Chapter 9 #3
Tardala’s home was small and warm and smelled of herbs; she was a widow with three living children, all moved out of the house, so she insisted she was happy to have guests.
She shared with us a potato and rhubarb stew with pork fat in it, and truly nothing I had ever eaten in my life tasted as good as it did.
It was even better than the pastry Lonnie had filched—
I curled my knees closer at the thought.
I didn’t even know if Lonnie Swiftmore was alive.
Images of Rove, burning, flashed in my mind’s eye.
I could smell it still, as though the cinders had lodged in my sinuses.
I’d healed her in the hallway, but how far could she have gotten before another dragon found her?
Tardala gave us soap to wash, which I thought might have been more for her than for us, for surely our bodies were ripe and my hair a knotted mess.
I praised her mercilessly. She was even kind enough to mend a hole in my dress—I’d hidden the blood-stained one—while Eden helped me comb through the growing mats in my curls.
We were halfway through the mess of hair when Eden asked, “What have you heard of Cansere?”
My heart leapt into my throat. My fingers turned cold. Eden’s Sestan accent was flawless, but her voice was androgynous at best, and even the mention of home set my nerves buzzing—
“Depends on who you ask,” Tardala replied, never looking up from her stitchwork, perfectly calm.
I reminded myself that when a country was at war, it was normal to speak of it, and I forced myself to relax.
To focus on my hair so I wouldn’t give myself away.
“My sister, she heard from a troop marching out that the Phoenix armies are disintegrating, that the king is hiding in the south, licking his wounds, and the fighting will be finished by summer.”
I picked at a knot, keeping my eyes down. Listened to Eden’s breathing. She didn’t react.
“But I talked to a merchant the very next day, and he said our armies are far superior, but the Phoenix defense is strong, because even King Nicosia cannot fly.”
I stiffened. Even Eden’s breath caught.
Now Tardala did look up, reproachful. “I, of course, support our king. I am merely repeating what was said.”
“But of course,” Eden agreed. “I just . . . did you say fly?”
The image of Renn in the basement in Speth, hale and glowing golden . . . Was that halo of light even more than I’d realized?
Angel of fire. Was it true, or merely more propaganda?
The link grew warm within me, even as I shivered. Even as I choked on hope.
“It’s just a rumor.” Tardala knotted and snipped her thread before passing me the dress, which I accepted with hearty thanks. “They’re all rumors. Who knows what the truth will be, if we ever hear it?”
Tardala went to bed shortly after. Eden and I managed to save all but a lock of my hair. We cast the matted offender into the fire.
I dreamed of Ursa and woke with tears clinging to my eyelashes. I felt sawed in two, like I’d become only half of myself. I’d mourned Ursa alongside my parents after their deaths, but I’d never truly let go of my twin sister, just as she had never truly let go of me.
Perhaps the need to run, to hide, and to make it back to Cansere was a blessing of the gods. Surely if I were not so focused on my and Eden’s survival, I would drown in heartache.
I hated to leave, but I pushed Eden to rise before dawn so we could flee. The longer we stayed in one place, the more likely we’d be found, and the more likely our host might begin to suspect us or consider reporting us.
I stole radishes from one of Tardala’s neighbors before hurrying down the road.
We’d come far enough south that we began to cross paths with other travelers.
Every time we did, Eden would move to the far side of the road, keeping me between herself and the strangers.
I don’t think she did it knowingly, but I didn’t mind.
I kept my eyes forward and wore Eden’s blanket like a pack.
With how thin Eden had become, her haircut, and her clothes, she did pass easily for a young man unless one came close to study her.
I noted that, despite this, she looked nothing like Renn, and I doubted even more that they shared a parent.
We considered—huddling together in a barn one night, praying we were not discovered—going to the west coast and finding a ship there .
. . but we would have to stow away, for we had not a merit to our names, and surely Nicosia would send word to the ports first, for there was no way to reach Cansere except by sea.
If Renn had rallied troops, the Midly Strait might be a war zone, albeit with Canseren ships along with Sestan.
When I started talking about the possible logistics of it, securing passage or stowing away, Eden immediately froze up.
“No. No, I can’t.”
Her sharp words surprised me; Eden was a kind and mild woman, an easy companion, but those words were knives.
I tried, “Eden, we have to—”
“No.” She shook her head, short hair wisping over her forehead. “I will not board one of their ships, legally or illegally. Not with . . .” She swallowed. “Sailors.”
I understood her meaning. It had nothing to do with class and everything to do with the fact that most professional sailors were men. I gingerly touched her elbow; she pressed a fist into her mouth, trying to steady herself. After a minute, with red eyes, she croaked, “I would rather die.”
I believed her. Eden had suffered tragedy upon tragedy and had not been given the time or resources she desperately needed to heal.
So I took her hands in mine and promised her we would find another way.
We would go to the Midly Strait, the narrow band of water separating our land from our enemy’s, and sort it out then.
I had no idea how we could possibly complete that part of our journey—even a strong swimmer could not cross the strait.
But we’d done well stealing what we could—what we dared—so far, so perhaps we’d find a fishing vessel to take .
. . though neither of us had sailing experience, and I could not fathom how a man-powered boat would handle the currents of the strait.
We still had far to travel. We still had weeks to decide, so I let it be.
On the seventeenth of May, on a bright spring day dampened only by monumental waves of frustration pouring from Renn’s side of the bond, Eden and I approached a town called Horgansten.
It was about the size of Fount, surrounded by open farmland and divided by cobbled roads.
We washed in a brook before entering, ensuring we looked as well as could be managed.
We’d yet to run into any soldiers, but the sound of a dog barking—even in a town such as this—put me on edge, so much so that my muscles became constantly sore from tensing them.
Our hope was to find some way of sending a message into Cansere, but while Horgansten had a post cell, we learned all correspondence to the southern country had been cut off since last year. There were no birders in town—no one who might send a pigeon. We were truly an island.
We had to find work.
I assumed crafters were about as rare in the Sestan countryside as they were in Cansere, since those accessing craftlock went to Rodsfell by the age of ten.
I learned, through careful inquiring, that crafters were dispatched to cities, especially healers, though the closest to Horgansten was in Gaptuawan, eight miles to the east. I was then directed to the village midwife, who saw to immediate medical needs.
I could not boast that I was a healer here.
I dared not draw too much attention to myself, and I was not in Sestan uniform—I might be reported for illegal use of craftlock and sent right back to Rodsfell.
So Eden and I slipped through the village with our ears and eyes open, looking for anyone who might be sick, who might be willing to pay for my services under the table.
I’d nearly given up when I heard a woman’s scream.
Skin pebbling, I followed the sound to a square house near the western edge of the town and stepped up to the door. Lifted my fist, but hesitated.
What if I failed?
Doubt, a dark stranger, wove between my ribs like uncarded wool. I’d become so slow. Out of practice. Haggard.
Was I still enough?
“Nym,” Eden pleaded.
Blinking away the disparaging thoughts, I rapped on the door, softly at first, then loudly, until I banged my fist against it.
We had so few options.
A girl of about twelve answered, her hair tied back with a kerchief, a frayed violet cincture tight on her narrow hips, her eyes wide. “What? What is it?”
Death whispered in the room behind her.
I heard moans from deeper in the house and immediately recognized them. “Is your mother in labor?”
Moisture welled in the girl’s eyes, and she nodded. “But she’s sick.”
Eden and I exchanged a glance. “May I come in? I’m here to help.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I pushed my way in, leaving Eden in the front room with the girl and following the cool brush of death and the agonizing sounds toward the back of the house.
The air was muggy and smelled of sweat; I found the laboring woman in the back room beside an open window, an elderly midwife between her legs, a sister at her head.
I knew it was a sister, for they shared a face. Identical twins.
My chest caved in at the sight, the renewed loss stinging like the sword Nicosia had used to pin me to that tree. But I could not think of Ursa. Not yet. Not now.
Bloody rags and towels littered the floor.
“Who are you?” the midwife asked, tendrils of white hair sticking to her sweaty face. She shouted, “We need more hot water!”
“I can help.” I couldn’t ask for payment, not like this. Not when I might not . . .
Now wasn’t the time to dwell on shortcomings.