave Nikaenor and his family alone here with him—even if they were willing to fight. He had to protect them.
Kenton stepped over the bench to position himself between the soldier and Nikaenor’s mother. The soldier jumped forward with a strong thrust, but Kenton deftly blocked it and returned with one of his own, causing the man to take a step back, possibly at the look of sure death on Kenton’s face as much as the force of the blow.
Cold triumph surged through him as he fought, the large soldier stepping back with each blow, only holding off his inevitable fate. Out of the corner of his vision, Kenton saw Nikaenor’s mother hobble with her raised chair over to the guard holding her daughter, who was now backed into a corner by Nikaenor. Kenton flashed a feral smile at the soldier and knew by the fear in his eyes that the effect was chilling. Despite the odds, they had taken control of the tavern. They were winning.
Then the door to the tavern burst open, and a large group of soldiers flooded in, swords drawn and ready. The soldier Kenton was fighting dared a look to the side and stopped his retreat. This time the cool smile was his.
Kenton watched the soldiers flow in, the sure victory slipping through his fingers, the fury of battle abating in the wake of sudden, certain defeat.
It was over. There could be no thought of carrying on with the fight, not with Nikaenor’s mother and sister here to be used as hostages, not so outnumbered. Kenton, very slowly and deliberately, raised his sword arm out to his side and dropped his weapon. For that moment, the steel clattering against the wooden floor was the only sound he heard. The soldiers eyed him in various states of wariness. He hoped to the gods that Perchaya had evaded that guard and gotten herself safely away. If Kenton was captured, at least Diamis would still lack her—the last living Drim who had evaded his grasp.
“You win,” Kenton said as he held his arms in front of him, one wrist on top of the other to be tied. The two soldiers directly in front of him stepped up, but instead of securing his hands, one soldier grabbed him by the arms while the other punched him hard in the face. Pain flared and red flecks streaked like fire through his vision. The breath was wrenched from his chest as he was flung down against a table, held down by soldiers despite his flailing. Another punch across his face, and he was choking, the pain so sharp it turned the room black—
“Stop,” commanded a voice floating somewhere behind his captors. They obeyed but maintained a firm grip on him against the table. He couldn’t open his left eye. The blackness faded a bit, but all Kenton could see was the thick beams of the ceiling above and the slightly fuzzy faces of soldiers directly around him. “That’s no way to treat my old friend.”
Kenton turned his head slightly to the side and spat out blood onto the table. He drew in a painful breath.
And then he looked up into the face of Erich Dektrian—his savior from the beating.
The man whose presence meant for certain that somehow, somewhere, they had all been betrayed.
Seven
Daniella’s lungs burned, her legs numb with the strain of running. She began to fall behind Jaeme, and he must have noticed that he was having to pull her along, because he turned to look back at them. Sayvil was several feet behind and falling back farther with every step, breathing in sharp gasps. Jaeme looked around until his eyes settled on a stable attached to a house, much like the one under their room at the inn.
“Come on,” he said, and he pulled her around back and opened the latch to draw them inside.
Daniella’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the night, which was lit only by the few buildings from which lights still shone. Even Arkista had tucked herself behind a cloud, depriving Sayvil of her powers.
But the inside of the stable was almost entirely black as they felt their way inside. The stench of dung and ammonia was powerful, stinging her eyes, but it was a small price to pay to be able to rest.
She sat down on a patch of hay to catch her breath, praying that after all this, the end wouldn’t come by being stepped on by a cow. Sayvil collapsed beside her on the hay. A horse whickered loudly on the other side of a wooden partition.
Boots pounded outside, and Daniella heard the clinking of armor. The soldiers were on the street just outside. She willed herself not to breathe, move, or even think.
“You two!” shouted a loud voice, paralyzingly close. “Go that way. You four come with me. We’ll find whatever hole they’re hiding in.” Then the soldiers were on the move again, and Daniella couldn’t help but wonder how long she could hold her breath before she passed out. Finally, the only sounds were the stamping and snorting of the animals. She exhaled forcefully, and Sayvil did the same.
“They’re gone,” Jaeme whispered. She heard him shuffle towards her. She wanted to reach for his hand again but was afraid of what else she might bump in the dark.
“Jaeme,” Daniella said quietly. “What about the others? We left them.” What if they’d all been captured by her father’s soldiers? They were looking for her, yes, but also the three chosen and the two surviving Drim. If Kenton was correct, capturing him and Perchaya would be the final step Diamis needed to release Maldorath.
And, their mission aside, what would happen to Nikaenor’s family?
“We’ll meet them in Haidshir,” Jaeme said calmly. “Kenton won’t let anything happen to them. Just like I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Um, either of you.”
“That’s sweet, Jaeme,” Sayvil said crossly, “but why are you holding my hand?”
A smile tugged at Daniella’s lips.
“Oh. Um…right.” Jaeme’s voice was uncharacteristically flustered for a second until he rebounded with his usual mock-seriousness, “Don’t worry about your feelings for me. We don’t have to tell Quinn.”
“Uh-huh,” Sayvil said flatly. “Daniella’s over here.” Sayvil grabbed Daniella’s hand and put it into Jaeme’s.
Daniella was glad neither of them could see her blush in the dark, but she still felt safer with his fingers interlocked with hers.
Jaeme did have a point. Kenton could be insufferable, but he was also fiercely protective, especially of Perchaya and the bearers. They were close to the border of Foroclae, which meant if they could get out of town, they could get over the border as quickly as possible and out of her father’s grasp. Nikaenor would have to come back for his jewel later, once they had found each other again.
“We can’t take the roads,” Jaeme said. “Too much chance of getting caught. And a ship is definite
ly out of the question.”
Daniella nodded in the dark, picturing the map they’d all studied. “That leaves—”
“The swamp,” Sayvil said flatly. “The swamp that Nikaenor said was full of, what were they again?”
“Nichtees,” Daniella said, picturing some of the more gruesome illustrations she’d seen of the creatures—though none of the artists had ever claimed to have seen one. “Swamp monsters with a taste for human flesh.”
“Regardless of what Nikaenor believes, those are definitely a children’s tale,” Jaeme said. “The kind mothers tell to keep their kids from roaming the swamp and getting eaten by boars.”
“I don’t particularly want to run into a boar, either,” Sayvil said.
“I’ll take that over a soldier,” Daniella said. “Especially one of my father’s.”
Jaeme squeezed her hand. “All right, then. We’ll make our way through the back streets until we reach the marshland. If we keep the sound of the ocean to our right, we’ll know we’re headed toward Mortiche, even if the sky doesn’t clear.” He tugged on Daniella’s wrist, pulling her to her feet. His hand ran briefly up her arm, and even in the midst of fear, her skin tingled where he touched her.
The three of them slipped out again into the night.
Even though Kenton had told Perchaya to stay put, she couldn’t help but sneak down the stairs and help in the fight. There had been so many guards—she’d never forgive herself if they overcame him while she cowered.
As she fled up the stairs from the guard whose face she’d splattered with wax, however, her plan was feeling unwise. She could continue past their rooms to the stairs at the back of the house, but she was much easier to corner up here than she would have been on the floor below.
The guard’s boots pounded up the stairs behind her, and her neck jerked back painfully as he took a firm hold of her hair. In her panic, Perchaya twisted around and hurled her candle at his face. The guard dropped her hair and cried out as it struck him and rolled down the stairs behind him, wax spraying over the wall.
Perchaya didn’t have the chance to see if the flame extinguished during the fall. She ran up the stairs as fast as her aching legs would go. As she reached the landing, the guard closed the distance between them again. He grabbed her arm, spinning her around, his face still splattered with wax. Perchaya quaked as he raised his sword.
More boots pounded up the stairs behind him, and Perchaya caught sight of a flash of flat metal above his head before a ringing clunk sounded in the air and the soldier released her, a dazed expression on his face. He slumped backward, tumbling down the stairs, and Perchaya leaned forward to keep her footing. Standing there to the side of the stairway, holding a thick frying pan and wearing a startled expression, was Ronan.
She sighed in relief and picked up the soldier’s fallen sword from the stairs. She was far from adept, but Kenton had showed her a few things.
“Where did you come from?” she asked. “The others, in the tavern—”
“There are too many soldiers,” Ronan said urgently but quietly. “But the way through the kitchen is clear. Come on. I’ll show you where to hide.”
Perchaya followed Ronan through the kitchen, which was, as he said, clear of guards. He led her to a set of stairs down into a basement—the kind where they would keep extra stores of food and casks of ale, and most likely would’t have an exit.
She shook her head. “They’ll search the basement—” she started, but Ronan cut her off.
“They won’t find us, not here,” he said, and Perchaya decided to trust that if anyone knew where to hide in Ithale, it would be a member of Nikaenor’s family.
“This side,” Ronan whispered, walking carefully down the rightmost side of each wooden step. “The other side creaks. And skip the second stair from the bottom. It’s the worst of all.”
They descended slowly, and when they reached the bottom, Perchaya was dismayed to find a basement exactly like she’d imagined—until Ronan rolled aside a section of wall and ushered Perchaya inside to a hidden section of the room, where she saw the rest of Nikaenor’s siblings, and a fairly large statue of Mirilina on a table in the back.
Perchaya stood against the table, while Ronan pulled the hidden door closed behind them and stood nearest the latch, still gripping his frying pan. The space was small enough that they were crammed together like pickles in a barrel. One of the little girls—Emaline, Perchaya thought—curled against Perchaya’s hip, holding onto the hem of the cotton shift Perchaya had been wearing as a nightdress. Sitting on the floor beneath the table, knees tucked beneath her and wearing a nightdress as well, was Aralie, holding Tam on her lap. The boy whimpered softly as Aralie shushed him, his thumb firmly ensconced in his mouth.
Emaline sobbed silently and her small body trembled. Perchaya stroked her hair in comfort as particles of dirt filtered down from the floorboards above. There were more footsteps in the room above—many more. The clomping of boots moved purposefully into the room. Kenton couldn’t possibly take on so many. He’d know that, wouldn’t he? Or would he die trying?
No. Kenton was too smart for that. He’d have to know that would put Diamis one step closer to restoring Maldorath.
Perchaya looked at the statue of Mirilina, her hair cascading over her shoulders and forming waves at her feet. Around her on the table were fragments of shells and bits of seaweed that Perchaya could swear were the same type she’d fished out of the stew just hours before.
Somewhere—out in the ocean, most likely—Mirilina lay waiting. And if Nikaenor’s moment of victory was anything like Saara’s, if they could only get him to the stone, miracles would follow. Perchaya remembered what Kenton had said to Sayvil on the road to Bothran, soon after they’d met. The Gods are done with miracles, he’d told her, now they expect us to make our own.
Which was exactly what Perchaya intended to do.
Eight
As Jaeme led Daniella and Sayvil between buildings, the night felt eerily quiet, save for the grating chirping of the ever-present crickets and the intermittent rush of wind. Jaeme walked with more confidence than he felt—for Daniella and Sayvil’s sakes, he supposed, though surely they knew he had no more idea where he was going than they did.
A sea breeze washed over them, whipping Daniella’s light dress against her legs. She clung to his hand so tightly that his fingers ached, but Jaeme didn’t dare let go. Logically, he knew that Diamis was searching out the bearers as earnestly as his daughter, but he still couldn’t help but feel that the consequence of getting caught was that she might get hurt, she might be taken.
They had reached the north edge of town, bordering the infamous swamp, when Jaeme heard voices. He stopped abruptly before turning the corner out of the alley, and Daniella, following close at his heels, smacked hard into his back. To her credit, she didn’t make a sound. He crouched beside a large pile of netting and splintered wood, pulling her down behind him. Sayvil knelt behind her.
“The general’s orders are to search every house,” a soldier said. “Inform the villagers that any caught hiding her will be executed. Use whatever means necessary to extract information and remind the villagers of their allegiance to the Lord General.”
“Yes, sir!” voices chorused, followed by the pounding of boots and the beating of doors.
Jaeme looked at the rooftops, trying to map out a route that would take them away from the streets—even the smaller residential ones. There weren’t any doors to pound in this alley, so they were probably safe for the moment.
But if the soldiers were that persistent, it wouldn’t last.
Doors creaked open, followed by shouting as the guards attempted to gain entrance to the home in the name of the Lord General. One particularly loud man shouted above the guards about exactly in which part of Diamis the man would like to insert his sword.
“Hear, hear,” Sayvil whi
spered behind them.
That was definitely their cue. Jaeme pulled on Daniella’s wrist, ready to haul her to her feet, but she resisted.
Jaeme turned to look at her. She was shivering, her eyes downcast.
“They’re all going to die,” Daniella said. “Because of us.”
“Because of Diamis,” Sayvil answered.
Daniella didn’t seem comforted by that. Jaeme squeezed her hands, wishing he could take her in his arms and whisk her away—far away, where no one would ever hurt or threaten her again.
Instead he spoke to her in a low voice. “You believe in the gods, right?” he asked. “In Maldorath, and the Banishment, and the prophecy.”
Daniella hesitated, then nodded.
“What chance do you think any of these people will have in the years to come if they catch us now?”
Daniella cringed, then squeezed his hands back. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Jaeme went to stand but ducked down again at the clatter of hooves against the cobblestones.
“General Dektrian demands a report!” a soldier shouted.
Jaeme froze in place. General Dektrian?
“Has anyone seen them?” the officer asked.
“Gods,” Sayvil said. “Not him again.”
Jaeme shot her a look. “Again?”
Beside him, Daniella clamped down on his arm, and Jaeme wanted to do the same.
Erich Dektrian. Of Dektrian’s Riders? Gods, what was he doing here? Jaeme knew they were important. They had Diamis’ own daughter with them, for the gods’ sakes. But General Erich Dektrian was a damn war hero. After Diamis took Foroclae, the king of Andronim sent his army down into northern Sevairn to preempt Diamis’ attack. Dektrian led the Eighth Cavalry on a death ride around the Andronish army to cut them off at their own bridge. Dektrian and his Riders then held the bridge for three days unaided while the Sevairnese navy hammered Drepaine from the coast. Without his forces, the king of Andronim had to surrender.
