“But if you’re looking for certainty, Patrei,” Wren added, “you’re not going to get it from the gift anyway.”
And that was exactly what I wanted. Certainty. My blood raced with the hunger of it, and it burned hotter with every mile we traveled. It wasn’t fleas under my skin now but sparks, countless days of healing and waiting and uncertainty building up that I couldn’t stand anymore. I wanted all things hard and sharp and solid and sure. I wanted stone, and steel, and sword. I wanted the razor edge of a knife slicing a throat, and hot blood dripping over my hand. Paxton’s blood. And then Truko’s, and anyone else who had betrayed us. I wanted the certainty of Kazi back in my arms. And anyone who had tried to take that certainty away from me would suffer before they died. I wanted my family safe and whole and ready to avenge it all. I wanted Gunner, Priya, Mason, and Titus taking charge in my absence, already making a plan.
I looked into the fire, my anger rising, and caught Wren watching me. Her eyes glowed with the flames as she shook her head. “No one wants to be on the wrong side of what’s burning inside you, Patrei. That is certainty I’d be willing to bet on.”
“Me too,” Synové added.
Neither one offered me assurances that Kazi was fine, or even that she was alive. They knew the uncertainties of life. Kazi had told me that their parents had been brutally murde
red. They knew that people we loved died, and like Caemus had said, no amount of wanting or anger or bargaining with the gods could change that, or bring them back.
And yet, I still bargained with the gods every mile we traveled.
Please don’t take her away from me. I will do anything.
Anything.
* * *
Wren handed me a thick trencher of bread with smoked rabbit and sliced apples piled on top. As we ate, we washed it down with weak Vendan ale that we passed around in a skin between us. Synové snapped her fingers at me if I sipped too long. She had talked almost nonstop, somehow still skillfully downing her trencher and meat as she happily told us about draining antelope blood into skins. She glowed with satisfaction as she recounted Griz’s outrage over dispatching Bahr before he was delivered to the queen. “Technically, I didn’t dispatch him. Everyone saw it was the racaa’s doing,” she reasoned, licking the glistening rabbit fat from her fingers. “Racaa don’t digest bones, did you know?”
“No, I didn’t know,” I answered and handed the skin of ale to Wren.
“They vomit them up like an owl. I’m sure one day I’ll find Bahr’s pile of bones in the Cam Lanteux, woven together in a nice little ball with his undies. A perfect end for—”
Wren put her hand out, and Synové was instantly silent. Her dark curls bobbed as she turned her head, listening for something. Between the wind whistling outside and the nickers of the horses, I hadn’t heard anything, but now hairs rose on the back of my neck. A vibration. Pounding. Something was close.
I set my half-finished trencher on my cloak and stood as I drew my sword from my scabbard. The quiet whine of steel on steel pierced the air as horses galloped into the foyer of the ruin. Three men rode in first and then, just on their heels, three more. We had visitors. My first thought was that we were outnumbered, and my second was, would any of them recognize me? Would the disguise work? They pulled back when they saw me ready with my sword, Synové with an arrow nocked and aimed, and Wren with a ziethe gripped in each hand.
“Whoa, friends. We’re just riding in from the storm. It caught us by surprise,” one man called. I didn’t recognize him, but I heard the Shiramar drawl, which meant he was likely one of Truko’s men. I resisted the impulse to pounce on him and demand information. I knew how to get it, but the numbers weren’t in our favor. He rode closer. “Mind if we share this shelter? That’s all we want. I’m Langston,” he added, patting his chest, as if knowing his name would ease our minds.
I exchanged a glance with Wren and Synové, then nodded to him. The only answer had to be yes. Wren and Synové sat back down on their fur cloaks, and we stored our weapons but kept them near. People with nothing to hide would always share a safe haven in a storm—especially Kbaaki.
“Welcomes, friends,” I said, laying on my thick accent. “Warm yourselves.”
Langston swung down from his horse. The others followed his lead, stomping their boots and shaking off layers of snow from their cloaks, beards, and hats, and pulling away scarves. Two men, apparently lower ranking, were left to tend the horses, removing saddles and shaking out blankets while the rest came over to warm themselves by our fire. As far as I could tell, I didn’t know any of them. It could be they were traders from Shiramar, except that no trader would be on these remote trails unless they were lost. My gut told me they were also Truko’s men, part of the army that had taken over Hell’s Mouth.
“Kbaaki, huh?” Langston said, raising bushy brows still dusted with snow. He pulled off his gloves, stuffing them in his vest. “A little late in the season to be so far from home, isn’t it?”
The practiced ruse was ready on my tongue. “The king’s daughter ez sick. His siarrah says only smoke of spirit wood will cleanse the demons from her. He offered us a full chest of gheirey for spirit wood, so here we are.”
Langston nodded, knowing a full chest of gheirey was a fortune and worth a trip in winter. He made quick introductions of his three companions who had joined us around the fire. “Cain, Ferrett, and Utreck,” he said. Cain, who stood just on the other side of me, was tall and muscular, and I assessed that he was the greatest threat. His eyes scanned our belongings as if taking inventory—from the furs spread around the fire, to our weapons set nearby, to our packs piled in the corner. It was not simple curiosity. They were the eyes of a scout, searching for signs.
“Going to the arena for the wood?” he asked.
I nodded. “Faster than the forest.” The nearest forest of spirit wood was sixty miles south, and chopping the rubbery wood was no easy task, not to mention messy. Buying it at the arena from a dealer was logical, since someone was sick and we were in a hurry, but I still wanted to turn the questions back to him as quickly as I could. “And why are you out in this fury?”
“A different kind of reward,” Langston answered, but he didn’t elaborate on what kind.
“On patrol,” Utreck offered. “Looking for—”
“Game.” Langston cut him off, but the answer was already spilled. Scouts didn’t “patrol” for game. They were hunting down people. He eyed Wren and Synové, who still hadn’t spoken. Their efforts at Kbaaki accents had failed, so it was agreed they would remain silent if we encountered anyone. “These are?”
“My wives,” I answered. “Ghenta and Eloh. I’m Vrud.” Wren and Synové nodded to him. His gaze lingered on them a bit longer than I liked. Was he suspicious, or did he have other things on his mind?
Ferrett, a short hefty man, sidled close to Wren and smiled. He was missing a front tooth, and the rest were crooked and looked like they were about to go missing too. Wren shot him a warning glare, Stay away.
“You too good for a friendly hello?” he sneered.