Chapter Twenty-One
I suck in breath.
Titus explains. “The rings tattoo indicates that he’s an acolyte on his way to becoming a full inducted Deathsworn. The earring
indicates that he’s completed one of three required kills.”
I gape at him. “Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He blinks. “Huh?”
“A ruthless assassin shouldn’t want to announce himself. Anyone seeing him coming would flee. Like us. Because of that silly
tattoo and that ugly earring. No wonder he was sitting all alone in a crowded inn. He should have dressed like a goat herder.
No one sees a goat herder coming.”
“I . . . never thought of that.” Titus shrugs. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. We must leave.”
As I’m reaching under the cot for my pack, Titus puts a hand on my forearm. “Wait. This will only take a moment.”
He grabs one of his packages. It’s wrapped in canvas and tied with twine. He yanks on the twine, which unravels, and the canvas
opens to reveal several glinting objects. Rings.
“I got these for you. You don’t have to wear them, of course, but I thought they might offer some protection. Especially if we get separated.”
At my questioning look, he adds, “This one marks you as a Grimsvolder citizen.” He lifts one, turns it to catch the light.
It’s a simple silver band with a tiny yellow-green gem in the center. “I couldn’t afford the official signature emerald of
Raddivorg the Third, but it’s not uncommon for Grimsvolders to use peridot instead. It’s meant to be worn on the left middle
or forefinger.”
I lift my hand, and he slips the ring onto my middle finger. The motion feels strangely intimate, like a caress. “Perfect
fit,” I murmur, marveling that he got it right.
“A lot of folks will think twice about harassing a Grimsvolder citizen,” he says. Titus reaches for a second ring—a shimmery
gold with bits of abalone shell inlaid in a diamond shape at the center. It looks very similar to the one he wears on his
right ring finger. “And this one marks you as employed in the household of the high potentat.”
“But . . . I’m not . . .”
“You are. The high potentat of Cathira is my foster mother, and you’re my shield maiden. Which makes you eligible to wear
this.”
“Oh.” Titus sure has a lot of mothers.
He slides it onto my right ring finger.
“And this is your trade ring. I thought about getting one that would mark you as working for an inn or boardinghouse, but I thought better of it.” Titus gently pushes the ring onto my left ring finger.
It’s made of steel instead of a precious metal, but an engraving on the front is highlighted by gold filigree. I peer closer to make it out. A shield.
“This marks you as a shield maiden, sworn to a liege lord.” His fingertips linger against my skin for an unnecessary moment
before he steps back and gives me space to admire the rings.
I’ve never been one for jewelry, and my fingers feel heavy and foreign. But everything in my life is new right now. Why not
this too?
“You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want,” Titus says quickly. “I just thought that if we’re trying to blend in, you
should have proper Suratian rings, and then I thought I should get some that would make someone think twice about harming
you, but maybe—”
“They’re beautiful,” I assure him. “I’ll wear them with pride.”
He grins, and I have the sudden urge to reach up on my toes and kiss him full on the mouth.
I look away quickly, saying, “What’s to stop anyone from wearing these? If it’s as easy as buying a ring, everyone in the
confederacy could declare himself a prince.”
“It’s not that easy,” he says. “It happens, of course. But fraudulent ring wearing is a grave crime, which the potentats take
seriously. Jewelers require some kind of proof before selling. Many rings aren’t widely available because their wearers are
so rare—they have to be ordered special. Fortunately, I have a token of the high potentat that proves my claim.”
“That amulet you wear around your neck?”
His hand goes to said amulet, still hidden under his shirt, and he clasps it tight. “No,” he says. “Not this.”
“Does that amulet have something to do with your quest?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“We need to leave.”
“Titus!”
He’s grabbing his saddlebag, stuffing the remaining packages inside. “I’ll tell you on the way. If that assassin identified
you, we’re in great danger. I probably shouldn’t have taken time to give you those rings.”
I’m suddenly a cauldron about to boil over and cause a huge mess. Through gritted teeth, I say, “You keep putting me off.
Why is this so hard for you?”
He freezes. “Hard for me? No . . . it’s just . . .” He’s staring at his saddlebag to avoid my eyes. “We really need to go.”
He resumes packing.
“I’ve killed for you. I left my home and family for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to do any of those things.”
“Nevertheless—”
He closes the distance between us in the blink of an eye. His warm hand comes up to cup my cheek. “Bria. I’m grateful for
everything you’ve done. But we have to go.”
I can’t breathe. There’s not enough space between us for me to get the air I need.
He reaches beneath his tunic and pulls out his amulet.
Between his fingers I see soft pink marble with scattered veins of gold.
He pinches it between two fingers so I can get a clearer look.
It’s a common design: two ropes—or maybe two snakes—spiraled together, one slightly darker than the other and etched with a hint of scales, symbolizing the battle of Cerastes with the great high dragon Baloranth.
“This was given to me by the goddess herself,” he says.
I gasp.
“And like you, I am no oath breaker. So, I swear to you on Cerastes’s coil that I will tell you everything once we’re safely
away.”
“Sweet holy moons,” I breathe, staring at the coil. Then my hand flies up to cover my mouth. Is it blasphemous to invoke the
moons when faced with a true goddess? Can she hear our conversation now, the way she can hear our prayers? It’s just an expression.
Surely Cerastes would grant a bit of grace—
“Bria . . .”
“I believe you,” I say, reaching for my pack. “But I will hold you to your oath.”
“I expect no less.”
“So how are we going to get away?”
He spends a precious moment considering. Then . . . “How do you feel about being the bait in a trap?”
I walk down the stairs at a leisurely pace, as though my life is not in danger. I carry nothing except for a few coins and
the small skinning knife in the pocket of my cloak. We’ll bring our belongings downstairs later.
The common room is as crowded and rowdy as when I left. I cast my gaze around for the assassin . . . there, standing by the
door, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t want to miss anyone coming or going.
I push through the crowd to the bar, and the maid is still there, handing out ale and collecting coins as fast as she can.
I flip a Grimsvolder shill onto the counter before her.
She gives me a welcoming grin, her teeth stained slightly yellow from ale and coffee. “Couldn’t sleep, eh?” she says. “A mug of ale might do the trick.”
I return her smile. “Actually, I’m hoping you can tell me where to find the nearest shrine to Cerastes? Lighting a candle
to her would put my mind and body at rest, I think.” My neck prickles. The stranger has noticed me; I’m sure of it.
The barmaid is nodding. “Been telling the innkeep that we need to provide more shrines to our guests, not just Chelydrus’s.
But that’s her patron god, you know?” She reaches for the coin I left her, and in doing so, her gaze falls to my hands and
the rings I wear. “Oh,” she breathes. “My lady.”
It’s odd to be called something other than dama, and it’s a split second before I realize the barmaid is acknowledging my
connection to an important Suratian royal family.
She gathers herself and says, “The temple of the gods is across town; too long of a walk. But if you don’t mind a homemade
shrine carved by an amateur, go two blocks toward the riverfront. Turn right when you reach the water. You’ll see a swinging
sign with an ugly bird on it. It’s supposed to be a sparrow hawk, but I think it looks more like a dead chicken.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch a movement coming my way.
The maid continues, “Anyway, that’s the Flying Fisher tavern. Good food, riverfront seating, and a shrine to Cerastes just
inside the door.”
“Thank you,” I say, pushing the coin her way. I knew this already, of course. Titus told me.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she says.
“It is. For your kindness. And discretion.”
The coin disappears so fast that I have no idea where she put it. “Be careful out there, my lady. Khefrita isn’t the worst
city in the Sunderland, but a pretty girl all alone ought to keep her wits about her.”
I acknowledge her advice with a nod, then weave through the crowd toward the entrance. The assassin has moved in my direction.
I pretend not to notice his glower as I push boldly past him and through the door.
The night is warm and the sky clear. Though Khefrita is not true desert like the rest of the confederacy, the air is so much
drier here than at home in the mountains. Dust pricks my nostrils as I inhale deeply to calm myself. I expect the assassin
to follow me out the door at any moment.
I amble toward the waterfront. I can see the river from here, the moonlight rippling across the surface, the dock lanterns
swaying in the breeze. Khefrita is a large enough city that it never quite sleeps, and I’m not the only one about. Three tipsy
men sway their way down the street, laughing too loudly. A woman clops by on a horse. Lanterns and candlelight wink at me
from windows on both sides of the road. Shadowy figures hunch down on the docks, tying up fishing dinghies for the night and
gathering nets to mend. One man sits with his feet dangling, splashing himself with river water, scrubbing at his hair.
The door I just exited creaks. A single set of heavy footsteps approaches me from behind.
I don’t dare glance back to see if it’s the assassin, lest he sense the trap. But my skin turns to gooseflesh, and I pick up my step. Titus will be following soon after, I remind myself. He won’t let anything happen to me.
When I reach the docks, I turn right onto the riverfront road. Just ahead is the sign the barmaid described: a swinging wooden
marquee with something birdlike carved onto its face. The image looks like a squashed hen with a raptor’s talons.
The footsteps draw nearer.
I rush through the door, barreling into two small children coming out.
“Apologies!” says their mother, chasing them from behind. She has delicate Iolan features and hair the color of a crystal-blue
sky. She corrals her children with her arms, saying, “Too many sweet cakes at dinner. You know how little ones are.”
I’m so relieved not to be alone with the assassin that my smile is genuine. “No problem at all. Enjoy your evening.”
She ducks her bright head in acknowledgment and hurries her children out into the night.
Like most buildings along the water, the tavern rises on stilts to account for occasional flooding, so I climb several steps
to reach the first floor of the Flying Fisher. The place is just as busy as the Bawdy Bard, and conversation hums, ebbs, and
flows, but without being as raucous. Tables are fully occupied, spaced throughout a giant room with wood plank floors, lit
by chandeliers dripping wax. The whole place smells of sizzling turnips, peppered meat, and cheap wine.
A shrine to Cerastes stands proud on my left, ringed with candles and red hawthorn berries. Beside it is a clay-fired wash
bin filled with murky water.
“Rinse your hands and find yourself a seat,” says a young, aproned Suratian man as he hurries past, bowls of soup balanced on his forearms.
He doesn’t bother to see if I comply, which is fine; I’ve no intention to stay.
I step up to the shrine and close my eyes as though praying. Please, Titus, I plead silently. Get here quickly.
If Titus was waylaid somehow, then I’ll have to rely on my Gift to defend myself. He won’t hurt you, Titus said as we planned our trap. At least not at first. He’ll want information.
Suddenly I’m praying for real. Cerastes, goddess of death and difficult choices, I’m not yet ready for your embrace—
Something hard and cold pricks the skin of my neck. Hot breath coats my ear as a hand grips my shoulder. “Hello, mountain
girl,” whispers the assassin. I didn’t even notice his approach.