Train
It flattered her. He hated that he noticed.
She’d hidden her hair under a red-and-blue print scarf, a “disguise” that seemed to amuse her for all that a flicker of uncertainty ran underneath. She pulled a red felted kuweian cap over his head like a joke, but was unable to hide the careful distance in the gesture.
“I’m told married couples cover their hair.” She gave him an odd look when he choked. “A woman in the restroom was kind enough to explain things.”
“We can’t—” His face turned red.
“Can’t pretend to be married?” Her confusion and embarrassment were sharp, made worse by the fact that she could feel his embarrassment, too. Math knew it must be like staring at a cracked mirror—everything reflected, warped, too close.
Math forced himself to calm down. Being able to feel what she felt was making it difficult for him to wrestle his own emotions under control. “No,” he said. “You’re right. People will ask fewer questions if they think we’re newlyweds. I was caught off guard. The Order demands a vow of chastity.”
A vow that virtually no one obeyed, but even so.
Her eyes widened. “Chastity? Why?”
“Tradition?”
She scoffed as she dragged him over to the man checking tickets.
A red-coated conductor gave them a single glance and stamped their tickets. “Anywhere in the first three carriages, but seats are first come, first served.” His gaze slid to Kaiataris and lingered. “No sleeping berths.”
Math’s smile turned icy. “Thank you.”
Kaiataris leaned into him after they walked onto the train. “Why was that man staring at me like that?”
“The usual reasons, I suppose. First, because you’re Souna. They’re not often seen this far east.”
She frowned at that, accompanied by a less obvious spike of concern. “That wasn’t worth mentioning earlier?”
“I don’t care if you’re Souna and I don’t care what he thinks.”
Her lips twitched. “That was the first reason. What might the second be?”
“You’re beautiful.”
She flushed at that, but also frowned. “Are you sure you’re chaste?” She wasn’t flirting: this was suspicion, a cautious testing of boundaries neither of them understood.
“I said the Order demands chastity. I never said I was any good at it.”
Inside the first passenger carriage, they found two rows of padded benches, separated by an aisle down the center. Each bench sat next to a small window, which could be opened to relieve the stuffy air. It didn’t strike Math as comfortable, but he supposed this method’s chief advantage was speed.
The most troublesome part was that passengers who’d already boarded—here or earlier—had claimed most of the seats.
Technically, there was room for everyone, but single passengers had spread out, each claiming a full bench rather than share with a stranger.
So either they’d have to split up or move to the next car and hope for better seats.
As Math understood it, any carriages beyond the third had no benches—from that point, passengers stood.
Math felt a flash of annoyance at their impending separation—then caught himself. Why would he be upset about sitting apart from the necromancer?
As those thoughts ran through his head, Kai leaned over an elderly lady seated alone.
The old woman wore a wide-brimmed hat adorned with flowers—once fresh, now wilting—and was quietly embroidering more blooms onto white linen stretched in a wooden hoop.
Her supplies were neatly arranged beside her on the bench.
“I am so sorry,” Kaiataris said to the woman. “But my husband and I were hoping that we might be able to sit together. I’ve never been by train before, and he promised he’d hold my hand.”
The old woman lowered her embroidery hoop and gave Kaiataris a shrewd once-over, then turned the same keen scrutiny on Math. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. “Of course! I wouldn’t dream of breaking the two of you up. What an adorable couple you make.”
She promptly stood, grabbed her embroidered bag, and headed for a new seat—a bench occupied by a middle-aged man sprawled so wide his knees claimed the entire bench. The old woman fixed her gaze on his crotch until, flustered, he pulled his legs in and made room.
Kai slipped into the old woman’s seat and gestured for Math to join her once he’d stowed their stolen luggage and the Kaliri long arm.
(Miniature bombard? Small cannon? He really needed a better name for it.) As soon as he sat, she took his hand.
Across the aisle, the old woman gave them a conspiratorial wink.
He didn’t pull his hand away. Too many people had heard their excuse—that was the reason, he told himself. Not the warmth of her fingers. Not the way it made something inside him feel breakable. Instead, he leaned in as if to murmur something tender. “Why did you say Idallik means ‘death knight’?”
Silence, heavy with Kaiataris’s refusal to discuss it.
He repeated the question.
“I heard you the first time,” she whispered. “And I said it because that’s what the word means in Irrahan: death knight.”
Math suppressed the uneasy twist in his stomach. “It means…” He searched his memory for his Irrahan lessons—every member of the Order knew at least some, since it was the archives’ original language. “Death dealer. It means death dealer.”
“No.” She shifted, tucking one leg beneath her to lean in closer and whisper.
“The word is a contraction of idal and alla, with a suffix indicating someone who performs a role—so the correct translation is ‘death knight.’” She shrugged.
“Yes, that makes ‘Idallik Knight’ technically mean ‘death knight knight,’ but that manner of linguistic redundancy is surprisingly common.”
He stared straight ahead. The train felt claustrophobic, entirely too cramped. “Maybe it wasn’t originally an Irrahan word.”
She didn’t respond for several long heartbeats, although he sensed her frustrated sadness. The entire carriage jerked and began moving forward.
Around them, passengers busied themselves with books, newspapers, embroidery, and knitting. Some had brought food, its smell a pungent reminder that Math hadn’t found dinner for them.
He hoped some enterprising soul had brought enough extra to sell.
Kaiataris’s quiet words cut through his musing.
“I told you that we placed ourselves in an enchanted slumber, but you must understand that someone else had to wake us, yes? A group outside of the spell. The solstice would stop all life, so the only beings that might endure would be artificial constructs—which are unreliable—or people already dead but magically sustaining themselves. So what do you think we called those people?”
In a flash, he understood exactly what she implied—and it was so unacceptable he tried to stand, as if he could physically distance himself from the idea. Every instinct urged him to flee, to be anywhere else.
She had a steel grip on his coat; he wouldn’t be able to escape the truth without a fight.
So Math turned, grabbed her coat collar in return, and pulled her close enough to feel her breath on his face. “If that were true, the Order would—”
“Tell you? It has been a thousand years. I rather doubt they know the truth themselves by this point. Or that anyone who mentions such a thing would not be immediately labeled an apostate.”
“There’s no way! The whole reason the Order exists—”
“Whisper, my fair knight.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “We aren’t alone.”
Math froze and swallowed hard. To any onlooker, it must have looked like a lovers’ embrace—and he had no doubt people were watching, whether they pretended not to or not.
The problem was, it felt like a lovers’ embrace. And it couldn’t be. She was a grim lord—the kind of person he’d been taught since childhood to see as inhuman. Dangerous. Her warmth burned through layers of cloth. Her face was far too close.
Someone behind them cleared their throat with pointed intent. Kaiataris lifted her head just enough to level a withering glare at the source and snapped, “We’ve only just wed. Look away if our love offends you.”
After delivering that scolding, Kaiataris slipped from his arms and faced forward. Math shifted, adjusted his coat, and pretended her embrace hadn’t affected him.
Neither of them said anything for a long time, after that.
Not forever, though.
“The Order exists to destroy grim lords,” Math said at last, his voice low. “And you’re suggesting we were the monsters all along.”
“Absolutely not. The Idallik Order were heroes—soldiers and graven wizards who were sacrificing their very lives to protect humanity. And clearly, some members of the Order tried to do that. The rest, though…?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lift her chin with quiet defiance.
“Evidently, the rest decided they would rather be tyrants. So yes, I do imagine those knights who stayed true to their vows would have focused the Order entirely on eradicating the ‘grim lords’ who betrayed us.”
“Us? You mean graven wizards?”
“No, I mean humanity.” Kaiataris turned to face him, although she remained a safe and proper distance apart. “That’s your question answered. Now it’s my turn. Why aren’t you a knight?”
“Pardon?” Math shot her a quick, surprised glance, then turned his attention back to the front of the train.
“I’ve seen you fight. I’ve seen you cast spells. If you’re not good enough, I shudder to think who is.”
“Didn’t you hear Huraiik? I can’t manifest a weapon.”
“I heard the words,” she admitted. “’Tis the meaning that eludes me.”
Math made a face. “Every knight can summon—manifest—a weapon, something unique to themselves, a reflection of their souls. And I … I’ve never been able to. Simple as that.”