Chapter 21
The night before clung to her skin like a bruise.
The dagger slipping, his weight pinning her wrists, Baron’s name twisted into a weapon.
Neither had spoken of it yet. Now she sat stiff in front of him, his mortal form pressed close at her back, his hands wrapped around her to grip the reins as their monstrous steed devoured the road.
Every jolt of the saddle reminded her how easily he had subdued her.
How near she had come to ending him. How near she still might be.
Her resolve hardened with every mile. She would follow him until the necromancer was found; After that, she would strike again.
The hills broke open into salt and light, the sea stretched wide and restless below. A town clung to the shoreline, its rooftops black against the white waves. Death slowed the horse so its hooves settled to a halt just above the ridge.
“He is here,” he directed. “But cloaked. We must be cautious. I will not have him run again.”
Her pulse quickened. “You sense him?”
“Faintly. Something masks him.” His voice was tight, distant. “That alone makes him dangerous.” He paused, contemplating.
His breath brushed her ear. “I must collect. You will remain here.”
Her grip tightened on the pommel. “You mean to leave me? Alone?”
“You will establish yourself,” he said, ignoring her protest. “You and your husband were separated. You live near the border, where the skirmishes have begun. Note that he is bound to meet you shortly. I will come and meet you here in seven days.”
Her brow furrowed. “Skirmishes?”
Death’s gaze swept the horizon, shadow darkening his jaw. “Do you know nothing of the war that wages?”
Her voice rose. “I know some.”
“Many have been displaced. It is a fine enough story for a woman traveling alone,” he assured her. Death pressed on. “Find work. Root yourself. Endear yourself if you can—though I doubt it.”
And then, with no warning, his hand tore the veil from her head, stuffing it into her satchel with a single, brutal motion. Her breath caught, her scalp prickling in the open air.
“You will not wear it here.”
She stiffened, fury flooding her cheeks.
“I will return in seven nights.”
Before she could bite back a retort, he shifted. The steed shuddered beneath them, its form already unraveling into shadow. He lifted her from the saddle without strain, setting her aside with the care one gives an unwanted coat.
And then he was gone, the horse dissolving into smoke with him astride it, leaving her veilless, alone, and on foot above the seaside town, the silver wash of the sea gleaming far below.
Ilys picked her way down the craggy path with hesitation. How strange, she thought, to have longed so fiercely to be rid of Death, only to find that now, alone in the world, she wished for anyone’s company. Endear herself? The words mocked her. How was it even done?
A flock of sparrows cut across the sky above, darting through the sea wind like arrows.
Her chest ached as she watched them vanish into the horizon.
To be so free. The path narrowed, funnelling her toward the bustle of the market.
The acrid reek of fish struck first, clinging to the air.
She balked, panic tightening her chest, and slipped quickly behind a building.
Just a moment, she told herself. Only a moment.
She rehearsed her story in a whisper, shaping her voice to be warmer and more human—or at least, what she imagined humanity to sound like. Words about her “husband,” about separation and loss, rolled stiffly from her tongue. She tried again, softening, gentling, forcing vulnerability into her tone.
“Are you okay?” The voice startled her, rough-edged with a coastal accent. It came just as she thought she had found the perfect note of grief.
She spun, heart in her throat.
A young man stood there, auburn-haired, the rust-red color catching in the light. The sight struck her like a blow as Baron’s memory slammed unbidden into her mind. She could not look away. Entranced, undone.
He stepped closer, frowning at the dazed set of her eyes. “Miss, are you okay?”
Ilys blinked, the words of her false story scattering from her lips like startled birds. “I… I am fine,” she stammered, though the sound of her own voice irked her; it carried too much of herself, too much truth, and not enough of the careful mask she had rehearsed.
The young man tilted his head, concern softening his expression. His eyes, green shot through with amber, caught the light in a way that made her chest tighten painfully. Baron’s eyes had not been the same, not truly, but grief distorted everything. It stitched old wounds onto new faces.
“I just—” she tried again, catching herself, forcing vulnerability into her tone. “My husband. We were separated.” The words, practiced only moments before, came easier now.
His expression sharpened, no longer just concerned but intent, as though the words husband and separated were a call to arms. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Separated how? Here in town? Along the coast?” His gaze flicked past her shoulder, scanning the street as though her husband might stumble into view.
Ilys’s throat tightened. “No—near the border.”
“The border?” His brows knit, fire sparking behind his green-gold eyes. “Gods. With the fighting there…” He swore under his breath, eyes searching hers again. “Was he taken? Drafted? Hurt?”
Her pulse tripped. The story she had whispered to herself now pressed down on her chest, demanding more shape, more flesh.
“We lost one another on the road,” she confessed falsely.
“There was shouting…smoke. I do not know if he—” She let her voice tremble, let the unfinished thought hang heavy between them.
“Come,” he urged, already half-turning as though to lead her. “My uncle is well connected with the guard. He’ll send word, and we’ll know if your husband’s passed through anywhere.”
The earnest promise struck deep in Ilys, warming her despite herself. Was this truly how people treated one another? Or was it only because she was a woman alone and adrift?
Her gaze studied him, and the illusion faltered. He looked nothing like Baron, not really. Different jaw, different eyes, different voice. She admitted, grudgingly, that his selfless urgency, the way he leapt into action without hesitation, was…attractive.
Arriving at a cramped dockside storefront, the man slid a scrap of parchment and a stub of charcoal toward her.
“Write down his name. His appearance. Anything that will help.”
Ilys stalled, the false story snagging in her throat. She had not meant it to carry this far. Her fingers hovered over the parchment, stiff and unwilling. His expectant gaze pressed down on her until she bent to write.
Jorrin. The name came first, sharp as a wound.
She paused, heart hammering, and added a surname her mind seized on in desperation, one she had heard Baron mutter once when cursing a guard captain. Marrek. Jorrin Marrek. The letters looked wrong, alien, but the lie was sealed.
The man leaned close, scanning the name, and gave a short, decisive nod. “I’ll get this to my uncle. He’ll see it reaches the guards.”
He looked back at her. “Where are you staying?”
Ilys’s stomach knotted. “Nowhere. My husband has all our coin.”
His brow furrowed. He studied her a moment longer, wary but not unkind. “Perhaps my sister can house you for the night. I’ll ask her.”
Relief washed through her, though she bowed her head with feigned humility. Inside, she cursed Death bitterly for not giving her even a single coin to shore up the ruse.
The man folded the parchment into his jacket. “Stay near the market. I’ll find you in a bit.”
“Wait,” she called, and he turned back. “Your name?”
“Owin,” he answered. “Yours?”
Ilys hesitated, her mind scraping for another lie, another mask to wear. But she was tired and unpracticed in the art of make-pretend.
“Ilys,” she said at last. No one outside the castle would recognize it, she assured herself.
Owin gave a short nod. “Stay near the market. I’ll find you soon.” And then he was gone, leaving her with the smell of salt and tar thick in the air.
Ilys wandered the market, attempting conversation with vendors. At first they greeted her readily enough, but the moment they realized she carried no coin, their warmth vanished. She felt the shift each time, the polite smile turning brittle, the tone growing curt.
She drifted farther down the road, murmuring to herself that she would return in a bit.
Surely Owin would not come back so soon.
The market noise faded behind her as the sea opened before her, vast and endless.
She had never seen the coast before. Never seen water stretch beyond the horizon, swallowing the sky.
On impulse, she stooped to pick up a stone, skipping it across the surface until it vanished.
The gesture felt foreign, childlike, but she couldn’t help herself.
She slipped her boots off and waded in until the cold lapped at her toes.
Her thoughts turned to Grim, and she spoke to him in her mind.
It’s just like you described, she noted. It’s perfect.
The sea spray kissed her face, and she smiled, eyes stinging from the salt.
She loved the roar of the waves, how it drowned out everything else.
The ocean was a jealous creature, she thought: loud, consuming, demanding her whole attention.
You will feel me. You will hear me. You will know me, the waves seemed to say, each crash against the rocks a promise.
And she let it take her; hair whipped by the wind, skirts dampened by spray, the sea’s cold insistence drawing her wholly into the moment.
A palm on her shoulder plucked her back into reality. She turned and found it belonged to Owin.