Chapter Fourteen

The next days fell away like rain, first a pattering, then a pour. The sores on the queen’s feet putrefied, creating a black and rancid smell that made her maids gag and run to the door. The harbormaster developed a fever so hot he soaked through three sets of sheets. Then, someone jostled the assistant harbormaster off a loading plank, causing him to break his leg. Without the harbormaster and the assistant harbormaster, a grain ship from Gormark was torched, sending everything up in a yellow-orange blaze.

Eleven workmen came in with burn injuries, and Stefan and I had been woken in the middle of the night to treat them.

“Try to get the Volds to like you,” Stefan said, dabbing salt water over a workman’s blistered arm. “People tell things to people they like, and you can be a bit, erm, prickly.”

“I’m not prickly.”

“And practice lying. You’re a terrible liar.”

I brandished my rag like a sword. “I’m a great liar.”

Stefan took a step back. “Whoa, Isy. Not when you say it like that.”

The workman grunted in affirmation.

The bells chimed six.

“That’s my signal. Handle the rest for me?”

“Of course, but, Isy…” Stefan paused and ran a thumb over his jaw. “I wasn’t going to say this, but I’ve been asking around. You should know the general—Lothgar? His daughter was seen leaving the tide pools the night Hans died.”

“She… what? ”

He held up his hands. “I’m not saying she killed him but… Be careful. Especially around her.”

He scooped up my bag and offered it to me.

Be careful.

I’d try.

Mist drenched the iron cliffs, coated my lips and lashes, glossed the sand so it reflected ribbons of rain-streaked clouds and chicken pens, tents, and the watery silhouettes of Vold soldiers. They lounged on stools and overturned crates, playing cards or eating mouthfuls of runny gruel.

“Ey there,” someone called.

Another clicked his tongue. “What brings you down from the castle?”

“Why don’t you come sit with us?” A third patted his thigh, a smile creeping over his wine-dark lips. “We could have some fun, you and me.”

I pulled my cardigan tighter, walked faster.

Horses snorted, tossed their manes and pawed the earth. A rib-thin dog yanked at its tether and snapped its jaws. The air stank of hot iron and brine.

“Do you have a friend?” called a rat-faced man. He swigged from a green bottle, licked his teeth. “A sister?”

I blinked.

There was another me sitting on his lap. A low-cut nightgown hung off one shoulder and her dark brown hair rumpled as if she’d just climbed out of bed. I blinked again. The other me grinned, shimmied her shoulders, then disappeared in a puff of smoke.

His companion nudged him in the ribs. “Why settle for that when you can have—”

The other me returned, prettier this time, better, her skin tone evened, the blemishes smoothed. Instead of being mussed, her hair fell down her back in a shine. The nightgown clung to her belly, her breasts tighter, more sensual, almost sheer, no hide of scars crisscrossing her stomach. The other me bit her bottom lip.

My face grew hot. I turned away, pulled my jacket tighter, and hurried down the beach, away from the men, away from the other me—the better me. Find Erik. That’s all I needed to do. Find Erik and don’t die. I glanced at Lothgar’s rain-speckled map.

“You’re not Vold.”

The voice caught me by surprise, yanked me back.

The speaker, a woman, stood over a soup pot smoking over an open fire. She paused, the ladle midair and fixed her almond eyes on me. A few strands of blonde hair poked out from under a headscarf. “You’re not dadig, either.”

I tilted my head. “No,” I said, unsure her meaning. “I’m not.”

Water beaded along the waxy canvas of her tent, pilled along steel stakes, drummed the sand. She dipped her ladle again and edged the lip of her bowl closer. “It’s skause,” she said, “with spinach and sour milk. I’ll make you some. Show Askel and Holger they don’t bother you. Sit.”

But I didn’t sit. Instead, I stood, the rain misting my hair, patting my cheeks, rising up from the sand in a grayish cloud.

“Do you know Erik?” I asked. I had no family name, no way to identify him apart from, “He’s, um, tall?”

She scooped the skause into a wooden bowl. “Lothgar’s son?” Her lips drew into a slash. “I know him.”

“Is he here?”

“He is.”

My hand tightened around the map. “Where?”

A stick in her fire popped and white smoke puffed toward the sky.

“There’s a rocky outcropping not far from the ships.”

I fisted my skirts and walked faster. The eyes of the rat-faced man and his companion followed me, their snickers carrying over the low lap of waves, and I knew, knew, if I turned, I’d see the other me—the better me—sitting on their laps.

My jaw tightened.

“You have an interesting future,” the woman called.

I stopped, my back to her. Waves licked the shore like tongues, and a pair of gulls streaked.

I didn’t want to turn, didn’t want to see the better me, the me without the thread-thin scar under her chin, the burns along her stomach. The me with kinder eyes, softer hands, who looked so at home, so in love with herself.

But—

You have an interesting future.

My belly ached.

“If you let me,” the woman continued, “I can read it for you.”

I turned.

The better me sat on the companion’s lap, her bare legs tossed carelessly, her teeth barred and white. Still there, still perfect.

The woman glanced over her shoulder. “Whatever they’re showing you doesn’t matter. Come.”

I followed her into a tent filled with firewood and fox furs, wild celery buds picked from the bluffs and left in heaps on the floor. A loom sat in the corner, wefted in bands of brown and gray.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the collection of sheepskin rugs.

I did, tugged my cardigan closed and sank to the ground. Mud matted the sheepskin, flaked off under the press of my thumb.

What would it be like to be that better me? To be stronger, smarter, more beautiful? Still, I had an interesting future, and maybe, maybe this woman would tell me I’d do something great, be something great.

The woman struck a stone, lit a lamp hanging from the rafter post, and placed a black-brown leaf on her tongue.

She took my hand, pressing her thumb into the soft and fleshy skin of my palm. Her nail pricked a half moon indent.

Rain pattered on the tent, shadows slipping down the waxy sides. From outside, thin laughs and bleats and clucks, but all that seemed blurred, seemed bowed compared to here, compared to her.

Tendrils of tar black smoke snaked from the lamp.

“I see…” she said, her voice husky. Her eyes had gone glossy and white, the irises vanished, pupils blown wide.

My heart quickened.

“I see…” she started again. “A threshold… A mighty threshold. It will be…difficult to pass. And you…” She swallowed. Her lips, bruised and red, parted, revealing that black-brown leaf and sharp incisors.

You will be the royal physician?

“You will hold the door.”

My heart plummeted. “That’s not an exciting future.”

She spit the leaf back into the jar and took a sip of wine from a flask. “I never said it was exciting, just interesting.”

Even still. “Can you look again?” I extended my palm. “Look for something else?”

Something better.

Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip, catching one of the ruby drops. “I can only see snips and snaps, key moments that define a person.”

And that was supposed to be my key moment? Holding the door?

My face must have fallen, because she placed two fingers on the back of my hand. “You are, of course, free to change it. You could choose not to hold the door.”

“What about Hans? Do I make him matter?”

She kept a steady gaze. “In a way.”

Something in my stomach fluttered. “And can you tell if I become the royal physician?”

“I didn’t see.” The color in her eyes returned, her irises now blue as a summer sky. A quizzical expression crossed her face, as if she was trying to puzzle through something herself. “But I don’t think you’re meant to be the royal physician.”

I pulled back the flap on the tent, headed out into the rain. The better me still sat on the man’s lap. She blew a kiss as I passed.

In a way.

I don’t think you’re meant—

One goal, but not the other.

I thumbed the buckle on my bag and followed the bluffs.

Becoming the royal physician was what I wanted. Before Hans died, it had been the only thing I’d wanted. And it wasn’t about my father—it wasn’t. I’d spent years training, studying, devouring every medical text I could get my hands on.

Maybe it didn’t have to happen the way she said. Maybe she saw a future, not the future. Maybe there was still space to claw my way into both things, maybe—

I don’t think you’re meant—

I’d do it, anyway. Climb faster, claw harder. Work harder.

The camp thinned here, fewer people, fewer tents. They spotted the beach like straggle grass. Rain drummed the sand. Ahead, the silhouettes of two dozen men moved about the shore, lifting bags and leading horses. The sky unfurled, long and gray.

“Watch it,” gruffed a man leading a stallion. Long hair framed his face, dark eyes and cheeks tattooed with knots.

“I’m looking for Erik,” I said.

“He’s not here.” But the man’s eyes gave him away, flicking down a stretch of sand.

The waves had quieted, froth lapping the shores, and there was Erik, hefting a saddlebag off the ground and placing it on a horse’s back, stormy as ever.

“You’re late,” he said as I approached. Rain had soaked through his white shirt, open at the throat, and his wheat-blond hair pressed wet against his forehead. His fingers tied deft knots in the pack. “We said before sunrise.”

“I’m sorry I—”

“Where’s your horse? Your tent?”

My hand went to the strap of my bag. A horse? A tent? I hadn’t brought any of that. Just clothes, medicines, Hans’s box of letters, and s?ven. The clear vial was wrapped securely in a wool stocking and a bit of baker’s twine. Just in case I needed to knock someone out.

Erik moved to the set of buckles by the horse’s belly. “Lucky for you, we don’t need a guide.”

A pair of seabirds arced down the basalt cliffs and muted sounds trickled up from the main camp, the bleat of animals, the ring of voices. Fires puffed against the sand.

“You can go home.” He clicked his tongue, a hollow sound out of the side of his cheek, and started toward the waves. The horse followed, no reins, no halter, its gray coat blending with the dappled beach.

“If you stop by the supply tent on your way back, you can pick up payment for your troubles,” he called. “I think we have gyllis. Otherwise, we’ll give you gold. Sorry you came all the way down.”

I hurried after him. “You haven’t even asked my name.”

“It’s Ingrid.”

“Isabel.”

“Well, Isabel . The supply tent has a green flag out front. Tell them I sent you.” Erik’s horse veered off course. He clicked his tongue, calling it back.

Maybe I should have asked the minister if I could take a horse, but the thought honestly hadn’t occurred to me. Most of my travel had been done by walking—climbing sweeping planes and scrambling up rugged trails. I’d taken the coach just once on the journey to Karlsborn Castle from Hjern. I’d never ridden a horse.

I squared my shoulders, trying to look resolute. I probably just looked damp. “I’m not leaving.”

“Have you ever camped?” Erik asked. “Started a fire? Foraged for food?”

“I’ve camped.” A lie.

Erik eyed me, wary. “You didn’t bring food, you didn’t bring shelter. You’re unprepared and under supplied. Judging by your choice of clothing, I seriously doubt you have any outdoor experience.”

I glanced at my outfit: my sturdiest boots, a sage cardigan, and the lambswool skirt I wore out on the bluffs. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You’ll slow us down.”

Change of tactics. “Maybe I’m not the most experienced guide, but that doesn’t matter. I’m a…a symbol.”

“Oh, just what we need.” Erik stopped next to a yellow pack pony and fiddled with the buckles on its harness. “A symbol .”

“Do you know what it’s like to travel around the Sanokes? You don’t. But I’ll tell you. It’s hilly. It’s steep. Most of the good roads are flooded two-thirds of the year, and they’re packed with mud the other. Taking this many men is far, far more likely to slow you down.”

The pack pony’s bags hit the sand with a thud . “There’s your horse,” he said. “Or did you plan on walking?”

“I thought you didn’t want to take me.”

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t.”

In that moment, it all snapped into place. Erik could buy me off, could make fun of my clothes, try to convince me to leave, but he didn’t have the power to actually get rid of me—Lothgar must have ordered that.

I stroked the pony’s nose. “I suppose you have a tent for me, too?”

A lopsided bag landed at my feet.

“Blankets? I’d hate to be cold.”

He gave me a look so smoldering, I thought he might actually kill me.

Stefan’s words picked that exact moment to make their grand re-entrance.

I bet his hands would feel nice.

I tackled the thought and shoved it deep, deep into the recesses of my brain. I had to maintain a neutral expression. I could not show that he was scary. I could not show that I was thinking about his hands.

His forceful, urgent hands slipping down my body. His knuckles skimming my waist as he held me there, and maybe murdered me.

I wanted to throw up.

Erik’s gaze snapped to a woman riding up the beach, sand spraying beneath her horse’s hooves, tail streaming behind it like a pendant flag.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Perfect.” Then louder, “Signey. Right on time.”

The woman—Signey—pulled up on the reins, her face more oval than Erik’s, but the resemblance was there—their lips, their cheeks, their stormy-gray eyes, the way their hair—his, spun gold and hers, near silver—curled damp around their ears. They wore the same pinched expression.

Signey.

His sister.

The general’s daughter.

I’m not saying she killed him, but…

All thoughts of Erik’s scary hands vanished and I was standing at the tidepools, red water lapping at my ankles, and I was flicking a blank letter onto the funeral pyre, and I was holding Hans’s body to my chest, screaming.

Pump, pump. Wait.

Pump, pump. Wait.

I was falling, flying. I couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t look at me, didn’t so much as turn her head. Instead, she kept her attention on Erik, who was lifting my pony’s packs out of the sand.

“You’re trying to leave without me,” she snapped.

“Believe me,” Erik replied, “I wouldn’t dream of leaving without you.”

Rain soaked the furs on her shoulders, ran rivulets down her cheeks. Her horse, massive and black, panted billows. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes went murderous. “You know why he sent me.”

Erik shot her a heated glare.

“You aren’t getting another honor bead,” she continued.

“I don’t need another honor bead.” He crouched and began switching the items from my pony’s pack with another, rolling a blanket tighter, abandoning a crate of foodstuff. His eyes flicked to Signey. The corner of his lip pulled into a smirk. “I already have two.”

Her hands balled to fists.

“Hey, Sig,” called a lanky man. He wore a knitted cap shoved over shoulder-length hair, and his jacket collar was popped against the drizzle. “Come to see us off?”

Signey’s head snapped in the man’s direction. A muscle in her jaw twitched. She whirled back to Erik. “Don’t tell me you’re taking him .”

Erik shrugged, then shoved the blanket to the bottom of the pack. “He’s one of my men.”

Her finger went straight to her temple. “He swapped my reading candle with a firework and singed off my left eyebrow.”

“He’s the best swordsman in Volgaard.”

“His skause made us all sick.”

“I trust him.”

“He put hair on a seagull!”

The lanky man crossed the beach. “Something the matter, Sig?”

She seethed. “Signey to you.”

At that moment, a seagull flitted down from the cliffs and landed on the sand.

Signey looked at the seagull.

The seagull looked at Signey. Its wingtips quivered in an invisible breeze.

Signey glared at Erik. “Oh yeah, keep that up. That’s the only thing you’re good at.” She stormed away.

Erik’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and the seagull fell away, a slip of smoke on a summer breeze.

“It was the eyes,” the lanky man said. “Seagulls don’t have them that blue.”

Erik shoved a sheet of canvas into the bag. “What are they really? Black?”

“Dunno. To be honest, seagulls kind of creep me out.” The lanky man flashed a full smile. “You must be the guide. I’m Kaspar. I would say a pleasure to meet you but, uh—” A glance at Erik. “Well, what do you want me to say?”

Erik pursed his lips. “She didn’t bring a horse. Or a tent. Or anything useful.” He yanked the leather cording, buckled the flap. Strands of hair clung to his cheeks, his forehead, the water glittering like glass. His white shirt stuck to his chest. He extended the pack to me and his gaze found mine, angry, a little defiant. “Only because you’ll slow us down,” he murmured.

I snatched the pack. Why did he have to be attractive?

Another man peeled away from the larger group, this one with his hair shaved on the sides, the top curly and long. The haircut stressed his full lips and delicate brows. “What did you do to Signey?”

Erik and Kaspar both shrugged and suddenly, the fulmars roosting on the side of the cliff became the most interesting thing.

“Okay, don’t tell me,” the delicate man said. “But you should know she just punched Bengt and kicked my bag.”

“She what ?” Kaspar asked.

“I’ll handle it,” Erik said, storming off. “Signey shouldn’t be coming with us, either.”

“I’m Bj?rn,” the delicate man said. “Call me Bo. And that pony is probably not the best choice.”

“She didn’t bring a horse,” Kaspar explained. “Erik’s putting her on that pony . ”

“Oh.” Bo gave a nervous laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, good luck. I hear Buttercup’s a bitch.”

Buttercup whinnied and dipped her chin.

I reached up to stroke her hairy nose. “A bitch? You’re not a bitch.”