Chapter Eleven #2
Outside, the stone had been weathered smooth. But in here, sheltered from wind and snow, carvings cover the walls: twisting
vines and flowers, frolicking mountain goats, trout leaping from streams. The original builders are centuries dead, but their
art is beautiful and alive.
Tears prick my eyes. The hearth—also carved with twining plants—is large and solid, impassive to wind and ice and time. You could boil a kettle of sheets in its cavernous depths, with room for stew beside it. A place of both industry and beauty. Just like home.
“Bria?” Titus says gently.
I swallow. “Just . . . reminds me of my inn, a little. Maybe the hearth is still standing there. What is a hearth impervious
to, if not fire?”
“Maybe,” he says. “Probably.”
Time to get down to business. I drag the pack from my shoulders and reach inside for my bedroll. As I flip it out onto the
filthy floor, I say, “The mine itself is a short hike from here, just over the ridge. Though I’m not sure how you expect to
get inside; the cave-in sealed the entrance.” With my grandfather and most of his miner friends inside, is what I don’t say. It was many years ago, and I was just a little girl, but I remember the dark days after, and my mother’s
quiet but raging grief. My own confusion about why I’d never see Grandda again. Everyone we knew had lost someone.
“We’re not going in through that entrance,” Titus says.
“What? All this way, and we’re not even going to—”
“There’s another,” he says. “A secret one.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Through the quarry.” When I continue to stare, he clarifies. “Under the water.”
“Yes, I understand what ‘through the quarry’ means. I’m sure swimming through ice-cold water on the cusp of winter is perfectly
safe.”
He shrugs. “I have to try.”
I wait for him to say more, but he turns his back and readies his own bedroll.
So I push some detritus into the hearth and pull out my tinderbox. At least we can be warm in the meantime.
“Wait,” he says. “No fire until dark.”
“It’s been two days since the big storm. You still think we’re being followed?”
“The sun and wind may have taken care of our tracks, but this high in the mountains, smoke can be seen a day’s journey away.”
I set the tinderbox beside the hearth and plunk onto my bedroll. We have maybe an hour until sunset. There’s nothing for me
to skin or cook. No fire to tend. Nothing to mend. I need a task, or I’ll get cranky.
My sigh is overly dramatic as I start to get to my feet. Maybe Titus can teach me more training forms.
“What do you know of the gods?” Titus asks.
I slowly settle back down and cross my legs, as though any sudden movement might startle him, or make him change his mind
about talking.
“Not much,” I say. “No more than anyone else. They’re immortal beings of unfathomable power who watch over humankind and grant
us our Gifts. Is there something . . . more specific you’d like to know?”
Titus considers. He has settled onto his own bedroll, facing me.
He’s enormous, and it feels as though his presence takes up the whole room.
But up close, I see the softness in his features, the doubt in his eyes, the wispy stubble on his chin indicating he’s too young for a proper beard. He’s barely older than I am, if at all.
Finally he says, “So you worship the Pantheon, like the Grimsvolder king? Not the sun and moons, like so many Suratians?”
“My family has always followed the Pantheon, though we’ve never been particularly religious. Anja didn’t believe in the gods
at all, but Ma did, a little.”
“I’ve heard it’s a Grimsvolder tradition to choose a patron god, and most of them choose Morvinrog.”
“My mother kept a shrine to Cerastes in the common room of the inn.”
His eyebrows raise. “Why the god of death?” His tone seems surprised but also pleased.
“Ma said living this high in the mountains, far from anyone else, we were practically bedfellows to death. Might as well make
nice with her god.”
His lips quirk. “I think I would have liked your mother.”
“Everyone did. Even Anja, though they fought like cats most of the time. Ma was a bit of a philosopher. Guests called her
a chamanja.”
“Wise woman, in Old Grimsvold.”
“Yes.”
“You miss them very much,” he observes.
“For the rest of my life,” I say. Then I swallow a new wave of grief.
He is silent a long moment, and I barely refrain from filling the empty space with my own words. Let silence breathe, minja, Ma used to say, especially when I was little. Not all your thoughts need to come out of your mouth.
“Why do you ask about the gods?” I blurt, because maybe silence is overrated.
Titus clutches the amulet hidden beneath his shirt. “Because they’re the reason I’m on this quest.”
I chuckle, which must not be the reaction he expected, because he gives me a quizzical look.
“Everyone holds the gods responsible for their choices,” I explain. “I heard it a thousand times at the inn. ‘The gods set
me on this path,’ or ‘Where Sathrynos leads, I follow,’ or ‘Chelydrus put this on my heart.’ Seems to me everyone does exactly
what they want to do, and the poor gods get the blame.”
Titus is frowning deeply. “This is different,” he says, still clutching that amulet.
“A distinction I’m sure you’ll explain at length and in detail at any moment.”
He looks down at the floor. “I’m considering it.”
“What’s to consider?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again: “I’m sworn to secrecy,” he manages, then adds, “I probably shouldn’t have said
even that.”
“Huh. And all this time I thought you were just being taciturn and standoffish.”
“Well, I’m definitely those things too.”
I blink. Did he just make a joke?
He clambers to his feet. “We’ll heat up some dinner after dark and head to the quarry first thing in the morning,” he says.
“How about some training in the meantime?”
I stand, saying, “I have one more question.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I can’t tell if he’s irritated or amused.
“Those Deathsworn who are after you,” I say. “Do they know about your quest?”
Titus frowns. “I doubt it. But the one who sent them does.”
“So, an enemy who wants you dead knows your big secret. But not your sworn shield maiden. Seems to me you might balance the
scales by telling a friend.”
We are face-to-face now, and he peers at me, considering. “That’s a very good point,” he concedes. At first glance, his eyes
seemed a rich, light brown, but I’ve come to think of them as yellow-orange, like a wolf’s. He has Dhakaran blood, no doubt
about it.
“You’ll find I’ve lots of good points.”
He grins, full out, and it transforms him. The tortured look melts from his face, replaced by warmth, and I have the sense
that he’s absolutely present in the moment with me. This is the real Titus.
“You’ve held knives plenty of times, yes?” he says.
“Of course.”
“As a weapon?”
“Never.”
“Then tonight we’re going to work on your grip, and I’ll show you some basic defensive techniques.”
I sigh. The answers to all my questions will have to wait another day. But I’ve made progress with him. I’m sure of it.