Chapter Twenty-Eight
In the morning, the Orsa are gone before we wake.
We follow a trail from their camp back to the road that connects Pyka and Kalla. It’s a road I’ve traveled many times, but not in the five years since the war ended and this part of our lands was given to the Orsa.
Little has changed in that time. The Orsa have few horses, so they don’t keep the road as smooth as we did, but it’s clear enough for us to travel on foot with only the occasional interruption from a fallen tree.
As we approach Pyka, the land opens up into a sweeping vista down to the sea.
The hills here are green and slick with rain, the wind blowing freely through the grass, cutting swirling paths through it.
A large village sits at the bottom of the valley, surrounded by fallow fields before the land climbs again to the cliffs of the castle.
If the Vaylanian Palace looks like a sandcastle sculpted by ancient hands, Castle Pyka looks like it was hammered out of the cliffs by force with a chisel and a mallet.
It rises dark and foreboding over the sea, the walls jutting right up to the edge of the cliffs, the towers stark grey against a pale blue sky.
I feel the rain-soaked stone beneath my feet from a mile away: the grooves worn into the common paths, the sharp edges of the parapets, where I spent my lonely younger days climbing and balancing, always just on the precipice of a fall but somehow keeping my feet.
Our banners are gone. The green and blue heraldry of House Verran has been removed and not replaced. It gives the castle the eerie feeling of being abandoned, halfway to ruin.
And yet, it’s teeming with life. The village is swarming with Orsa and their livestock: sheep, cattle, unruly chickens.
I’ve never known the Orsa to raise animals, but they’ve taken to it well, although there are far more of them in the streets with us than I’d expected.
On one occasion, I turn my head to look at who has moved into the baker’s house and nearly run headfirst into a bull.
A woman yells at me in Orsan.
“Watch out,” Taran translates.
“Sorry,” I say, and Taran translates that as well.
The group has split to try to pass undetected.
Ronan (disguised as Soren), Taran, Octavia, and I will secure passage on a boat, then we’ll have Seth and Larus join us on their griffins once we’re at sea.
I’m concerned that if our captain sees the griffins coming, they’ll attack, but Octavia assures me that many captains will turn a blind eye if the price is right.
And with any luck, we may be able to secure a boat of our own.
Among all of us, there’s no shortage of coin.
We make our way to the docks down in a cove near a black sand beach.
Taran greets the various captains, negotiating on our behalf.
He’s the right person for this job, and not just because he’s the only one of us that speaks the language.
He’s unflappable under pressure, his voice never raising even as Ronan scoffs, reading an insult in the emotions of a grizzled older captain.
“Good news and bad news,” says Taran as we near the end of the docks. “The bad news is none of the boats here are willing to take us, especially not with the griffins, although the woman back there said she would be fine if they flew alongside.”
“That’s good enough,” says Ronan. “How much?”
“It’s not that simple. She isn’t due to leave for another month, and there’s a chance the ice will have set in by then, and then she won’t be leaving until spring.”
“What’s the good news?” I ask since that seems like only bad news.
“The good news is there were new ships being built to help Ronan break the blockade. If we’re willing to put in a week’s labor, we can purchase one of those for a very reasonable price.”
“What’s another week?” says Ronan. I know he’s dying to get out of Selara so we can find support abroad, but a week in Pyka could be worthwhile.
We decided it’s too risky for Ronan to reveal himself publicly here, but there’s a chance Taran can secure us an audience with Karis Brennzeter, the leader of the Koraka tribe.
If she’s willing to let us use Pyka to land a foreign army, it will save us from having to deal with Felix’s blockade.
“There are still two more captains I can ask, but I agree that it’s our best offer so far,” says Taran. “I’ll go back and—oh, kronor.” He stops midsentence and freezes, fingers stretching for his blade.
A man is striding towards us, tall and slim and full of swagger.
He’s wearing Enezian clothing—a shiny-buttoned cloak and a blouse with frills—but his appearance is distinctly Serican, black hair and near-black eyes of a different shape than any of ours.
Few Sericans traded with Nithyria when we controlled Pyka, not because of poor relations but because we had little use for their primary export, silk.
Selara, on the other hand, imports silk by the ton for its clothing.
The silk merchants in the market near the palace are constantly busy.
“What are the chances?” says Ronan. He shakes his head at Taran, and then mutters to me, “This could get ugly. Be ready.”
“Taran Orinsen,” says the man. One corner of his mouth quirks up in a sly smile.
“And Ro—I mean, Soren.” He flashes a sarcastic smile at Ronan, who rests his hand on his pommel.
“And who are your lovely lady friends? God’s blessing upon you, sister.
I’m Xu Fushi.” He greets Octavia with a bowing Enezian hand gesture, and she reciprocates with glee.
“Have you come from Enez?” she asks.
“Just now. There’s a crate full of plantains and more than one crate of rum back there.” He gestures to the largest boat in the docks, one of the two we haven’t spoken with yet. “Taran, do you still enjoy your plantains fried in oil?”
“I wouldn’t know,” says Taran stiffly. “I haven’t had them in years.”
“A pity,” says Fushi, his eyes lingering on Taran’s lips.
“And my, who is this? She looks almost like…no, Soren, you didn’t.
” Ronan steps in front of me, putting himself between me and the stranger, squaring his stance.
“You’ve stolen away with a Verran? And to think, we heard the city had fallen, and you’d lost your head.
Well, I suppose that last part is true at least. You must have lost your head to have come here with a Verran. ”
“Keep your voice down,” hisses Ronan. “We have no business with you. We’re just passing through.”
“Is that any way to speak to a former legionnaire? All those years painting the sands with Nithyrian blood on your behalf, and you send me away and then have the nerve to insult me in my city.”
“Your city?” says Taran, taking the obvious bait. Judging by the way the muscle in his jaw is twitching, his history with this man is complicated, to say the least.
“Yes, my city. I had to make new friends somewhere.”
“You do not rule here. This city belongs to Karis Brennzeter,” says Ronan, his eyes on the castle.
“True, but nothing comes or goes from these docks without my say so. Nothing. Not a God-King in exile, not his simpering general, not an Enezian beauty, not a pair of griffins—” Octavia and I share a terrified look.
He knows about the griffins, which means he must have found the rest of our party where they were hidden in the woods while we spent the morning talking.
“And certainly not a Nithyrian whore and her brother.”
Ronan and Taran draw their swords. Fushi doesn’t react.
“It’s hardly a fair fight when it’s the two of you against the entire town.” During our conversation, many of the nearby Orsa have drawn closer almost imperceptibly. Several of them draw steel.
“There are four of us,” I say, drawing my rapier. “And you’ll find we’re more than capable.”
“Xu Fushi!” A woman’s voice fills the air, magically amplified. It’s coming from the castle. “I ordered you to escort them to the castle, not to murder our guests in cold blood.”
“Ah, well. You can’t blame me for trying, after what you put me through.” Fushi walks past our swords, pushing Taran’s to the side with a gloved hand. “Right this way,” he says with an exaggerated bow.
Several Orsa follow behind Fushi and behind us, keeping us from making our escape. We have no choice but to follow them up to the castle.
Gods, I hope the others are alright. The fact that they know about the griffins is alarming.
“Who is that?” Octavia whispers to Ronan as we walk. Taran is further ahead, but the three of us have managed to stay closer together.
“A former commander of mine from the war. He was an alchemist before the fighting started.”
“An alchemist? Him?” I ask, my voice incredulous. He certainly doesn’t act like any of the alchemists I’ve met.
“And a talented one, from what I’ve heard. He was kicked from the Guild when I discharged him from my service.”
“For what?” asks Octavia. “What did he do?”
“Insubordination. Ignoring my orders. I suspected he was selling secrets, but I couldn’t prove it, or he would be dead.”
“And Taran?” I ask, sensing the answer in Ronan’s emotions.
“That’s the man who broke Taran’s heart.”
Gods, Taran does have a thing for dangerous men.
We follow our escort up the path from the village into the castle walls.
It’s beyond bizarre seeing strangers in the places where I spent my childhood.
The courtyard where I learned to shoot. The great hall where Seth warmed my dinners if they went cold.
The chapel where I prayed to Vayla every night for my family to return.
All of them are filled with tattooed strangers who look at me as though I’m the scum of the earth.
And from their perspective, I suppose I am.