Page 9

“You have a mind for stories,” Vil says, breaking me from my thoughts. “We can always tell Kallias you’ve studied as a historian.”

I glance at Indridi, who fiddles with her coffee cup, lips pressed tight together.

“We’d better go,” I say abruptly, pulling my hand from Vil’s. “If we’re not to the ferry in time, Pala will kill us.”

The ferry is essentially a giant barge, with a pen on one end of it for horses and other livestock that need to cross the river.

I stand shoulder to shoulder with Saga by the knee-high rail, a coveted position away from the central knot of passengers, who are packed in so tight together it’s hard to breathe.

The stink from the river itself doesn’t help any.

I stare into the murky water and will us to reach the opposite bank faster than the promised quarter hour.

We lost Vil and the others in the initial press to get onto the ferry, but will find them again as soon as we reach the other shore.

Saga and I both tilt our faces west, where the sun sinks over Skaanda, already half vanished behind the horizon.

“Is this all a mistake?” Saga says, low in my ear.

I think of all the decisions that have led us to this point, of all the ones still left to make. “Maybe,” I tell her. “But it’s necessary.”

She nods, holding tight to my arm. It feels right that we’re here together, that we mean to end as we began. Vil might be leading our company, but the mission is mine, and Saga’s. She is the only soul in the world who understands me. Apart from—

But I shove that thought away. “We’re going to end him,” I tell Saga. “We’re going to make him pay for what he did to us.”

“Yes,” Saga whispers. “ Hell yes. ”

The sun disappears wholly from the horizon, and a sudden chill permeates the air. I think of winter, of unending cold and unending darkness. There are two months, yet, of light left, but already I am longing for the sun to rise.

There’s a chaos of confusion when at last the ferry reaches the far bank.

Torches flare, passengers clamor to reunite with their parties or claim their livestock.

We find Vil and the rest without trouble, though Pala does a good deal of shouting at the ferry master and still has to hand over an additional pouch of coins before he relinquishes our horses and packs and we’re back on our way again.

We ride away from the majority of passengers, who are returning home to the villages scattered along the banks of the Saadone.

Technically we’re in Daeros now, but Skaanda has controlled this section of the river for a handful of years.

Many Skaandans work in Saadone City and live here, where it’s cheaper, protected by the small Skaandan army encampment a little ways to the south.

We should be relatively safe, for the night at least.

But we’ve only just made camp when a Daerosian rides up to our fire, recognizable by his blue sleeves and scale-armor breastplate.

A lantern that pulses red with Iljaria magic hangs from his saddle horn, illuminating him in an eerie glow.

He hefts a spear in one hand, eyes glittering beneath his steel helm.

“By whose authority does an armed Skaandan company tread on Daerosian soil?” the soldier demands. His free hand twitches to the bone whistle that hangs on a cord at his neck, ready to alert his own company.

Beside me, Saga seethes, hand on her sword hilt, though she ducks her head out of the light.

“By this token,” says Vil, fumbling for the peace banner that hangs on his belt for just such a challenge.

He unfurls it quickly, so the Daerosian scout can see the gold lily on the white field—an ancient symbol of peace.

Vil jerks his chin at Pala and Leifur, who sheathe their swords and step back with twin reluctance.

“Surely you recognize me,” Vil adds, looking hard at the scout. “I’m the crown prince of Skaanda.”

His brazenness makes my heart race, but I trust him to keep his cool.

Indridi is stirring a pot of soup over the fire, her cheeks traced with orange light. Her hands shake, and the fire seems to burn a little fiercer than before.

The Daerosian scowls at Vil and the banner in equal measure. “You will come and show your token to my commander, and explain to him your presence in Daeros.”

Saga practically radiates anger at this, and Vil’s eyes flick backward, willing her to keep her peace. “We’ll come,” says Vil.

“Just two of you,” the scout objects, glancing uneasily at Pala and Leifur.

Vil shrugs. “Astridur, with me.”

It takes me a moment to remember that I am Astridur, a false name chosen in case Kallias ever knew mine. The shape of it feels strange in my mind, in the pulses of my heart.

I fight down my rising panic and step to Vil’s side.

We walk on foot after the Daerosian as the stars appear over the wide expanse of autumn meadow, our boots flattening the grass and clouds of gnats swirling up.

I wish Pala and Leifur were with us. We have no guarantee that the Daerosian commander won’t take one look at us and clap us in irons—or worse—peace banner be damned.

Vil strides tall and confident beside me, and I find myself steadied by his strength. His eyes flick briefly to mine as he takes my hand. The touch of his fingers sends a familiar heat through me, coiling down to my toes.

Too soon, the Daerosian camp comes into view below the ridge of a hill, sprawling and vast, thousands of fires stretching into the distance.

I am suddenly, wildly afraid that Kallias is here with his army, that he will see me, know me.

That he will drag me back to his mountain palace, back to my iron cage.

Vil senses my panic and tightens his grip on my hand, mooring me to the present, holding me here, with him. I let his stability cover me like a cloak.

The scout leads us down a winding path and into the valley, where raucous soldiers sit around roaring fires, eating their evening meal and passing wine bottles back and forth. The air reeks of smoke and alcohol.

We halt at a huge tent the color of the autumn grass, and at the scout’s call, his commander steps out, a tall man with lines pressed into his pale face.

His scale armor is traced with gold, the hilt of his sword encrusted with jewels.

He’s clearly been pulled away from his dinner, too, crumbs in the corner of his mouth, lips stained with wine.

Vil lets go of my hand and kneels before the commander, though I know it must grate on him.

He holds the peace banner outstretched in both hands.

I don’t kneel. I can’t make my body bend.

I just stand there and try not to let the panic drown me, while sparks from the nearby campfire leap out and sizzle to nothing in the dirt.

“We come as ambassadors to your king,” says Vil in his tenor-rich voice. “We come proposing peace between our nations, and ask for free passage across Daeros.”

The commander folds his arms across his chest, wholly unimpressed. “Have you some other token, boy, beyond your word and this worthless rag?”

Vil’s body goes tight, but there is no other sign of his anger.

He works his seal ring off the first finger of his left hand and shows the commander the eight-pointed red star worked into the metal.

“This, sir, and the weight of my blood as crown prince of Skaanda.” Vil takes the dagger from his belt, pricks his finger, and presses the spot of blood onto the truce banner.

The commander scowls, considering. Such a pledge is binding, the blood invoking the gods as witness.

Daerosians don’t believe in the gods, but they’ve seen enough Iljaria magic to be superstitious, and in any case their treaty with the Aeronan Empire requires them to abide by offers of peace.

Although that still wouldn’t keep the commander from slitting our throats and burning the banner right here, right now, with none the wiser.

In the end he just utters a curse and pricks his own finger, smearing his blood next to Vil’s. Then he thrusts the flag into Vil’s hands and orders us the hell out of his camp.

Vil and I walk back under a star-spangled sky.

It is some minutes before my racing heart quiets a bit, enough for me to hear the crickets in the grass. Vil takes my hand again.

Somehow, he knows my thoughts. “I won’t let that bastard king touch you,” he says, low and feral. “I won’t let him. Do you believe me, Bryn?”

I tilt my face toward his, his earrings flashing in the light of the rising moon. My heart beats, beats. I want to fold myself into him. Borrow his strength because I am not sure I have any left of my own. “Yes,” I whisper. “I believe you.”

We stop walking, and he gazes down at me in the moonlight, one finger tracing the line of my brow. My skin sparks where he touches me.

“Brynja,” he says, his voice uneven, a question in his eyes.

I give him the smallest of nods because I find I can’t speak, and then he’s leaning his head down, crushing his mouth against mine.

I kiss him back, raw and wild, and his hands are on my shoulders, pulling me closer.

He tastes of salt and wanting, of the mead we drank at the public house and the slight tang of spiced lamb stew.

He holds me so tight there is no space for breath in my lungs, and suddenly I am not here anymore, in the moonlight with Vil.

I am down in the dark by a rushing river. I am—

I break away, panic jolting through me.

Vil looks at me, breathing hard, his whole body trembling. His eyes spark with hurt. “Brynja, I thought—”

“My fault,” I manage. I’m shaking, too. I gulp desperate mouthfuls of air.

“There is no fault,” he says roughly. “There is nothing wrong with—” He waves one hand between us. “This. You and me.”

Something sticks in my throat, and I want to cry. “I know.”

“Then what is it? Why did you pull away?”

I don’t know how to explain it to him. I don’t know how to explain it to myself.

Vil’s jaw tenses. He kicks at the ground, and another cloud of gnats swirls up. “I don’t know what the king did to you, what his damned son did to you, but I’m not them, Brynja. I would never hurt you. I would never—”

“Ballast didn’t do anything to me,” I say to the grass, my raging pulse not quite back to normal.

Vil curses. “We both know that isn’t true.”

And there it is. I flick my eyes up to him. “Saga told you.” Her betrayal hurts, but it isn’t, I guess, unexpected. We have peace, Saga and I. Understanding. In all things but this.

Vil’s throat works and he looks away, fighting to regain control of himself.

“I’m sorry,” I say miserably, helplessly.

His eyes find mine again, and the anger has already ebbed out of him. “It’s all right, Bryn. You’ve been through a lot, and it makes sense that you need time to ... understand it all. To understand yourself. I’ll wait for you. I don’t mind.”

I bite my lip, the tears pressing hot. “Thanks, Vil.”

He gives me half a smile, but I don’t miss the sorrow in it. “You don’t need to thank me.”

We walk side by side the rest of the way back to our camp. He doesn’t take my hand again, and I know that I’m selfish for wishing he would.

“You were gone long enough,” Saga says when we finally step up to the fire. “Thought you’d gotten yourselves killed. Or ... lost.” She grins at us, and my face washes hot.

But Vil doesn’t let her bait him, which I’m grateful for. “Bit of a walk, both ways,” is all he says.

I feel hollowed out as we eat our dinner. Vil catches my gaze across the fire and smiles at me, this time in earnest. I’m the one who looks away.

When we’ve eaten, Saga makes tea and asks for another story. Vil tells it this time.

“The Bronze God lived on an island in the sea.

He was god of minds, and so could speak to the minds of all things, manipulating people and animals and even matter into doing his will.

But he grew weary of friends and lovers who stayed with him only because of the power that seeped out of him whether he meant it to or not, ensnaring them to his will.

“So he lived for a time alone, eating fish that willingly swam into his nets, listening to choirs of birds who sang for him all day long, because he once had a stray thought that it would be pleasant if they did so.

“But one morning, he woke to find that his island had moved through the sea and joined itself to the mainland, answering the unspoken pain of his loneliness. There he found the Prism Goddess in her wondrous garden. Of all the pantheon, the Prism Goddess is the most powerful, for she holds within her pieces of all the other gods’ magic.

And so the Prism Goddess was the only one among men and gods who could resist the Bronze God’s power.

He fell in love with her, but she did not return his love. ”

Vil lapses into silence, and I feel heavy and wretched. He could have chosen any story at all, and this is the one he picked?

“I know it’s the Bronze God’s holiday and all,” says Saga, “but you could have told a cheerier tale.”

Vil shrugs, and I carefully don’t look at him. He’ll wait for me, he said. Does he mean like the Bronze God waited for the Prism Goddess?

Saga doesn’t ask him to finish his story. None of us do. Instead we bid each other good night and crawl into our bedrolls, which we’ve laid out under the stars because the weather is clear.

The rest of the Bronze God’s story has always haunted me, and sleep stays far away as it blooms unbidden in my mind, tangled up with the echoing sensation of Vil’s kiss.

The Bronze God sought to win the Prism Goddess’s love, though she told him many times it was not to be.

He moved mountains for her. He sent her whole villages of people who plucked out their own hearts to display his true feelings.

Thousands of people died for his love, and finally the Prism Goddess had had enough.

She called to her the Gray Goddess, goddess of death, and the Ghost God, god of nothing.

Gray and Ghost held Bronze between them, while the Prism Goddess maimed him: She put out his eyes and cut out his tongue and cut off his ears.

She cut off his feet and his hands. She healed his wounds so he would not die.

And then she returned him to his island and sent it back into the sea.

If the Bronze God still lives, he has never shown his ruined body to anyone, ever again.

And yet every autumn there is feasting in his name, incense burned on his altars.

Vil’s words whisper through my mind. I’ll wait for you.

I am drawn to him, to the strength and companionship he offers.

With Vil I would have a true home, the belonging I never quite found with my own family.

I want that, I yearn for it. But there is far too much ahead and behind to make that choice just yet.

I sleep at last. My dreams are not kind.