Chapter Thirty-Five
Idleness does not sit well with either of us, so after Titus eats, we do some training. He guides me through the forms, finally
introducing a counterattack. Sway, sway, stab. Sway, sway, swipe. I make a habit of sending a tiny bit of chill into the dagger
with each stab and swipe, so that when the time comes, I’ll have no trouble releasing a killing cold.
I can’t imagine doing this in a real fight while terrified, with my life or Titus’s life at stake. But he assures me that
muscle memory will take over and that I’m preparing myself more than I realize.
After working up a sweat, we bathe in the fresh water “the boys” brought us; I go first this time, while Titus keeps watch.
Then we switch places, and while Titus bathes, I braid my hair in the traditional Grimsvolder mountain way; three braids tight
to my skull and trailing down my back.
Titus has just finished up when Dahlia returns. She hands him a package, relights our fire, and leaves our suite to sleep
in her own bed.
I eye the package suspiciously, but Titus shoves it into his pack, saying, “I’ll show you tomorrow.”
I snuff the candles, but the room remains well lit, by moongloam slipping through the balcony doors and by the fire in the hearth.
Titus says, “I don’t think the bed can handle another night filled with ice cat. It creaked badly this morning when I got
up.”
He’s right; his weight could destroy this massive bed. But it makes me sad. I’ve gotten used to being blanketed by his warm,
soft fur.
“I’ll sleep on the rug,” he says, and I’m about to protest that he could sleep in the bed as his human self when he adds,
“I’m not sure I trust Barwat’s men to keep watch.”
He’s right about that too.
“Bria,” he says, staring at the floor. “We’re going to the palace tomorrow, no matter what.”
“We’ll figure it out. We’ll find a way.”
He says nothing as I climb into bed all by myself, pull the blankets up to my chin, and wonder how either of us will get any
sleep.
I’m startled awake what seems like moments later, but the fire is low and the moons have set, indicating that morning is near.
A knock comes again. Titus is already on his very human feet. “Who is it?” he asks through the door.
“Dahlia.”
He opens it, and the spark maiden slips inside.
“Pack all your things,” she says. “Quickly. Master Barwat has arranged for you to be smuggled into the palace in the morning
bread wagon, but you have to hurry.”
We’ve been ready since yesterday morning, so I smooth my hair and clothes, don my boots, and grab my pack. Right before exiting the suite, I snatch a leftover bread roll and shove it into my mouth. I’m chewing as fast as I can while Dahlia hurries Titus and me down the hall.
We forgo the main steps that lead down to the common area. Instead, Dahlia takes us through a storeroom to a rickety servants’
stair, which leads to the kitchen—the same place where I confronted the inn’s staff about the poison.
They are hard at work already, chopping turnips, firing up the hearth, churning buttermilk. They pretend not to see as Dahlia
hustles us through to the back door.
A wagon waits outside in the pre-dawn chill, backed against the city wall, pulled by a single mule that stands bored in his
traces. Beside the wagon, a giant pile of bread loaves is laid out on a sailcloth.
The driver is hooded, so all I see of her face is a pair of full lips, chapped and twisted with an old wound, healed poorly.
“Get in and lie down,” she orders in a raspy voice, as though her throat is as scarred as her face. “Make yourselves small.”
We comply, and once we’re lying on our backs, shoulders touching, our packs stashed at our feet, she says, “Do not make a
single sound, no matter what happens, no matter what you hear.”
Then she and Dahlia stack bread loaves on top of us. They smell yeasty and warm and delicious—at first. As the weight of bread
settles around my body and the scent mingles with my own breath, I begin to wonder what I ever thought was so wonderful about
bread. My hastily eaten roll churns in my stomach.
Over the top of it all goes the sailcloth, taking with it every last bit of light. Something shifts near my hand; bread is smooshed against my fingers, scraped away. It’s Titus, reaching for me. Somehow, we manage to grasp hands.
Two days ago when we entered Cathira, my impression of the streets was one of admiration of their clean smoothness and good
upkeep. I was so, so wrong. The wagon clatters over stone, bruising my spine and pelvis, knocking my teeth together.
The wagon stops; muffled voices surround us. The sailcloth is peeled back, and a small bit of weight lifts. The cloth is stretched
back into place, and off we go again.
We repeat this process several times. Each time, I breathe a tiny bit of fresher air and resist the urge to wiggle free. Soon,
enough bread has been delivered throughout the city that I worry not enough remains to conceal our hiding place. Another delivery
or two, and we are sure to be discovered.
Our ride is pulled uphill, and the clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestone softens into a steady hum with only occasional bumps.
We’ve reached the royal quarter. Titus gives my hand a squeeze.
My head is a throbbing wreck by the time the wagon jerks to a stop. My stomach is roiling, my nose itchy with yeast and flour.
I’m never eating bread again for the rest of my life.
The sailcloth is ripped away, and hands shove loaves aside, exposing us to a brightened morning and warm, breezy air.
“Out,” says the driver. “And make it quick.”
We jump up—faster than is good for me, because my legs are a bit unsteady from our bruising journey. The wagon is parked beside an arched doorway, set into a glittering sandstone wall.
We’ve barely grabbed our packs before the driver opens the door and shoves us through. It slams shut behind us, leaving us
in gloom.
Ahead, a male voice says, “This way.”
It’s a tight corridor. Titus twists sideways to fit, and my elbows scrape stone walls as we’re guided around a corner, up
a set of stairs, and into a storeroom.
“Wait here,” says our guide. “Someone will fetch you in a bit.”
He closes the door.
“Now what?” I ask, looking around. A small, high window sends a dust-filled light beam onto broken furniture stacked in heaps—a
chair with a missing leg, a settee with a torn cushion, all awaiting repair.
“We wait,” Titus says, lifting an upside-down chair and placing it on a different pile so we can sit on the torn settee. “My
foster mother and the legatat have a plan.”
I trust his judgment; I do. But it feels like we’ve just been locked away. Eliminated from contention. Removed from the game
board of the gods.
Or maybe trapped in a cage.
Reading my face, he adds, “I’m not leaving anything to chance, of course. If I’m not on a dragon by this time tomorrow, flying
over the Edge, all will have been for nothing.”
Tomorrow. So soon.
He continues, “If someone doesn’t fetch us by the time the morning sun has moved past that window, we’ll go find the potentat ourselves. But let’s give her a chance, yes? She has a good reason for keeping us hidden in her own palace.”
I can’t fault his reasoning. “Should we do anything in the meantime? Train, maybe?”
He shakes his head. “I want us fresh for whatever’s to come. Oh! I almost forgot!” Titus reaches for his pack, retrieves the
item Dahlia brought last night. I thought it was a leather satchel, but up close I see it’s more spherical, a tube made of
rawhide hanging on a leather strap. Minimalist horse figures are painted onto the side in various stages of running.
He pops open the top and pulls out a roll of parchment tied with a red ribbon.
Titus hands it to me, saying, “Happy Sundereve.”
I take it with trembling hands. I have no idea what it means, but it feels important.
“You don’t have to open it. Given our current circumstances, it might be better to leave it wrapped up, so I’ll just tell
you. It’s the deed to Blackwind.”
I gasp.
“The potentat gave Blackwind to me to celebrate manifesting my first royal Gift.” His gaze grows distant with memory. “He
was the most beautiful colt I’d ever seen. I used to sneak away to sleep with him in his stall . . . anyway, I sent my ring
and my official marque with Dahlia to a notary to have it drawn up. I can’t take him with me, obviously. So he’s yours now.”
Tears prick at my eyes. Titus is saying goodbye. To me and his horse.
“I hope you’ll accept?” Titus says, suddenly hesitant. “I can’t imagine anyone else would . . . I need to know . . . I mean, you’ll take care of him, right? You’ll both take care of each other.”
I find my voice. “Of course I accept.”
He grins with relief.
“But I didn’t get you anything. For Sundereve. It didn’t even cross my mind to—”
“Bria, you’ve given me everything.”
His amber eyes are so warm with feeling that it takes my breath away.
A knock saves me the torture of having to come up with a response.
It’s the tailor, Master Mehuda, dressed in purple velvet, unaccompanied this time. His face is bright red, his forehead sheening
with sweat, as though he ran through the entire palace to get here. One of his beard tusks is limp and unraveling at his chin.
He waves his copious rings at us.
“Praise be to Sulestra!” he says. “You have arrived! And you are not filthy!” He wrinkles his nose. “You do smell like uncooked
bread, however. Not to worry! Master Mehuda is as practiced in the art of fragrance as he is in the art of dress.”
Well, that’s a relief. If we die at the hands of god-ordained assassins, at least we’ll smell nice.
“Master Mehuda,” Titus says. “I welcome your sun-blessed countenance.”
The tailor beams.
Titus’s voice turns uncharacteristically plaintive. “But please, do you know why we were smuggled here? Why were we denied entrance to the palace in the first place? What, by the light of the celestials, is going on here?”
Mehuda’s smile disappears, and his mouth presses into a thin line.
“Yes,” he says. “It is known.”
“Then please tell—”
“But it cannot be told.”