Chapter Nineteen

“Why tent crew?” Tyr asked, unraveling a canvas bundle over the sand. “Why not, erm, taking care of the horses? You know, something easier?”

I pushed my sweater up to my elbows and twisted my hair into a high bun. “Just show me how it works.”

I’d spent most of the day watching Signey—her strong shoulders, her angry mouth, the way she rode so high and proud.

She had three bags—one big, one small, one nearly empty. Every once in a while, she’d reach back and rub the lacings on the small one, as if she wanted to make sure it was still there…

That’s the one I needed to search.

Rolling waves doubled the length of the beach and a colony of puffins surfed the swells, a scattering of gray in orange-ribboned water. Fires smoldered in sandy pits.

“If you let her on tent duty, you’ll need to monitor her,” Erik said. His deft fingers worked to loosen his saddle bags.

“Why would I need to monitor her?” Tyr asked.

“Any tent she sets up is going to collapse…probably with us in it.” His saddle bags dropped into the sand, one right after the other. Thump, thump.

I placed my hands on my hips. “They will not collapse.”

The corner of his lip quirked. “Oh? Have you ever set up a tent?”

“I’ve set up a tent.” A lie. But…it was a tent. A few poles, a bunch of fabric. How hard could it be?

Hard, it turned out. The fabric bunched together, didn’t like to lie flat. There was only one pole and whenever I got it standing, it would topple over or the pit I’d dug for it would collapse or the wind would snatch away the canvas and drag it halfway down the beach.

I glanced at Signey sitting atop a boulder, a fishing net slack between two fingers. Her oval face tipped toward the waves, shining like a coin. Going straight to her bags would cause too much suspicion, so I’d started with my own, but if I wasn’t quick, someone else would set up her tent before I did.

A gust of wind snapped the canvas off the pole and blew it into Erik, who’d donned a lake-blue jacket and crouched over a cook fire.

I dropped the pole and bunched my skirts to tromp after it.

Erik dragged the canvas back to my spot.

“There’s a pin here.” He flipped over the pole and pointed to a rusted nail driven into the end. “Use it to hook your fabric.”

“Right.” I dropped to my knees and refolded my canvas. Sand clung to the wax, pilled in my shoes, my socks. I swiped a strand of hair out of my face.

“You have it backward,” he said.

I ground my teeth and pulled the canvas around.

“Still backward. You give up?”

“Never.”

I tried again, again, again. Collapse. Collapse. Collapse.

The rest of the men moved through the camp with practiced efficiency, tents erected like monuments. The sun disappeared from the horizon, sucking away the yellow hue, replacing it with a fraying black.

“The thing I can’t figure out is why you’re so set on this,” Erik said.

I jumped.

He clasped his hands behind his back and inspected the misshapen tent the way a war general examines his troops. He’d popped his jacket collar against the cold and the wind ruffled his hair. “Frankly, it’s weird. Also, the nail goes in the hole. Pointy end, sharp hole.”

I stabbed the spike through the fabric. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past hour?”

“It’s only been an hour?”

I glared.

He held up his hands. “Kidding. Can I help? I don’t have an extra, and I don’t want you sleeping in mine.”

“I’d rather stick a sewing pin in my eye.”

Behind me, a gust of wind caught the fabric and the entire thing collapsed.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I think I snore. And thrash. And sleep walk. Come find me when you’re cold and desperate.”

He turned to leave.

I ground my teeth. “Fine.”

He paused, the firelight touching his smug little smirk. “Didn’t hear you. Can you repeat that?”

“Fine?”

He gestured to his ear.

I resisted the urge to stick a sewing pin in his eye. “Fine. Yes. You can help.”

He dropped to his knees and began unraveling the mess of fabric and cording. “The thing about these tents—you must get the tension right. If you don’t, they’ll collapse.” He passed me a length of rope. “Hold that.”

“Just put it up.”

“I’m teaching you. Pins in eyeballs sounds awful. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Except…” he tapped his chin, “maybe you.”

“Stop it.”

His eyes glittered with silent laughter, and he leaned forward, the hem of his jacket edging up to reveal a sliver of tattoo cut against a muscled abdomen, a thick black line that curved over his hipbone, disappearing into his—

My cheeks heated.

He shifted and the sheath of a knife gleamed, the stamped pattern barely visible in the fading light. Crows and cornflowers.

But a knife. I pressed the heel of my hand against my eye. Stop being angry and ask about the weapon.

“Do they mean anything?”

His eyes flicked to mine. Gray. Guarded.

My heart kicked. “The crows and cornflowers.”

He dropped back to the tangle of cording that he was trying to unravel. “The crow is House Rythja’s emblem. The cornflower is mine.”

“A personal emblem.” That was different. “Is that common in Volgaard?”

“Every father in Volgaard chooses an emblem for their child.”

“And your father picked…cornflowers?” It seemed strange that, of all the things a father could pick, his had chosen a bright blue weed.

Erik pulled the strings tight. “Lothgar didn’t pick cornflowers. I did.”

I wanted to ask why he’d chosen his own, but this line of questioning seemed to upset Erik, and I didn’t want to make him run off like he had the first day. I settled for something adjacent. “Do you have crows and cornflowers stamped into all your weapons?”

“Just my knife.”

“Did you…bring other weapons?”

He gave me a quizzical look. The canvas snapped in the wind. “Did you?”

Again, a catch of the eyes. Again, a kick of the heart.

“A knife,” I lied.

“You know how to use it?”

“Yes.”

“For cutting herbs?”

“Not just that.” Another lie. I wasn’t sure why I said it. Maybe because I didn’t want to feel weak? Maybe because I didn’t want to feel small?

Erik unsheathed the knife. The steel winked.

I held up my hands. “I’m touched. Really. But I already have one.”

“Oh-ho, I’m not giving you my knife.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m testing a theory.”

“A theory?”

His eyes glittered. “I want you to show me how to use it.”

Down the beach, fires crackled. Waves crashed. Wind carried laughter and the muted voices of men. Dusky twilight tangled through his hair, edged his features, stormy and handsome.

My stomach did a little flip. “You know? I would. I really, really would, but I need to help Bo with, uh…” my eyes darted to the men huddled around the fire, “dinner. Yeah. Dinner. Bye!”

He cocked a brow. “Interesting, considering my men are under strict orders not to let you handle food.”

“I meant the horses.”

“Mmm, sure you did. Here’s the knife.”

I took a step back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I doubt you could. Go ahead.” He flipped the knife so the blade faced his gut and closed the distance between us. My breath caught in my throat, and now we were so close that I could make out the waves in his hair, the lean slant of his muscles, the faint outline visible through his jacket. His voice dropped to a purr. “Show me, Isabel.”

Wind ruffled the seagrass, banded shades of green and blue. The knife’s rounded hilt brushed my stomach, the cold metal cutting through my sweater, sending a shiver down my spine.

His eyes swept my face, his gaze deep as the sea. It flashed as if he had me, as if he knew.

Gotcha.

“Remind me not to get on her bad side,” Kaspar said.

I jumped. “Shit, you came out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, well, we have company.” He’d tied his shoulder-length hair at the nape of his neck and popped his collar against the wind. Without his grin, he seemed older, tired.

Erik took back his knife. “Where?”

“There. See?” He pointed at a fire that glowed a little way down the beach, dancing like a speck on the wind. “What do you want to do about it?”

Erik drove the last of my tent spikes into the ground. “Nothing. We ignore it.”

“What if they’re dangerous?”

“They’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Are they dangerous?”

It took me a moment to realize the question was directed at me.

“I…” Probably not. Bandits weren’t common, but they also weren’t unheard of. Three months ago, two shepherds and an entire troupe of actors had been found dead, slaughtered in the hills around St. Kilda. I’d hardly paid attention to it, had chalked it up as one of the many disasters that seemed to plague the Sanokes. But maybe…

“I’ll shadow walk,” Bo said. He stood a few feet away, his squint fixed on the foreign fire. “Check it out. See if they’re friendly.”

Erik’s eyes flicked to Kaspar. “Not an option. We don’t need skygge.”

“That’s why you brought me. Skygge.”

“I changed my mind. It’s too dangerous.”

Bo’s hands balled into fists. “So, I’m supposed to what—sit around, watching puffins?”

Another glance at Kaspar, this one more wary. “If you want to spend your time watching puffins, you’re welcome to.”

“I’m not useless!” It was almost a shout. Almost. Bo’s shoulders rose and fell, rose and fell. Wind ruffled his dark hair, the dim light blurring his delicate features. A few drops of rain fell from the sky. “I’m not useless,” he repeated. “Just let me help.”

They dragged a bedroll from a tent, two deer pelts and a blanket with braided tassels. They placed both across the sand.

Bo laid on it, propping his jacket under his head like a pillow. He took a shaky breath and looked up at the gray-streaked sky.

Erik settled cross-legged above his head, his hands hovering around Bo’s temples. “You sure?” he asked. “You don’t—”

“I’m fine,” Bo snapped.

The rest of the men drew their weapons and formed a circle around them. Axes, swords, knives that winked silver in the twilight.

“Why all this?” I asked Tyr, gesturing at the men, their weapons.

“Last time they shadow walked, the connection was…broken.”

Bodies don’t like to be left empty, Bo had said that first day. They die pretty quickly.

He’d been talking about the need for an anchor, but—

Suddenly, it all made sense—why Erik insisted on so many men, why he wouldn’t send them home. “You protect them.”

Tyr tossed his broadsword from one hand to the other. “Bo nearly died. Kadlin did die.”

Rain needled my lashes and hair, thin and freezing. I pulled my sweater tighter, the cream wool soaking through.

“Then why not have Erik walk and Bo anchor?”

“Erik…doesn’t shadow walk. He’s the second, you know? Skygge’s dangerous. He almost always acts as anchor.”

Of course, of course . Let someone less important take the risk, someone who didn’t matter.

Someone like Bo.

I glanced at Bo stretched out on the blankets, hands clasped over his chest, gaze fixed to the bleak sky. Rain coated his cheeks, rolled down his face.

“It took him three weeks before he could speak again, another two before he could walk,” Tyr added. “After the connection broke, we weren’t sure if he’d ever… Well. We’re glad he’s okay.”

“You should know there was literally nothing Erik could have done,” Kaspar said, coming to stand beside us. “In Lundar. Bo was just closer to his body.”

On the bedroll, Bo’s breathing slowed from normal breaths to something rasping and ragged. His skin paled, all color rushing out of his cheeks, almost as if he was sick in bed, as if he were dying.

Then he sat up. Except it wasn’t him, not exactly. His body lay outstretched on the ground, empty and still, but Bo—another Bo —perched on top of it, white as shells, white as salt, the edges of him whiskering like water. A spirit. He scanned the men and waved to me—or was it Kaspar?—before peeling off his body. As he did, he became paler, a moonbeam struck by the sun, before disappearing all together into the dusky night.

Erik’s chest rose and fell, so slow, so steady. His eyes fluttered beneath his lids. Sweat beaded along his brow.

“Being an anchor isn’t easy,” Tyr whispered. “None of it is easy.”

Signey snorted, and I realized she was here too, a battle ax in one hand, her gaze fixed on that tiny fire.

Would there be another opportunity like this? Would there be something that snagged the entire camp’s attention like skygge seemed to? Would Bo and Erik shadow walk again?

My heart thundered. My mouth dried.

Maybe…

But maybe not.

I closed my fist, opened it, wiped my sweaty palm on my skirts.

“How long are they usually gone?” I asked.

“With the mysterious camp being that far away…” Tyr rubbed his jaw. “I’d say five, ten minutes. Why?”

“I’m, erm…wet. From the rain,” I backed toward the tents.

“We’re all wet from the rain.”

“Well, I’m going to change my sweater.”

Before he could reply, I hurried down the dark sand and into the line of tents. The crash of the sea thundered in my ears, my heart thundered in my mouth. The patter of rain turned into a full-on pour. I only had a few minutes, but a few minutes was all I needed.

I pulled back the flap to Signey’s tent and stepped inside. Rain drummed the canvas, and the tent flap blocked most of the light. Her three packs littered the floor, scattered like boulders—one big, one small, one nearly empty.

I pulled open the small one, golden swede trimmed with bright orange fox fur and a button fashioned from a canine. Inside, a set of playing cards, a pouch of dried fish, a bag of tree sap rolled in powdery flour.

I grabbed the empty one next and turned out the pockets. Nothing. I tossed it on the floor.

My head pounded, my throat thickened, and I couldn’t scream, couldn’t hear.

This was the woman who killed Hans, who’d dumped his body into the tides. All it would take was her peeling back the flap, striding into the room, and she’d find me. She’d kill me. But if I didn’t do this, Hans’s death would be for nothing, would mean nothing.

The entire camp was distracted. This was my best shot.

I grabbed the largest bag and began rifling through it.

A deep red tunic unrolled like a flag, the sleeves and neck trimmed with silver fur. Pants and stockings, a purse filled with foreign coins. I clawed through them.

An empty water skin, a comb, a pouch filled with dark leaves that had the sharp tang of dried peppermint.

My fingers scraped the bottom of the bag and a small chest tumbled out, onyx metal stamped with a lattice of knots and a pattern of falling crows, feathers curled around their bodies, so polished, their wings reflected the blurry outline of my face.

I tried to pry it open, the box and the lid separating a fraction before a latch caught the lock with a hollow click .

I tried again, but the lid would not budge.

I ran my fingers around the seam, the place where metal met metal, found a keyhole, round and small, embedded in one of the crow’s tumbling feet.

I tried the lid again. Again, the lid and box separated a fraction of an inch. Again, that click .

Could I force it open if I had something sharp? A hairpin? A key?

Where would she keep a key?

Commotion from outside the tent. I shoved the tunic and the box back into Signey’s bag and ducked outside, hurried down the beach, down the sand, toward the men.

Bo was back, gasping, his hand at his throat. “Bandits,” he said after a moment, the words dry and raspy. “They’re bandits.”

“So, we don’t light a fire tonight,” Kaspar said. “And we keep quiet.”

Erik rested his forehead on his knees. “We can light a fire.” His shoulders heaved. “I’ll keep us hidden.”

Kaspar’s head jerked. “What? You’ll Send all night?”

Erik gave him a wary glance. Rain soaked his shirt. His hair clung to his forehead and cheeks in wet strands. “I’d rather not deal with bandits.”

The men broke up, wandering back to their dinner and their jobs. Bare cliffs rose out of the mist, softened from the deluge of rain. Horses snorted and pawed the earth.

“Hey,” Tyr said, coming up beside me. “Weren’t you going to change your sweater?”

“I, um…” My eyes met Signey’s, cool and searching, as if somehow, impossibly, she knew I’d been in her tent.