Chapter 14
Embroidery and Smoke
Chyr
I
‘m slow to wake. Damp clothing—bloody embarrassing clothing—clings to my skin beneath equally damp bedsheets in an unfamiliar canopied bed.
Father of Curses, the Riders would never let me hear the end of it if they saw me like this.
The thought brings sharp pain, a reminder that Oran and Tuirse are gone, and the Riders are forever changed without them.
The smoke is a sour bite of damp turf and thatch mingled with the bitterness of green vegetation and the fatty metallic stench of slaughtered animals burning. It seeps through the windows and creeps through small fissures in the walls, leaving a raw ache in my throat.
Vheara’s soldiers are moving closer.
I’d hoped to stop them. Hoped to keep Vheara and her Butcher from exacting more revenge. Instead, I’m useless and—may the Pit take me—wearing a woman’s nightdress.
I push myself upright and stumble to the window. A greasy smudge hangs over the horizon, a soot-tinged shroud dragging across the eastward hills.
Waiting for the inevitable dizziness that comes when I move, I realise that my fever has broken, or just about. Even my chest feels less as if Flora had filled it with hot coals before she stitched it closed.
Whatever healing magic she worked yesterday has wrought a miracle—I feel a thousand times better than I did before her help.
Better even than I did last night when she changed the bandages after she returned to the keep.
For the first time in days, the familiar warmth of magic simmers in my veins again, faint but present, now that what little the Veilstones draw to me through Vheara’s seals isn’t all being siphoned away for healing.
I’ll take it, but I don’t understand it.
A small skill for healing isn’t uncommon among Siorai.
But anyone with a true affinity is called to become a priest, and the improvement Flora has given me would be enough to make any temple proud.
I saw her confusion, though, as if what she achieved surprised her as much as it astonished me. As if it scared her.
Hunched like an old woman, I pick up the borrowed dress laid across the chair. It’s a cage made of fabric, and I loathe it with the light of a hundred suns. But with Vheara’s soldiers approaching, Flora shouldn’t need to worry about my disguise.
If Flora can face the possible destruction of her home and family, surely I can be strong enough to wear a dress. That said, trying to fasten the bodice laces without dislodging the sheep fleece “bosom” proves harder than it seems.
Flora arrives while I’m still fumbling with the task. The door is partially open, and she pauses on the threshold, carrying a tray with a pitcher and various medicinal flasks and jars.
“You’re up.” She sounds surprised.
“Awake and wishing I could do more to help you. Judging by the smoke, we don’t have long to wait.”
“How can you tell?” She crosses the room to set the tray down on a small table beneath the window.
“The type of smoke, the sorts of things they’ve burned. There’s a pattern to it.”
A crease forms between her brows, but she doesn’t ask the obvious questions. Blue bruises of exhaustion shadow her eyes and bow her shoulders, and a small bit of straw clings to the heavy flame-gold braid that tumbles across her shoulder. My hand itches to pull it out.
I hate the thought of her in danger. The smell of smoke reminds me of the way the Butcher destroyed the last family who sheltered us, and I despise my weakness even more.
“I think we’re nearly as ready for the soldiers as we can be,” she says. “There’s still a part of me that’s tempted to shut the gate and lower the portcullis and deny them entry.”
“Vheara would take that as an invitation.”
“I assumed so.” She steps closer and lays the back of her hand across my forehead to test for fever, then insists on checking the wound beneath the bandage.
I stand still while she pulls the dress aside. She’s so close, it’s impossible not to be aware of her, but I want to avoid doing anything that will make her feel vulnerable. And I remember the feeling of her magic as she healed me, the sheer force of it, the smoke roiling off her skin.
The silence between us is swollen with unspoken things, and we both look away as the fabric slips from my shoulders to my waist. Flora reaches out to hold the fleece in place over the bandaging around my chest. Her knuckles skim my skin, and a shudder ripples through me.
She stills, her fingers hovering above the section of fleece where I’ve tucked the three Veilstones. “Is this where you put the rings?”
“You can feel them?”
“There’s a vibration. A hum. But would a Grey sense them?”
“Not without a rune or a gift for magic-sense leftover from when they were Siorai. In that case, they’d sense that both you and I have magic anyway.
If we have no other choice, I can create an illusion of stillness to dampen all the magic around us, but we would need to stay close together, and I don’t know how long I could hold it. ”
There’s no point in saying more. There are too many variables and too much that can go wrong. Flora knows that already.
She removes the fleece from the ribbons that bind it in place and catches the rings in her palm. Behind those cloud-grey eyes, her mind is spinning, and she bites down on one side of her lower lip.
“How do the rings work?” she asks. “They’re pulling magic here from Tirnaeve, that’s obvious. But how? It shouldn’t be possible.”
“A seal can never be perfect. Even after the doorways were shut at the time of the Compact, there were thousands of tiny fissures around each door where the magic could trickle through. But the flow was reduced when Vheara seized control of the doorways after she escaped the Gloaming. She added a second seal on top of the first, which allows less magic to seep in and limits how much our Veilstones draw.”
Flora seems unaware that her hands have gone still. They rest lightly on the bandages across my chest. Her warmth sinks into me, and I’m afraid to move, afraid to call attention to that small, fleeting contact—the kindness I increasingly crave.
I want to stay in this moment, to forget the death marching ever closer.
But then she clears her throat and briskly rolls the fleece back into place, retying it with the strands of ribbon.
“There’s no blood on the bandage,” she says, “so at least the bleeding has stopped. Try not to tear it open, and I’ll clean it again when I get back.”
I try not to think about what could go wrong for her out alone with Vheara’s soldiers and Greys out hunting, but the knowledge hangs between us like an axe. She looks away, and I clench my hands to keep from reaching for her.
“Finish dressing, and I’ll take you up to sit with my mother,” she says, her voice quiet in a way that says more than she wants to reveal.
She’s about to step away, then her eyes catch on the rows of oathbands etched around the biceps of my left arm.
Until the magic activates, they look like nothing more than ink blacked into my skin.
But they light up and slither away when Flora reaches out to touch them, reflecting gold in her eyes as the individual runes glow with cold fire, then wink out again.
Flora jerks her fingers back. “Those aren’t decorative, are they? We have some ancient runes that look similar, but I’ve never seen any that move. Are they like letters lighting up to make a word?”
“You’re not far off. They represent the oaths I’ve taken to the king and the Anvar’thaine. The layers of magic poured into them run so deep that the runes are sentient.”
“So they’re thinking when they move like that?” Flora asks.
“Considering whether I’m keeping my oaths, yes.”
There’s shame in that these days, instead of the pride I used to feel. I hear the resentment in my voice, and the runes deliver a sharp lash of pain to punish me.
Flora brushes a fingertip over the bands, lightly enough to send a shiver through me. The oathbands spin faster around my arm.
“Do they hurt? And why do they move away when I touch them?”
“I’m not sure. They’re probably assessing whether you’re a threat—whether you’re likely to make me break my oaths.”
Everything about Flora treads in dangerous waters.
She frowns at the runes, then lays her palm briefly against my cheek. I don’t know why, but I’m afraid to move. Then, before I can formulate a coherent question, she breaks the contact and helps me put the final touches on the disguise.
Her head tips down at an angle as she works, exposing the hollow above her spine. I wonder how she’d react if I ran the pad of my thumb along that tender ridge, tracing the curve of her neck. Would she lean into the touch?
She retrieves the thin shawl from the back of the chair and drapes it around my head, pulling it low over my brows and tying it beneath my chin.
Any impulse I had to touch her vanishes. If there has ever been an invention in the history of the world that could emasculate a man more thoroughly than having a scarf tied beneath his chin, I haven’t found it yet.
Completing the humiliation, she tucks the ends back inside the bodice.
A gust of wind rattles the window, and beyond it, a raven glides on the current, darker against the thick smoke still rising in the distance.
“There, now,” Flora says. “You’re back to being a respectable lady’s companion as long as you don’t make yourself too noticeable when the soldiers are around.”
The word punches into me like a fist.
We’ve been focused on me, but the vile smoke outside is a portent of what’s coming to Dunhaelic.
And if I can’t help but have thoughts of Flora in my arms, how will she fare with soldiers who’ve been ordered to punish the Highlanders in the most brutal ways possible?
Flora’s household consists of women and old men, and I am weak and useless.
Once again, I regret my refusal to pay the exorbitant prices the other Riders paid for the risk of having yet more runes etched into their skin. I can think of dozens that might help us now.
Under the veneer of courage Flora wears, I can see that she is scared. That makes two of us—because I’m terrified for her. For all of them.
Flora leads the way as we climb the round stone staircase to her mother’s solar, and I pretend—if only for Flora’s sake—that each step isn’t heavier than the last. By the time we reach the top, it’s all I can do not to brace myself against the wall.
The chamber that opens off the stairway runs the length of the Lord’s Tower.
Windows flank the hearth, and a large round window dominates the wall at the far end.
The room should feel light and airy, but today, rain weeps from clouds the colour of smoke.
Still, the windows on one side offer a broad view of the road that crosses the glen, and the opposite windows overlook the courtyard within the keep, providing a good vantage point for everything except the area nearest to the gate.
Flora’s mother sits on a high-backed bench across from the crackling fire, a heavy shawl of fine wool draped around her shoulders. She looks up from her embroidery as we step inside.
She’s younger than I expected. Her eyes are a similar grey to Flora’s, and her hair might once have been a similar colour, though the brightness is dimmed by grey. I’m curious about the woman who sits and chats and embroiders while her daughter struggles to do the work of many.
“There you are, Flora,” she says brightly. “And who is this you’ve brought with you?”
“Don’t you remember Rowan? Catriona’s niece from the north.” Flora casts me a faint, pleading smile. “She’s been your companion for ages, since well before Father left.”
“She has? How lovely.” Her gaze sweeps over me, and I struggle to hide my surprise.
“She can’t speak, but she loves to hear your stories,” Flora adds gently, folding the lie around her mother with an air of guilt she can’t disguise.
“I do love stories, don’t I? And company—it’s so dull with your father and the boys away.
Come and entertain me, Rowan, dear.” She sets her embroidery aside and pats the bench beside her.
“Or perhaps you’d like to eat a bit of something first?
Morag brought far too much food this morning, and I don’t know what she was thinking. None of it is to my taste.”
“Morag is rushed this morning,” Flora says smoothly. “But she brought food up for Rowan as well. Perhaps that’s what has you confused. Rowan, you should eat while you can.”
She waves me towards a table where a plate holds oatcakes, a slab of yellow cheese, and a generous portion of smoked fish. A crock of butter and a jar of honey sit nearby. My stomach growls, and I catch Flora’s small smile.
“Should I fill a plate for you, Rowan?” she asks.
I shake my head, point to myself, gesture with two fingers walking, and indicate the table.
Our eyes meet, and there’s so much I haven’t told her. So many warnings I haven’t given her.
She turns back to her mother. “I’d better go. I still have stalls to muck, among other things.”
“Must you rush off again?” her mother asks. “You’ve only just arrived.”
“Yes, but you and Rowan have catching up to do.” Flora steps towards the door, then freezes as something outside the window catches her attention.
I move to stand beside her, close enough to feel the way every fibre in her slender body stiffens with tension.
Mine mirrors hers at the sight of soldiers marching along the road that cuts through the glen.
“Twelve men walking, and only two riders,” she whispers. “Wouldn’t there be more if the Butcher were with them?”
“What’s that, Flora?” her mother asks.
“Nothing, darling. I’m reminding myself of everything I need to do,” Flora replies.
Almost unconsciously, her hand reaches for mine. I close my fingers around it. I’d love nothing more than to hide her somewhere safe, but she’s not the sort of woman to run from danger. And I am the furthest thing from safety.
“Greys.” I mouth the words.
Her face pale, Flora nods. Then she crosses back to her mother and crouches to take both her hands into her own. “I need you to promise me something, Mother. Will you promise not to leave the solar until I come back to get you? There are soldiers coming—”
“Your father?” Flora’s mother springs to her feet. “Oh, and your brothers. It must be. How wonderful! We should all go down to meet them.”
Flora’s lip trembles, and I feel her heart crack open in her chest almost as though it’s my own heart breaking. She sends me a pleading look.
I can understand why she couldn’t send her mother away. The woman’s too volatile and unpredictable. As dangerous as she would have been with the other women and children, she’s doubly dangerous here.
Flora’s plan is both shrewd and bold, but it can all spin out of control unless I can keep her mother safely contained.