Ayalah and Greyson had accompanied a couple of new friends to this herb bar, and they watched with fascination as the men inhaled from the bizarre pipes. Theidan, a dark-haired local, and Erikson, a blue-eyed, blond-haired Bolladian, seemed to love the stuff. The habit, however—while certainly interesting—repulsed both Ayalah and Greyson, who had asked instead for more familiar drinks, which the bartender eventually provided after more than one sidelong look at them.
"Sure you don't want to try?" Erikson asked.
Ayalah shook her head. "That smells like a dead animal."
Theidan guffawed, clapping her on the back. "Aye, it does! Tastes like one, too."
"Then why smoke it?" Greyson asked.
Erikson took a drag and shrugged. "Same reason you drink that piss-tasting slosh," he said, indicating Greyson's ale. "It's fun."
Erikson, they learned, was a bit of a wanderer, having left Bolladoth some years prior to visit new countries and explore uncharted territories. He had settled in Olekoth two years ago, he said, and had taken it upon himself as a challenge to explore the wilderness in the north of the continent. Local legend had it that everyone who had ever dared attempt this feat had never been seen again; Erikson vowed to be the first to return triumphant, with tales to tell.
Theidan was captain of one of Olekoth's warships: not the one that had employed the man whose throat Ayalah had cut—although he was friends with that ship's captain—but a different, bigger ship, one he called "the pride of Olekoth." He had readily accepted Ayalah's reluctant apology and had proclaimed her "welcome aboard the Phoenix anytime."
Now the two men shared a pipe and sucked in contentedly, demonstrating to Ayalah and Greyson the proper way to hold the smoke in the lungs for just a few moments before breathing it out again. "It makes the feeling sharper," Theidan explained. Ayalah didn't understand, but she smiled and nodded anyway. The pipe reminded her of a snake with two heads, sitting coiled on the table and winding its way up through the smoky air to land in both men's mouths. Two more of its necks lay on the table, limp and deflated. "You know," Theidan mused, "it's almost an insult to our culture that you won't at least try it." He waggled his eyebrows first at Ayalah and then at Greyson. "Come now, what's the harm?"
She hesitated.
"You may be able to get a Bolladian with a death wish to try it," Greyson said with a laugh, "but us sensible folk from Miltinoth aren't interested in such adventures." He turned to Ayalah. "Right?"
"Right," she agreed. She felt relieved, somehow, and content to go along with Greyson's decision—but this in itself confused her, and she stared into her drink, trying to puzzle out her feelings. Did she care what the smithy thought? She scratched under the armband he'd made for her. Well, she'd certainly grown to respect him, she thought. So it seemed logical that she would value his opinion now. Or did it? Her mind felt hazy and sluggish.
The men laughed raucously at something, and she looked up at the noise to ask what had been so funny. But before she had a chance to open her mouth, a figure in a long, brown cloak slipping out the back door of the bar caught her eye. Could that have been—? It wasn't possible of course, but—she really could have sworn—
She pushed her chair back and stood up hastily.
"What—?" Greyson began.
"I'll be right back," she shouted over her shoulder as she shoved her way through the mass of bodies and the haze of smoke toward the back door. She was a little wobbly on her feet, but she made it to the door and out into a back alley, where she caught a flash of the bottom of the brown cloak disappearing around the corner. She chased after the retreating figure, down one street, across another alley, and through a small patch of greenery, but she couldn't catch up. Her breath came in short gasps now as she sped through the streets, past baffled bystanders, desperately trying to catch up, to at least see a glimpse of the face of the man she followed.
She was almost positive that the man she had seen in the bar was the wizard Swynn. But seeing him here in Olekoth made no sense: hadn't he told her that he'd been in that enchanted forest of his for ages? He'd implied that he hadn't left in decades. Hadn't he? But no matter how fast she ran or how many people she pushed out of her way, she could only catch glimpses of the back of his cloak, and, sometimes—or was she imagining it?—the beckoning of an impatient hand.
Finally, she found herself at a dead end, in an alley leading straight to a solid brick wall. She cursed aloud: the wizard was nowhere in sight, and the wall was much too high for an old man to have scaled it. She rested her hands on her knees, panting, trying to regain her breath. Her heart was racing, though her mind still felt sluggish, and her reactions seemed slowed. Had she been running as fast as she'd thought? Was she as lost as she suspected? She forced herself to breathe slower and calm down.
She snapped to attention suddenly. The streetlights didn't quite illuminate the whole of the alleyway, but she'd definitely heard a cough coming from the other end, near the wall. She fumbled in her boot for her emergency knife and then cautiously approached the wall. "Who's there?"
Her foot made contact with something, and she jumped back instinctively before realizing there was a body lying in a pool of blood on the ground at her feet. It was a man, and he seemed to be saying something.
She lowered her knife warily and bent down. Whatever he was saying, it was so faint she couldn't hear it. She put her ear right next to his mouth and caught the dying gasp of one word: prophecy.
"Do you have the next piece of the prophecy?" she demanded wildly. The man gasped for breath. "Please," she said, "please tell me your piece, I need to know what it is." But it was too late. The light was beginning to fade from his eyes—someone, she thought desperately, had gotten to him first. She sat back on her heels in defeat.
The bracelet! She hadn't taken it off since Greyson gave it to her, and she'd begun to forget its presence. But he had said there was medicine in it, and although she didn't know what the medicine was, she unscrewed the stopper, poured the liquid into the man's mouth, and waited, holding her breath.
His eyes snapped open. He gasped and clutched her arm in a vise-like grip that left bruises for days; he began to whisper.
"Where fish is dead,
and land is red,
don't drink the water."
He repeated it over and over, frantically, again and again.
"What?" Ayalah said. "I don't understand." Had he forgotten the correct words? The pieces of the prophecy were supposed to be in rhyming couplets, weren't they? Perhaps this was in some kind of code she needed to decipher; perhaps he was purposely trying to mislead her. "I, too, am a prophecy holder," she said, trying to be encouraging. "You can trust me."
But the man ignored her.
"Where fish is dead,
and land is red,
don't drink the water.
Where fish is dead,
and land is red,
don't drink the water."
His voice began to grow faint.
"Where fish is dead,
and land is red,
don't drink the water."
He coughed once more, and then he was still.
23
She awoke in an herb bar she didn't recognize. She appeared to have slept on a pile of cushions in a corner of the bar, which was littered with similarly disheveled-looking customers in various states of disarray. She stumbled to her feet. Her head was throbbing, and she felt like she might vomit. A few deep breaths sufficed to calm her gag reflex, and she made her way to the door and into the street.
The sound was momentarily deafening. The street was packed with people who were cheering, clapping, singing, and otherwise making noises that made her head feel like it might explode. She remembered all at once that today was the day of the celebration. Well, no matter; she was in no state fit to celebrate. She managed to get back to the inn, fall in bed, and—despite the noise outside—close her eyes and slip out of consciousness.
Greyson woke her some time later
, and she was relieved to find that she had just a hint of a headache left.
"What happened to you last night?" he asked, hovering over her anxiously.
She shook her head and sat up, waving him away. "I have no idea. What happened to you?"
He shrugged. "Nothing. I just stayed at the bar with Theidan and Erikson for a while. When you didn't come back, we went looking for you but couldn't find you."
She looked pointedly at a gash on his right cheek. Upon closer inspection, she realized, he had cuts all down his right arm as well.
"Oh, that," he said. "I had a minor disagreement with someone we ran into. No big deal."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Really," he insisted.
"Well," she said, grinning, "did you at least win the, er, disagreement?"
He grinned back. "Of course I did."
She stood with a wince. "Do we have anything to drink?"
"No, sorry. But there are free drinks outside as part of the celebration..."
The invitation wasn't voiced, but she smiled anyway. After all, she'd found what she wanted in Olekoth already—now she could truly relax. "Let's go, then!"
Outside, the mead and ale flowed freely. Mugs were handed around liberally at each corner to anyone who held out a hand, and consequently each person seemed to be holding at least two mugs at any given time. Ayalah was happy to find that the drinks soothed her headache, and soon she was joining in the cheering and singing, celebrating with wild abandon the birth of a little boy she cared nothing about.
She drank one mug, and then another, and still another, and before she knew it she'd lost count of the amount she'd consumed. Greyson, for once, didn't seem as affected by the drink, but he still sang along and followed her through the crowds with an indulgent smile on his face.
On one corner, a street band played for the enjoyment of the crowd, and Ayalah stopped to clap along to the music. Then the revelers began to dance, and she grabbed Greyson's hand.
"Dance with me!" she shouted breathlessly. She hadn't danced since she was a small child, when her father used to twirl her in front of the fire after dinner, but suddenly, right now, the mood struck her. She wanted nothing more than to move her feet to the beat and learn the proper steps, and she wanted Greyson to join her.
He followed her lead, and they danced about the square happily, wildly, laughing as they fumbled the dance moves and laughing again when they performed the moves correctly. Her breathing echoed the thumping of the drumbeat, and she felt so light and happy, she could almost fly. One part of the dance required that each person grab a partner and hold them close; Greyson pulled her into him, and she froze.
He was breathing heavily, smiling gaily, but when their bodies connected, his face seemed to drain of all its emotion and his eyes seemed to blaze into hers. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears as the heat from his body enveloped her.
She forgot all about the beat of the drums.
He leaned in and kissed her. The touch of his lips on hers was exquisite, a sharp stab of desire that raced down her chest and into her fingertips. She kissed him back, hungrily, desperately, savoring each moment their lips were pressed together and gasping for more. He pulled her in even closer, squeezing her against him, and she grabbed at his waist, holding on while the world disappeared.
Distantly, she could hear the crowd cheering.
His hands were in her hair, tugging it free of its braid, and she let him back her up against a building on the outskirts of the crowd. His kisses were like fire—she felt like he was devouring her, and she loved it; she never wanted him to stop. Somehow they'd ended up in a narrow alley between buildings; she could feel the closeness of the walls around them, the intimacy of the location.
She was biting his lip now, and he was smiling and trailing kisses down her neck, and she was moaning something incomprehensible, and he was whispering her name like the most tender of blessings, the prettiest of flowers. He got down to her shoulder and came back up to her lips, and their bodies pressed together urgently through their Olekian outfits.
She wanted him to keep going.
He was lowering his hand to her waist—she was holding her breath for what came next—
"Oi!"
They froze. There was a man staring at them.
"What d'ye think yer doin? There's child'n here!" He indicated the crowd behind him that continued in its revelry, shouting and dancing and laughing and singing. Ayalah, dazed, didn't quite understand what the man was pointing at.
Greyson stepped back and removed his hands from Ayalah's body, holding them up in surrender; the stranger seemed to accept this, and he went on his way.
They were both panting now, staring at each other, looking one another up and down. Greyson, Ayalah thought, had never looked more striking: his lips were swollen and red, his cheeks were flushed, his—she blushed and averted her gaze.
But then a movement caught her eye and she understood what the stranger had been indicating. There were still flocks of people dancing, crowding the street. It was still the middle of the day! She recalled where they were all at once; she couldn't believe they were in public—they'd made a spectacle of themselves! What if people recognized them, what if someone said something? If they had been in the inn, with no interruptions, then maybe—she flushed again.
Greyson closed the space between them and gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
Her hair, she realized, was in complete disarray, falling about her shoulders wildly and into her face—and her hair tie was nowhere in sight.
"Ayalah..." he whispered with a breathiness that paralyzed her.
He leaned in, and she let him kiss her once more, such a tender, loving kiss, she almost forgot herself again and gave in to the temptation. But she couldn't. Could she? She wanted to. No—she steeled her will—she mustn't.
She touched his cheek and met the fire in his eyes with fire of her own. But then she backed up, fled the alleyway, and ran blindly through the crowd.
24
She was too flustered to return to the inn, so she wandered around the crowded streets until night fell, her mind racing. What was she afraid of? That Greyson might be at the inn—or that he might not be at the inn? That he might want to talk to her—or that she might want to talk to him?
Could she control herself around him from now on?
She forced herself to calm down, to breathe more slowly, to think rationally. Of course she could control herself. It was a mistake—nothing more. She wouldn't let it happen again, and she wouldn't give Greyson any false ideas. She was a warrior, she reminded herself. And not just any warrior: she was the only female warrior in all of Miltinoth—perhaps in all the world. She would not renounce that title for some smithy she'd gotten stuck with on the road.
The festivities were winding down as the townsfolk remembered they had to get back to work the next day. Ayalah continued to pace the streets until she was the only one left, and finally she returned to the inn just before daybreak. Greyson was sleeping on his side of the curtain: perfect. She gathered her things in the dark, changed back into her warrior leathers, and slipped out of the room without disturbing him. Their ship would be leaving in just a few hours; might as well get there early to ensure a timely departure.
The mood on the ship on their return journey was a somber one. To begin with, Ayalah wasn't the only one who'd had perhaps a little too much fun during the celebration. Many of the sailors turned up looking sick and exhausted, and a few even looked a bit depressed. To make matters worse, things had turned awkward between Ayalah and Greyson. She wasn't embarrassed to admit that she was avoiding him, and, when they did run into each other, he couldn't even meet her eyes. As with their previous trip, Ayalah spent her time leaning over the edge of the ship, watching the sea, and Greyson spent his time belowdeck.
She typically preferred to pace when agitated, but she found that the sea was a welcome substitution to help soothe her nerves and steady her thoughts.
The smell of the ocean and the sound of the waves lulled her into a kind of trance she could maintain for hours, and it was with relief that she let her mind take a break and stop thinking about prophecies and kisses and wizards.
She had been enjoying her solitude for almost a week before Greyson approached her. It was nighttime, and though she couldn't see much of the water in the dark, still she stood at the prow of the ship, listening and watching. She heard him approach, though he did it quietly—she could identify him by his gait alone. He stood beside her and waited until she looked at him to speak.
"Can we talk?"
She shrugged warily. "Sure."
"Look, I don't know what to think about—"
"Don't." She held up a hand to silence him. "It was nothing. I don't want to talk about it."
He had been leaning against the railing; now he turned to face her directly. "Ayalah, ignoring this is not a good solution."
She opened her mouth to respond, but a snicker behind her alerted her to an on-duty sailor behind them. She whirled on the man.
"Is something funny, sailor?" she hissed.
He was holding a broom, ostensibly cleaning, but she didn't believe that for a moment. It was obvious he'd been eavesdropping.
"No, no," he said, palms up in apparent surrender. Then he smirked. "Ayalah."
Before he could even think to run, she had drawn her knife and slashed him across the face. He gasped and flinched back, his hands clinging to his bleeding cheek, the broom forgotten on the ground.
"Call me that ever again," she said through clenched teeth, inching closer to the man, "or tell another living soul my name, and I'll give you another cut to match that one. On your neck. Do you understand me?"
The sailor nodded and backed up another step. He was at least a head taller than her, but lanky and lean: no match for her in a fight. He hesitated a moment, apparently figuring this out for himself, and then scampered across the deck.
She turned back to Greyson. "How dare you?" She'd meant it to come out as an accusation, angry and pointed, but instead it came out as a mortifying whisper, barely audible.
"I—I didn't mean—I'm really sorry, I just—"
Her eyes welled with involuntary tears. How was it possible that, after all these years of hard work to establish herself as a credible, fearsome warrior, one man could go and ruin it so easily? Her knife was still in one hand, but it didn't even occur to her to use it on Greyson. She didn't know what else to do, so she did what she'd seen dozens of outraged women do on the streets of Miltinoth: she slapped him.