Chapter Nine
Vren squirmed out through a small window in one of Orval’s back chambers, making sure to close it firmly but quietly. A moment to orient, crouched in the rain, before he moved off over the slate roofs. Be the wind, be the shadow, be the blade, be the silence of the night , he recited to himself, grinning.
Far easier without a wet nurse and babes in tow.
Visibility was almost nil, so he let his eyes adjust before he increased his speed.
He crossed the city, the rooftops changing underfoot from slate to clay to wood to thatch. He wanted to be swift but knew that a mis-step, a clatter, or a patch of rotten straw would cause a ruckus.
The rain grew heavier, coming down in dark sheets, the wind cutting like knives. Few would be out-and-about. Perfect weather for prey.
And prey was what he intended to be.
Once over the city wall, he skirted the sides of the road, staying where the trees were thickest, heading back to the battlefield. Dust would be there, keeping a watchful eye. He suspected the Wyverns would be searching and he needed to be seen by them, if Dust hadn’t already been spotted.
The road was quiet, the only sound the rain. Still, he was wary. At this point there would be warriors clearing the dead, or at the very least, tending the wounded. With a bit of luck, and the favor of the skies…
Horses coming down the road. Riders with lanterns on poles, making no secret of their presence.
Vren darted to the side, hunching down. If that light swung his way, he’d be seen. He clutched his knives and waited.
A rustle under a dead tree behind him caught his ear. Yellow eyes gleamed for a moment, then disappeared.
Dust had found him.
He slid toward her through the grasses, quiet as he could. He saw her scramble back, on her belly, leaving an opening, and crawled after her, dead leaves and branches scrapping against his oiled leather cloak. The smell of mold and wet filled his nose as he crouched beside her, turning to face the road. Her breath was warm on his cheek as they watched through the branches.
Illuminated in their pool of light, the warriors wore their hoods up. The jingle as they pounded past spoke of armor and weapons beneath their cloaks. No banners were displayed, so no way of knowing their allegiance. Vren lowered his gaze, for fear his eyes would catch the light. Dust pressed her muzzle against his cloak, ears twitching.
The light passed over them; the hoofbeats faded off into the night.
Still, Vren waited silently, pressed against Dust, until she shifted and gave a huff.
He waited still, until she nodded. Then, at last, he shifted to sit cross-legged at her side. Water showered down on them as the dead leaves rustled in protest.
Vren buried his cold hands in her warm ruff, and put his head to hers. “Well, they weren’t beating the bushes, so they weren’t hunting you. You lost them?”
Dust’s ears twitched with a “yes,” then perked with a tilt of her head.
“All’s well,” he whispered. “They are with Orval.” He hesitated. “I checked. Neither bore the birthmark you seek.”
The vore drew a huge sigh and then pressed her head into his chest, a rare sign of affection.
“I need a minute,” Vren said, reaching for his pack. “Orval sent some dried meat for you.” He dug it out. Dust, with a flash of fangs, snapped it up. “He fed me a bowl of pease.”
Mid-bite, Dust huffed, giving him a side look.
“Well, you know,” Vren kept a straight face. “Warm, cheap and filling.”
Dust paused in her chewing, bared her teeth and clicked her tongue. The vore version of a laugh. Vren smiled as well. “I asked for a bag of dried pease.”
The vore sneezed, effectively rolling her eyes.
“No fear,” Vren chuckled. “I won’t be eating it.” He pulled out the bag of pease and dug further for some leather cords.
Dust tilted her head.
“I am making a baby,” Vren explained. One of the dried apples, after some rough carving, would serve as the head. “Something to sling to my chest, make it look like I am fleeing with the child.” He worked fast, tying off the head and then forming rude legs. “We need to pull them from the city.” He dug deeper in his pack, drew out a cloth. “This was Xylara’s nappy.”
Dust gave the cloth a sniff.
“It’s dry, she hadn’t dirtied it yet. But look,” He opened the bundle. In a corner of the cloth, two things were sewn in place with wild, loose stitches. A key and a ring.
The vore’s ears went up.
“My heart about stopped,” Vren said. “The Ring of Xy. I don’t know what the key is for, but it must be important.”
The vore’s ears went flat.
“I can’t let these fall into Xyrath’s hands, much less the blood memories. How many warriors are hunting us?”
Her response startled him. “One?” Vren asked “Just one?”
Dust stopped chewing, focusing her yellow eyes on his. Her message was affirmative, but there was more. Vren’s heart started beating faster.
“Bondmaiden?” he whispered, hoping he was wrong.
After traveling with Dust for so long, he’d learned much of her language of body movements and sounds. He didn’t always pick up the subtler meanings, but this was absolutely clear. Hate, cold and terrifying, aimed at their pursuer.
There was nothing a vore hated more than blood magic. Dust wanted the Bondmaiden dead.
Blood magic. Unwilling sacrifice, unwillingly made .
Vren shuddered. His hands stilled as the implications started to sink in and fear rose in his throat. Not for himself. “Orval,” he whispered. “Orval doesn’t know… I never told him that—” he swallowed hard. “Skies as my witness, I never thought—” he clamped his jaw tight.
He’d first met Orval when he’d approached him years ago, offering protection to a child of the Blood of Xy. But Orval could have cared less for the Crown and the Court. He had snorted, pulled Vren into his rooms, offered kavage and pease porridge and pulled out charts of family trees, reviewing blood lines and explaining ‘fourth cousins twice removed’ to show that he stood in no danger of that fate. ‘Not to mention,’ Orval had said, “they’d never let a cripple sit on the throne.’
Vren should have faded away then, but he kept coming back. It was a breath of fresh air to sit and talk with the man. Well, in truth, Orval did most of the talking, often asking questions that Vren couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. When that happened, Orval just shrugged and offered more pease or kavage. He kept treats on hand for Dust, when she deigned to enter the city.
Orval hadn’t been shy about quizzing the vore either, with Vren to interpret as best he could. Dust seemed to find it amusing that Orval pestered her with questions about her home in Athelbryght and its history.
Not that she was willing to share many details.
Now his friend was in danger, more danger than he knew, and Vren had placed him there. Vren hadn’t told him about the Bondmaidens, how blood magic had been used to create them. How that taint was one of the reasons why the marcusi had withdrawn their protection from the Wyvern Blood of Xy.
“I am a damn fool,” he whispered, lifting his head, his first instinct to go back into Edenrich.
Dust nudged him with her nose, reading his thoughts.
“I can’t risk it,” he agreed. “I know I can’t. And killing her is not an option. Best thing we can do is draw her attention to us and lead her away.”
Still, his gut churned for his friend. He had work yet to do, even as his mind raced, so his fingers moved while he thought.
“Why just one?” he asked.
Dust had resumed chewing her meat, but he knew she was listening.
Vren dug out more rags and twisted them into a semblance of limbs. “Ah, they don’t want anyone to know, do they?” he answered his own question. “So we need to keep her on our trail. Does she use magic?”
Dust denied that. And she’d sense if it was being used.
So the woman was just tainted with blood magic. That was one worry off his mind. He focused on tying the legs and arms to the doll.
The sling was next; he had to wiggle around to get it in place under his cloak. The branches rustled, and showered them with droplets. At least the rain had settled into a soft patter on the leaves.
Dust gulped down the last of her meat and rose on her haunch. She rubbed her muzzle with a forepaw, cleaning her face. Moments like this made it clear she wasn’t just a large wolf of some kind. There was something feline in her as well.
“Believable?” he asked as he shoved the doll into place.
Dust snorted.
“Well, not everyone has your senses,” he said. “It has to serve.”
Dust made another suggestion.
“I am not finding a piglet to strap to my chest,” Vren started to squirm out of their hollow, staying low. “It might sound and move like a baby, but you just want a meal.”
Dust emerged behind him, her tongue lolling out of her open jaws.
“What would a desperate man with a newborn baby fleeing through the dark cold night do?” Vren mused. He took a breath of the cold, damp air and answered his own question. “Put as much distance between him and his pursuer as possible. Find food for the babe.”
He looked at Dust. “So, we will let her find us.” Vren said, pulling up his hood and adjusting the sling. “If you scent a farm or sheep holding, we will head there. Make her think we’re getting milk for the baby.”
The vore shook herself in agreement.
Vren rose to his feet. “Let’s give her something to hunt.”