Chapter 14
“You can come out now,” said Astryx.
Fern stared in astonishment from around the toes of a massive sandaled foot carved of stone. Behind the Oathmaiden, black-clad figures sprawled across the square amidst shattered spears and a scattering of helms. A few of them sagged between the shoulders of Gatewardens leading them away.
Although the skirmish had been far from bloodless, Fern thought every one of Taltus’s crew would be crawling away with all their limbs and most of their fingers.
The Gatewardens had pitched in, she supposed, but Astryx?
There was a reason they called her the Blademistress.
“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” breathed Fern.
The elf scrubbed a hand through her hair in a shower of sweat. “But not worthy of any foul language, I noticed.” The corner of her mouth curled in the specter of a smile.
“Only appropriate,” declared Nigel. “I’m pleased to see the bookseller expressing some proper appreciation. Er, my lady, do you mind?”
Astryx glanced at the Elder Blade in her hand, and with a casual whip, flicked a ribbon of blood off his length and onto the white stone. The sword made a contented noise deep in his phantom throat.
Her gaze found Fern again, then skittered away to search beneath the statue. “Now where did she get off to . . .”
Fern spun. Zyll had been crouched by her side for the entire battle, she was sure of it, but now—
“Hat-ling is verrry fashion-y, yes?”
When she turned around again, the goblin stood beside Astryx with both hands clapped to a kettle helm swallowing the top half of her face. Her orange pigtails barely poked out the bottom.
The elf rubbed furiously at her shortened ear.
Why am I still here? Fern asked herself dazedly as she followed Astryx and Zyll out of the crowded square. A respectful citizenry granted them a wide berth, which no doubt pleased Nigel immensely.
Fern’s mind had been too occupied with recollections of dancing steel and legends in motion to register the ten minutes of post-battle politicking.
There had been a conference between Astryx and the Gatewarden captain, and a lot of gesturing, and some further hushed words and hooded glances toward Zyll—who was still wearing the helmet.
But of course, none of that really mattered to Fern, did it?
Because this was the end of the road. The parting of ways.
Astryx would journey onward with her bounty in tow, Fern would find a way to earn another silver or two, and then she’d book another ass-bruising passage back to Thune.
Won’t I?
She felt a painful tearing in the very center of herself, like a sapling being slowly peeled apart down the middle. An aching, growing tension that would either snap back together and resolve itself, or split forever into something unrecognizable.
At any moment now, Astryx would turn and utter words both perfunctory and final, a casual dismissal, and be on her way.
It was inevitable. Wasn’t it?
And Fern was ready for it. Wasn’t she?
She realized that she did not fucking know.
So she kept pace with the Oathmaiden, hazily half present, hoping and dreading at the same time. Fern withdrew her latest long letter of apology to Viv and stared at it while she stumbled along, forcing herself to reread the first few lines over and over, each review a tiny knife to the heart.
Dear Viv,
I have no idea how to write this letter to you.
I’m so sorry.
Fern was only startled out of her self-flagellation when Astryx stopped and faced her.
Oh fuck. Not yet, she thought with surprising desperation. The parchment crinkled in her paws.
“I just need to step in here for a moment,” said Astryx, gesturing at an awning with something stitched across it that Fern didn’t bother to read.
“I realize it seems pointless, but watch her while I do?” She indicated Zyll, who couldn’t have seen a thing through the helmet she still insisted on wearing.
Why is she asking me to do this? Fern cried within her mind. Why is she drawing it out? What the hells is happening? It’s like I’m drunk in the back of the cart again.
But she nodded and said, “Of course!” in a perfectly reasonable voice, as though she weren’t melting from the inside out.
When Astryx left, she stared at the goblin, who inched the helmet up with a thumb until she could meet Fern’s regard with her shrewd red eyes.
Zyll studied her for several seconds.
“No rocks-es at the bottom,” she said. “Jump, or no jump.”
“Wh-What?” stammered Fern.
The goblin shrugged. “Jump,” repeated Zyll. “Or no jump. Puts away the parch-ment.” She pinched the edge of Fern’s half-crumpled letter.
Dreamily, Fern stuffed it back into her satchel.
And then Astryx returned and knelt beside the goblin, a pair of bracelets in one hand. They were crafted of tangled silver wire, with dull gray stones knotted in the webbing.
“We’ll leave your hands free,” she said severely. “All right? But this very expensive artifact”—she held up one of the bracelets—“is going to make sure that I always know how to find you. Is that going to be a problem?”
Zyll let the helm fall back over her eyes and extended one wrist.
Astryx snapped the bracelet around it, where it drew tight against green skin. Then the Oathmaiden put its twin on her own right wrist, where it similarly contracted.
“This only comes off if I release the enchantment, or one of us dies. Understand?”
Zyll blinked lazily, which seemed like all the Oathmaiden was going to get.
“Oh, and before I forget,” continued Astryx, fishing in her wallet. She withdrew a few silvers and offered them open-palmed to Fern. “This should see you on your way. No sense washing dishes for the next few weeks, hm? Seems you earned your keep as a translator after all.”
Fern stared at the silvers in her palm.
And stared.
And went right on staring.
Astryx arched a brow at her. “Is something wrong?”
“No rocks at the bottom,” whispered Fern.
“What’s that?” asked the elf with a confused frown.
Fern took a deep breath, and felt the sapling split.
Dear Viv,
I’m alive. I’m sorry.
Fern
The letter was very short, scribbled on her last blank piece of parchment.
Every word stung to write, but she didn’t give herself time to equivocate or revise.
The Territorial Post station was stacked with crates and chests and bales, rich with the scents of horses and leather and paper.
When Fern emerged, it was without the letter and with an armload of fresh parchment and a fistful of pencils. She didn’t know if she was lighter or heavier or falling or flying, but by the fucking Eight she was in motion.
Astryx raised a hand from where she was hitching Bucket to the wagon.
Zyll was already on the buckboard, sans helmet.
“No rocks at the bottom,” Fern repeated to herself.
And, stuffing the parchment into the satchel—the vacant home of a friend who’d found a new one for himself out in the world—she ran to join them, red cloak flying behind.