Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Oh. Oh, gods.” I put a fist to my mouth, as though I can keep down the bile creeping into my throat. “You’re saying . . .
I’m . . . my Gift . . .”
“You’re deadly dangerous, Bria. You don’t have to freeze a whole person to destroy them; your slightest touch can kill.”
And that was why he healed me right away. “I could even kill myself.”
“I don’t think it’s likely,” he says. “Your solace offers some protection. Your ice burn was only skin-deep. And with training,
you’ll soon be using your talents with more precision and efficiency. All the same, I’m not taking any chances with my shield
maiden.”
His words warm me, which is good because I’m shivering as though I’m suffering the cold sickness all over again.
“What are we going to do with the body?” I ask, voice shaky.
“Leave him to the roaches and the fish,” he says.
“He’ll be found in the morning.”
“Probably. They’ll notice his tattoo and his earring, and they won’t look too hard for a culprit. They’ll just assume he took a job he couldn’t handle.”
“Which is the truth.”
“But just in case, let’s gather our things and get on the road,” he says. “I believe I have a promise to keep?”
I’m suddenly dizzy and hungry, so tired I could plop down right here in the river mud and fall asleep. But I stick a finger
into his chest. “Damn right you do.”
As we climb out from under the dock, I cast a final glance toward the dead assassin. The savior of the Sunderland, he said. The king of the covenant. I don’t understand any of it, but I can’t ignore my hunch that it has something to do with Titus’s quest.
An hour later, we’ve retrieved our belongings, mounted Apple and Blackwind, and exited Khefrita through the south city gate.
Titus insists that we snack on jerky and dried cranberries while we ride; we both exerted an enormous amount of magic this
night. But what I really want is sleep. My eyes feel dry and heavy, and my very bones ache with weariness. The gentle clop-clop of hooves and the occasional churring nightjar together form the sweetest lullaby, begging me to slip from Apple’s back and
curl up on the ground under the moons.
But not until I get some answers.
The first thing I ask is, “When you’re the cat, do you understand like a human? I mean, do you understand language? Recognize
people?”
Of course what I really want to ask about is his quest, but I’ve decided to ease him into it.
“Mostly,” he says. “My vision is different. Less color, more fine detail. I hear and smell things better. I understand the words you say to me. I think I might recognize anyone, but I’m not sure. I haven’t been the cat in front of a lot of people. I definitely recognize you. But . . .”
“But?”
“It’s different. Some things, I feel more fiercely. Like fear. Hunger. Protectiveness. I worry that I’ll make a big mistake
as the cat. That I’ll lose control. Lose myself, maybe. It’s hard to explain.”
“Like you might truly become a beast instead of a man?”
He gives me an arch look. “I guess it’s not that hard to explain.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time as the cat,” I venture.
“Before you came along, yes. Kept me warm in the mountains.”
“And when you pulled me out of the lake, unconscious and cold . . .”
He suddenly appears sheepish. “I made sure the fire was banked and I, uh, curled up around you.”
“Thank you,” I say. “You probably saved my life.”
He shrugs it off, but Blackwind dances a little, as though sensing his rider’s discomfort.
Titus blurts, “Did you know that ice cat fur sheds water and ice?”
“I did not.”
“That’s why ice cat pelts are so valuable. I’ve had nightmares about a hunter shooting me and skinning me for my pelt. . . .” His voice trails off, and he clenches his mouth shut as though to stem the tide of unwanted thoughts.
“That sounds terrifying.” He doesn’t respond, so I add, “I have nightmares too.”
“Like what?”
“Like serving customers in the common room, and then I look down and realize I’ve completely forgotten to put on any clothes.”
His lips quirk. “That sounds even more terrifying.”
“It’s fine though, because I have a foolproof strategy for surviving the situation.”
“And what’s that?”
“I just carry on serving food and drinks, pretending nothing is wrong. If I don’t draw attention to myself, no one will notice,
right?”
He nods solemnly. “Smart.”
We plod on, the horses’ hooves loud on the hard dirt road. The river seems silent and still, but the gentle motion of air
without a breeze indicates that this is illusory. The water moves smooth but fast here, thanks to a gradual but steady downslope.
We are heading south, toward the confluence of the Iolandria’s forks, even though Cathira is far northeast of us. Titus is
probably trying to throw pursuers off our track.
I’m desperate to poke and prod, to drag information out of him no matter how much he resists. But I’m even more desperate
for him to tell me willingly. To acknowledge my right to know. To trust me.
So, I say nothing. As we clop along, I feel my glower deepening. Not to mention my need for sleep. This overgrown buffoon is not only going to break his promise, he’s going to keep me awake all n—
“Have you heard of the Horuthian Heresy?” he asks suddenly.
I cast my memory back to winter lessons around the kitchen table, studying history and religion, warfare and geography, astronomy
and alchemy. “Something about the moons?” I venture. “Wasn’t Horuth the Philosopher executed for it?”
“Exactly. He believed that Alwin the Pale is actually the larger moon, but it appears smaller because it’s much farther away.”
“And this was considered blasphemy,” I say.
“It still is, in some places. The high Corthan steppes, for example. Or the coastal city-states of Suratia. If you confess
to believing Horuth’s theory in a place where the majority religion is Sun-and-Moons, life could become very difficult for
you.”
I have no idea why he’s telling me this, but of course I’ll play along, because at least he’s telling me something. “Do you
believe in the Horuthian Heresy?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s not heresy; it’s science. But I’m not going to barge into a Corthan horse camp and announce it. I’d be skewered
with spears.”
“I take it you’re a devout follower of the Pantheon,” I say, “having met Cerastes herself.”
There. I’ve led him to the bait. If he doesn’t tell me, I’ll—
“I am not. The Pantheon is not what it seems.”
I gape at him.
“The Horuthian Heresy is nothing compared to what I’m about to tell you,” he says. “Do you understand? I’m about to give you the most dangerous knowledge in all the Sunderland. Knowledge that could get you killed.”
A hush falls over us. I had forgotten to notice the marsh frogs chirruping until they suddenly stopped, as though waiting
with bated breath for Titus’s next words. But a chilly breeze at the back of my neck puts the notion to rest. We’ve reached
the coldest part of the night, when even nocturnal creatures get sleepy. Not me, though. I’m suddenly wide awake.
“Bria, tell me you understand. You cannot share this with anyone.”
“I understand.”
“All right then.” He takes a deep breath. “The gods of the Pantheon are not immortal. And one of them is dying.”