“Soldiers killed him,” Sartes said, “fighting in Rexus’s first uprising.”
He saw the girl nod, and he could make out the sadness that flooded in, held back only with an effort that Sartes recognized only too well. He saw it whenever he looked into a mirror.
“Soldiers killed my parents,” the girl said. “They came to our house, and I hid with my brother and sister while they cut them down. We thought it was over then. Then the bandits came. They said they could take what they wanted. I had to hide again. My brother tried to fight them, and they murdered him. My sister… they cut her throat like it was nothing.”
Sartes moved forward, gently placing a hand on her arm, ready to pull back at the first sign that she was frightened. Instead, they stood there like that, joined in the shared sense of what it meant to lose someone like that.
“I’m glad you kill bandits,” the girl said.
There was a note of fierceness there Sartes hadn’t expected.
“I’m glad someone is,” Sartes replied. He shook his head. He still felt so guilty for everything he’d done. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done it.”
“You don’t like hurting people,” the girl guessed. “That’s good. I thought you looked gentle. But who gets hurt if you don’t? There will just be more people like me, left with nowhere to go.”
That was probably true, and somehow, coming from this girl, it felt as though it made sense. Sartes had tried to tell it to himself, but she made it seem as though it was right.
“You have nowhere to go?” Sartes said. “You could come with me… I mean us… I mean, we’re on our way around Delos, trying to spread the word about Ceres and the rebellion.”
“You’re offering to let me come with you?” the girl said with a laugh that seemed to Sartes like music he wished he could have heard all the time. “You don’t even know my name.”
Sartes knew that was true. He was making a fool of himself, acting without thinking because he liked this girl. Yet it made sense to him right then. Almost nothing else had ever made quite as much sense, even if it was stupid, and impulsive, and…
“You could always tell me your name,” Sartes said. He shook his head, looking down. “No, I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have crept up on you like this while you were praying. I should have—”
“You should have done exactly what you did,” the girl said. “And my name is Leyana.”
It was a beautiful name, but not as beautiful as the moment when she put her hand in his.
“So, tell me,” Leyana said. “Which way is this caravan of yours? It sounds as though we have a lot to do.”
Sartes gestured to the monuments. “You don’t have to do things here? We can wait.”
He saw Leyana shake her head, setting strands of silver wire glittering in the sunlight.
“The dead matter, but the living matter more.” She squeezed his hand. “Some of the living, at least.”
Sartes didn’t know what to say to that, but it didn’t seem that he needed to say anything. It was enough that Leyana was coming with him.
He just wished he had somewhere safe to offer her to go. There was an invasion coming, and instead of traveling back toward Delos, they would be out in the open country, trying to help those they could. He just had to trust that it would be enough.
That he would be enough. Because, looking at Leyana, he knew the truth. Whatever happened, whatever it took, Sartes would keep her safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
On the first day, Felene stole food.
She crawled along the beach because she barely had the strength to do more. The crocodile she’d killed was long gone, taken by the tide or scavengers or both. Still, she found fish washed up, left behind by the breakers. She bit into one, wincing, and ate it raw, just to give herself the strength to do more.
The food barely scratched the edge of her hunger or her weakness though, so Felene kept going until she found a house on the edge of the fishing village where the scent of fresh baked bread made her stomach rumble with need. She looked in through an open window, saw that there was no one around, and snatched for it like an animal.
She slunk back to the beach like an animal too, finding a spot where the rocks there formed an overhang and hiding in it, trying to hoard her strength like a miser. Her wound hurt so much that she passed out more than once, the sting of the rum across her back the only guarantee that it wouldn’t get infected.
“Damn you, Stephania,” she swore to herself as the sun went down, hefting the knife she’d pulled from her own back, “I’ll find you.”
On the second day, she stole clothes. The food had given her a little more strength by then. Enough to make the walk to the village in the sunlight, slipping in while no one was looking and watching the carts that came and went from its market. She found one that was carrying bundles of clothes, there to take to markets further inland. It was the work of a moment or two to cut the knots holding one case closed, her hand darting in to take what she needed.
The dark windings the folk of Felldust wore were a far cry from the bright colors Felene was used to, but her usual mix of sailor’s clothes and silks had been ruined by her time in the water, and at least the face wrappings helped to keep out the dust. The clothes were closer to those of a man than those of a woman, but that was probably a good thing as far as Felene was concerned. It meant something she could actually move in, and something that would fit her frame. She cut scraps from her old clothes to fill in the gaps, and by the time she was done, she was more than satisfied with the results.
On the third day, Felene stitched her wound properly. It meant another trip into the village to buy a bone needle and thread, her fingers shaking more than they should have while she cut a purse to pay for it. If her choice of target hadn’t been practically witless with one of the vile concoctions they favored out here, it might have gone badly. The girl on the apothecary’s stall smiled at her, but Felene ignored it. She had the wounds to show what happened when she was stupid about a pretty face.
Stitching the wound was hard. It had partly closed by itself, and Felene had to cut it open again with her knife so that she could stitch it straight. She bit down on a piece of driftwood while she stitched it, half drunk on the last of the rum and still trying hard not to scream.
On the fourth day, two men came looking for her. Felene should have guessed that would happen, but between the pain and the hunger, she’d been stupid. She’d been taking from one small village for days now. Of course someone would guess that something was wrong. Of course someone would come looking, and Felene knew better than to believe that they would have friendly intentions.
So she hid amongst the rocks with her knife while they came closer, watching the men, and listening to them as well. Her knowledge of Felldust’s language was a little rusty, but the gist of it was easy enough to catch, and their tone said plenty.
“…said it was a woman, big tall thing, stalking in as bold as you like.”
“I don’t like it,” the other said. “Had to beat my slave after she lost that pie.”
“Just think about what we might gain,” the other said. “Should be worth something to a slaver, right?”
“Flotsam? Better if we just cut her throat.”
Felene had heard more than enough by then. She slipped around the rocks as smoothly as the salt water, coming up behind the two men.
“Looking for me?” she asked.
They spun, reaching for their blades, and that was all the excuse Felene needed. Anger that had been bubbling up since the Isle of Prisoners burst out then as she stabbed at the first of them, catching him under the arm, then in the throat.
The second swung at her, and Felene stumbled. She was still far too weak. Even so, she managed to hook his ankle, bringing him down and pressing a sharp edge to his throat.
“You thought I’d be that easy to kill?” she demanded. What was it with people that they wanted to treat her like this? Only Thanos had shown her any kindness, an
d even he hadn’t trusted her enough to take her with him at first. “You thought you could just butcher me?”
“I didn’t—” the man began. “It wasn’t my idea!”
As if Felene had never heard that before. She rooted through the man’s belt until she found a money pouch, then a key that looked as though it belonged to an inn. She pocketed both.
“You’re stealing my room?” the man demanded.
Felene shrugged. If they’d left her alone, she would have kept to the beach. As it was, she was owed.
“I tried to keep out of the way,” she said. “You wouldn’t let me.”
She stood and turned to walk away. Maybe she should have knocked the man’s sword away. Maybe that would have been the safe thing to do, the kind thing to do, because it would have limited his options for stupidity. Maybe, Felene admitted to herself, a part of her even wanted more of a fight than this.
As it was, when she heard the scrape of boots on rock, she spun, flinging the knife Stephania had so kindly provided her with. Her would-be killer stared down at it embedded in his throat, blinking stupidly at the sight of it there before he fell. Felene swore to herself and retrieved it along with the man’s curved sword. She went through his pockets then. She’d robbed the dead before, on the basis that they had fewer needs than the living. She wasn’t going to leave anything behind. Mostly, what she found were small things: a ring she’d missed before, a fragment of a letter addressed to someone in Port Leeward. Felene took all of it and pushed his body into the water.
She went into the village and looked for an inn. When she found it, it took little more than the sight of the key and a couple of stolen coins to show her which room was which. The innkeeper didn’t seem to care that he had let a room to a man and now found a woman taking it, which didn’t exactly fill Felene with confidence. She was careful to push the room’s heavy chest against the door before she let herself collapse into sleep.
She spent the next couple of days at the inn, and found that as long as she had money, no one cared much about where she’d gotten it. She ate, and stretched, and tried to keep her ears open for the news she wanted to hear. It only took a small coin given to one of the tavern wenches to learn the news that Stephania had set off on her journey to find the sorcerer.
By the seventh day, Felene felt strong enough for revenge, and the fact that she still had to wait set her on edge. She spent her time in her room, sharpening her stolen blade and thinking of all the things she would do with it when she caught up with Stephania. As for Elethe… well, she still hadn’t decided what she was going to do with Elethe.
She walked to the docks every morning, watching the ships and assessing their crews. She watched who was sluggish and who was alert, whose ships looked as though they were kept free of barnacles and whose wallowed with them. Twice, men mistook her intentions and tried to lay hands on her. Twice, she left them bruised and bleeding.
She sat in the taproom every evening, listening out for news of Stephania’s journey, and of other things. There were plenty of rumors: the First Stone was gathering soldiers, paying good money for recruits; prices of slaves from Delos had fallen, in anticipation of the glut to come. Prince Lucious had come to Port Leeward, and was behaving in ways that were debauched even by the capital’s standards.
Finally, one of the tavern wenches brought her the news she’d been looking for, knocking on Felene’s door, then looking terrified at the sight of the blade in her hand. This one had the iron collar of a slave at her throat, and the haunted look of someone who saw too much casual violence.
“They… they say that you want news of Lady Stephania,” the woman said.
“If it’s true,” Felene replied. She took out a coin, spinning it between her fingers. She still had a few left, mostly because she’d lost none of her skills when it came to cheating at dice.
“There… there was a mercenary earlier,” the woman said. “He said he was owed more money because of the places Lady Stephania made them go, but that no one would pay him now that she was gone.”
“Gone?” Felene said. “She was here, but now she’s gone?”
She’d taken a step forward without meaning to, her sword rising. What was it about Stephania that had her acting without thinking? Whatever it was, it had the slave woman cowering back, curled up against the wall. Felene lowered her blade.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She held out her remaining pouch of coins. “If you can tell me where Stephania went, this is yours. It might be enough for your freedom.”
“Delos,” the woman said. “She was heading back to Delos.”
Felene tossed her the coins. It was all she could do right then. Well no, it wasn’t. She could take this woman with her, but she’d already seen how badly that could go, hadn’t she? Grabbing what she could of her things, Felene ran to the window.
Felene liked windows and rooftops. People remembered to watch doors, and by now, she was sure that she’d acquired at least some watchers. She slipped out, feeling the tiles beneath her feet, testing the strength of her still healing body as she ran along the flat roofs and sloping eaves of the fishing village.
Nobody pointed or cried out as she did it, which only went to show how little time people actually spent looking up. Maybe when she caught up to Stephania, she would drop on Elethe from above, and take her out of the fight quickly. It would give her time to make her least favorite royal suffer.
For now, it meant that she could get down to the wharf without being seen, crouching in the shadow of a chimney while she watched the boats with their porters and their shore crews.
This would work better by night, but Felene knew that she couldn’t bring herself to wait for night. She’d already let Stephania get too far ahead. So she picked out one boat from among the rest: a small, fast craft that looked as though it was getting set for a week at sea, fishing. Felene forced herself to wait until the pair of sailors on it wandered from it to check nets and weights on dry land.
She went from stillness to motion in an instant, sliding down the roof, checking her momentum, and then hopping to the roof of an outbuilding. Felene dropped to the street and rolled so that she wouldn’t break bones, then came up running.
She sprinted for the edge of the wharf, not bothering with the gangplank. Instead, she leapt, feeling her hands grip on to solid wood as she pulled herself up. She had her curved sword ready, bringing it down once, then twice, on the ropes holding the vessel.
The men on the docks were only just starting to react, and it was far too late. Felene pushed the boat away from the wharf, out into open water, while the sailors ran right up to the edge. They didn’t jump in. Having experienced some of the things that lived in the waters here, Felene didn’t blame them.
She did blame Stephania. Stephania had talked about getting revenge on Thanos in the moments after she’d stabbed Felene. Well, Felene was going to find her and show her what revenge meant.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Queen Athena sat in her tower cell, looking out with contempt at the efforts the rebellion were making with her city. But then, at least it matched the way she felt about the way they were trying to hold her.
“What kind of fool holds their enemies in a place as comfortable as this?” she asked the maid who’d been sent to attend on her.
“I couldn’t say, my lady,” the girl said, setting down a bowl of soup. Athena considered launching it at her, but that would only waste good food. Or barely tolerable food.
“Your Majesty, you stupid girl. The term is ‘Your Majesty.’ Now get out.”
The girl hurried out, looking as though she’d been stung. Athena wasn’t particularly bothered by that, just as she wasn’t particularly bothered by what she said to her. Athena would have had spies watching such an important prisoner. She would have had listeners at every wall, and watchers among those pretending to be friends. That was because she understood what was necessary. It was only one more difference between her and the weakness of the rebell
ion.
“If I had captured myself, it wouldn’t be like this,” Athena said to herself with a certain note of pride.
No, it wouldn’t have been like this at all. With a foe of Athena’s quality, she probably wouldn’t have let her live at all. Dungeons and towers were fine in their way, but they were really just the places that you held someone until you could mete out a more permanent punishment. People left cells all the time, but they didn’t come back from the doors of death.
Although, frankly, there were moments when Athena might have preferred death to the basic solitude of her tower cell. There was a bed, but it was a simple thing, more suited to a clerk than a queen. There were windows, but they were really little more than arrow slits with views out over the endless dullness of the city. She had books and parchment rather than strong wine or company.
“Maybe they plan to bore me to death,” Athena said to herself with a faint note of amusement.
It was, frankly, the only thing she could think of that made sense. She’d held noble prisoners in good conditions before, of course, but that had only been because they or their families had paid for the privilege of something better than a dank hole. Only because they were hostages, and good treatment was part of the deal, or because there were political concessions to be had from it.
None of that applied in Athena’s case, and so she had to conclude that the rebellion was stupid. The girl, Ceres, was the worst of the lot, thinking that kingdoms ran like bards’ songs, where you never had to make the hard choices.
Had Athena been in charge of the rebellion, she would have seen every noble in the kingdom killed or captured in a single night of violence. If these things were to be done, it was better to do them all at once, so that anger would die down afterwards. And they needed to be done. Leave a foe’s children’s children alive, and some fool would come back to you in twenty years with a righteous grudge and the means to kill those you cared about.
Had Athena been in charge, she would certainly have seen herself beheaded, although probably not before she’d tortured herself for every secret the Empire had. Athena had collected information about her home, knowing it as surely as a mother knew any of her children, and the fools in the rebellion hadn’t so much as asked. She would have gotten the name of every loyalist, the location of every secret and hostage that ensured that loyalty. She would have gotten a public confession, simply in exchange for the promise that her death would be an end to the pain if she did it.