12

“Drink.” A woman, her eyes swollen from smoke and tears, drapes a quilt over my shoulders and thrusts one of two pitchers of water into my hands. “You must be thirsty.” She offers Jadon the second pitcher. “Bless you,” she says to me. “And you as well, Ealdrehrt.”

As I drink, I take it all in. Broken carts. Overturned bins… The villagers who haven’t left with their wounded loved ones pick over the destruction. “Where do you even begin to set this upright again?” I wonder.

Jadon drinks from the pitcher, then pours water over the back of his neck. “There will probably be a meeting with the surviving town leaders. Figure out priorities. Where to get supplies needed for repair. Where to bury all the bodies.”

Near the jail, Johny crouches over Narder’s body. The guard shakes his head, then squeezes the bridge of his nose. His shoulders shudder. He’s weeping. As he cries, a man wearing a brown vest and matching breeches comes around the corner of the jail and stands behind the guard. He didn’t fight. There’s no blood on his clothes, in his hair, on his face. He looks worried but refreshed, as though he just awoke from a nap and had the most horrific dream.

I nudge Jadon and whisper, “Who is that? The fancy one standing behind Johny.”

Jadon finds the two men. “Mayor Raffolk.” He cocks an eyebrow. No additional comment is needed.

Does Johny know that the emperor’s men didn’t kill Narder? Does he know that I did?

The guard lifts his head and scans the wreckage until he finds me. He points at me, and the mayor turns to see who he’s pointing to.

Yeah. He knows.

My attention is pulled away by more villagers. My chest swells to hear their voices, to see their tear-stained faces, and to feel the warmth of their gratitude cutting through the chill of death enveloping me. An older man totters over and offers me a basket of bread and cheese. “It’s not much,” he says, “but most of my pantry was ransacked.”

“Thank you, sir.” I bow my head. “I appreciate your generosity.”

Raffolk and Johny might hate me, but there are plenty in Maford who don’t.

Jadon plucks a roll from the basket and says, “I’m gonna look around. Find Olivia.”

Ah. I forgot about Olivia.

I watch Jadon wander off, gnawing bread, squeezing the shoulders of the grateful villagers he passes. Piles of goods continue to grow around me: wine and veg, a basket of fabrics, a few candles, and a small pot of honey.

A warm wave of pride washes across my bones. I am their champion. Protect and battle? That’s what I do. And my work here more than covers my fine of twelve geld.

My spine feels straighter, my mind clearer, my limbs stronger. It’s as if I’ve grown three heads taller and three bodies wider. I’m not even breathing heavily, but damn am I hungry. For food. For drink. For Jadon. I scan the square and find him talking with a group of villagers who have stopped him again. He points this way and that, and the villagers nod in agreement. I imagine him with me instead, nestled high in the loft. With my gifted jars of honey. That warmth in my bones now flares to heat.

“You’re alive!” Olivia barrels toward me and skids to a stop before trampling over the pile of offerings. “What’s all this?”

“Meet the new Queen of Maford,” I tell her, palming the jar of honey. “Your townsfolk love me and have chosen to show just how much they appreciate me with gifts of bread, honey, cheese, fabric, and other bric-a-brac.”

Olivia’s eyebrows lift. “I think you should slow down your celebration.”

Still surrounded by villagers, Jadon frowns, and concern clouds his expression. Raffolk and Freyney have joined his group, anger plain on their faces.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, but I already hear the familiar hisses of angry thoughts.

“She brought this upon us.”

“We should’ve killed her when we could.”

“We need to do it now.”

Shit.

My heart crumbles. So much for my newfound love from the townsfolk. I slip the jar of honey into my pocket. At least this is mine.

“You have something to say?” Jadon shouts at the angry crowd.

“I do,” Johny says. The energy of his fury crackles like storm clouds. “Now that we’ve killed Wake’s men, we’re gonna be even bigger targets. More soldiers will return, and who knows what they’ll do to us. And that mudscraping whore—” He glares over at me.

“Oh?” I rise and step over the offerings to join Jadon. Indignation buzzes like a hornet’s nest in my ears, and I take a calming breath.

“Be careful, Kai,” Olivia whispers.

“Always.”

I reach the mob and level my gaze on the angry villagers. “Anything you wanna say about me, say it to my face.”

“Leave her alone,” Olivia shouts behind me. “She saved us. Show some gratitude!”

I lift my hand to her and turn back to Johny. “If you were all dead beside this heap of bodies,” I ask with reason and patience, “would that have been your preferred outcome?”

No patience left, Jadon glares at the guard and then at the group. “You’re all talk. Playing knight with your dull blades and slow swings. But when it’s time to actually fight, what did you do?” He throws the borrowed sword he used to the ground and mutters, “You let the two of us fight your battles. Now that it’s over, you wanna nitpick how we did it? Ungrateful pricks.” He turns on his heel and marches back toward his forge without another word.

“What about Narder, prick ?” Johny shouts. “This bitch killed him.”

“She needs to atone for his death,” another man shouts.

Unrepentant, I fold my arms. “Anything else?”

“Narder was our last connection to the wanderweavers.” Freyney spits.

“They’ll never come here now!” another man adds.

“We’ll all starve.”

There’s no arguing that point. They may have been cowards when the soldiers invaded Maford, but that will change. Under the cover of night, weak men always find the courage to do their worst. All the honey, candles, and loaves of bread in the realm won’t keep them from driving my head and Jadon’s down on pikes.

These surviving Mafordians are making it difficult for me to be their protector right now, and if they continue this course, I may choose to never fight for them again. Yes, this mudscraping whore killed Narder, and she feels absolutely unapologetic about driving a blade through his neck. Because she also killed half of the men wearing copper armor.

The emperor will send more men. He has to. And when they come, Johny and his band of malcontents won’t be among the Mafordians I’ll protect.

This ain’t over. Far from. And next time, they’ll find themselves fighting alone. Unprotected.

A new day in Maford, and I wake in the loft to the golden light of a bright morning. Peering out the little loft window, I see how that light shines upon the copper mail of the last soldiers needing to be buried. That same golden light reveals the true destruction from the battle the night before. Shattered windows. Trampled and dying flower beds. Broken and twisted colures. The reek of new blood and the waste of dead men. Most of the village has fallen over like a barrel of wine, and its people are now soaked and drowning in the flood.

But some of this golden glow doesn’t originate from the daystar. Another kind of amber light had pulsed throughout Maford before soldiers stormed past its gates. Death was always coming for this village—some just met their ends quicker, with steel instead of disease.

An old man wearing a stocking cap pushes a wheelbarrow carrying a bag of limestone. Milo, his tail tucked, minces his way across the village square, a temporary grave for the fallen.

I slept as well as I could, even though Jadon’s forge has been firing white-hot since the early hours. Every dead soldier’s sword has been cast into the fire, and they now glow as they melt into useless pools of iron. Jadon’s worked without stop, crafting new weapons from these old ones. Preparing for the inevitable next attack.

Olivia climbs up to the loft, bringing me wet towels, a clean white tunic, and brown suede breeches. She sighs at the spoiled peacock-blue dress and whispers, “Oh well.”

“She was a beautiful frock,” I say.

Olivia tries to chuckle but can only say, “Yeah.”

By the time I change my clothes, Olivia has brought breakfast out to the forge. She hurries through her potatoes, her eyes popping wide once she finishes. She whispers, “ Shit . My book!” She races to the hayloft, leaving me to wash the dishes in a bucket of water and to take them back to the cottage alone, without a chaperone.

And the cottage… I couldn’t see the fullness of its destruction last night, but now, standing before it, I see how bad it is.

The yellow curtains hang limply across the shattered window. The front door has been kicked in, no longer capable of blocking my entry. The hinges squeak with the wind.

Olivia’s still at the barn, searching the straw for her fancy, probably stolen, book, and Jadon’s at the forge, repairing swords. Neither of them can stop me from stepping across the cottage’s threshold. And so, I do.

This cottage, even in its best state, is far from impressive. Really: is this what Jadon and Olivia wanted to hide from me, the reason why they didn’t invite me in? I knew that it couldn’t be because they’re poor and embarrassed by it. I never believed that excuse about me catching Miasma from them—they’re both healthy.

The books have been pushed to the parlor floor, which itself is crowded with broken tokens and baubles. Not one thing has been left upright or unspoiled. Every place my eye lands, there is a monument of destruction left behind by angry men.

I set the breakfast plates on the pantry table and wander back to the parlor. The room is cluttered with overturned furniture: two armchairs, a spinning wheel, a stool, and a rocking chair. The rug shines bright with shards of glass and pottery. The only untouched piece of furniture is the tall, two-doored wardrobe that almost touches the ceiling.

Nothing special. Nothing fancy. I thought the sitting room would have hosted golden thrones because of their insistence that I not enter. For a second, I wonder if any of those broken pots were stolen. If the lavender sprigs were plucked without permission. If the cutting shears were lifted from a tailor’s shop.

Olivia is a thief, after all.

Maybe they thought I’d steal their knickknacks, thingamabobs, and shriveled potatoes? Did they fear I was a thief just like Olivia, and that I’d do to them as she’s done to others? Yet Gery had the nerve to make me turn out my pockets after I mucked and milked my way around his barn.

I hear the crunch of bootsteps headed my way. Shit . If it’s Jadon, he’ll see that I’m standing in prohibited space. What will he say? Will he be upset that I entered his home without explicit permission?

“Hey.” Jadon rounds the corner, carrying wood boards, nails, and a hammer.

I let out the breath I was holding to say, “Hey.”

He drops all the supplies into a noisy pile. “You’re like water, you know that?”

I cock my head. “Pardon?”

“You slip in wherever you please,” he says. “Nothing can stop you from entering any space, big or small.”

I swallow. “I needed to bring in the breakfast dishes. I’m not interested in taking your things, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Kai,” he says, shaking his head, “we fought side by side last night. Don’t you trust me by now? Anyway, that wasn’t the reason we didn’t want you coming in.”

“What was the reason, then?”

“Exactly what I said. Miasma . No one knows how it’s passed. If it’s in the air or if it’s in the water or the food. If it’s in the air, we didn’t want a third person who may have had it in close quarters. Olivia and I have escaped with good health because we’ve been very careful, and we’d just met you.”

“Ah.” Whatever. There are now bigger things to worry about.

Jadon grabs the hammer from the pile to start repairs. He lifts a massive board. “Nothing to say?” he asks, squinting back at me.

I tilt my head. “Huh?”

“About, you know, my massive wood or…?” He grins. “Something else to make me laugh and enjoy a moment before dealing with everything?”

I blink at him, excitement flooding through me like hot water. “What a big hammer you have.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “You’re faking it.”

“I’m not. Bang something hard for me.” I pause, my skin tingling. “Make me jump.”

“That’s better.” He sets the board against the doorjamb.

“I’m astounded by all your wood,” I say, lowering my gaze…lower…lower… There.

“Okay, I get it,” he says, then sticks nails in his mouth.

I fight the urge to giggle. “Do you need me to hold your wood?”

“That’s enough, Kai.” He chuckles as he drives the first nail into the plank.

“Harder, Jadon,” I say, breathless. “Hit it like you mean it.”

“You know what?” He shakes his head, trying not to smile. “Are you gonna just stand there and watch, or are you gonna—?”

“Guide your hand?” Legs trembling and body buzzing, I pick my way over the broken plates and splintered beams.

“If you want,” he says, biting his lower lip. “And then we can do it together.” He peers at me with his smoky blue eyes. “We’ll hit it like we mean it.”

My tongue pokes my cheek. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about woodwork.”

“Kai,” Jadon says, his deep voice rumbling all through my body, “you have no idea how excited I am.”

My eyes flit from his face, down his torso, and lower still, where they linger on the best wood in Maford. “Oh, I think I do.”

He drops the hammer and looks at me with a glint in his eye. “So you’ve noticed.”

I stare at him, my breaths shallow. “Umhmm.” The heat of my anticipation smolders against his.

He holds my gaze, drinking me in, and takes a step toward me.

An achy shiver ticks the base of my spine. If he touched me right now, I’d fucking—

“Good morning?” A man’s voice comes from outside.

“Damn, and we were almost there,” I say, dizzy, carefully prying my eyes from Jadon’s to land on the intruder. “Good morning.” I still burn from Jadon’s attention.

Farmer Gery takes off his field hat and wipes his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He peeks up at Jadon. “My missus, Zinnia. She’s not feelin’ well. Much worse since yesterday, and the soldiers, they hurt her. I don’t know what to do, and I know you’re not a healer, but you’re plenty smart. Freyney’s busy with the other wounded. Can you look in on her?”

Jadon says, “Sure, but I need to fix a few cracked beams before this part of the cottage collapses. Hopefully, it shouldn’t take too long.”

“Okay,” Gery says, but he’s not okay.

“I can come over and look,” I say. “I’m not a healer, but I can stay with her as you tend to other tasks around the farm.”

Farmer Gery blinks at me, eyes my pendant with distrust, then shifts his gaze to Jadon. “That will be appreciated,” he says, dipping his head in thanks.

I follow the farmer next door to his barn. I stutter in my step, though, as I remember Olivia’s warning before I started my chores to earn geld. Don’t go inside their house . And I recall Jadon’s concern about not knowing how Miasma is spread.

Shit.

“A soldier pushed her out the bed,” Gery says, oblivious to my hesitation. “He was trying to steal some jewelry she was wearing. A butterfly ring I gave her on our wedding day. She fell, and when I picked her up, she felt broken. Freyney refuses to help—he says she’s not a priority.” A teardrop slides down his cheek. “I brought her outside for some fresh air—she has Miasma. I’m sure you heard.”

I nod, breathing a sigh of relief now that I no longer have to enter their home. We reach the garden behind the barn, and that’s where a pale Zinnia Gery rests on a featherbed.

Her cheeks are sunken, and her bones poke at her sallow skin. Her death glow is more straw-colored than all the hay on this farm. She’s barely conscious and merely murmurs at the sight of her husband.

“I’m gonna show her,” Gery says to his wife, pulling back her nightshirt. He points to the bruise on her hip. “This came due to the fall.”

I peer at the purple discoloration that nearly blends into the grayness of her skin. “I’m going to touch you,” I tell Zinnia. “I’ll try not to hurt you.” Then I feel her hip bone, lightly press her ribs, her arms, and her back.

“Her bones are brittle,” I say, “but I feel no broken ones. She didn’t wince from my pressing. There’s no swelling.” She looks as though she’s sinking inward even as I crouch here beside her. My own limbs feel heavy, but that isn’t sickness. That is sorrow. “She’s bruised from the soldier’s assault, but she isn’t broken. This sudden decline is from…”

“Miasma.” Farmer Gery nods.

Zinnia mutters something and tries to sit up in the bed.

I touch her chest to keep her still. “Don’t. Please.”

She groans, then settles back onto the featherbed.

I look down at the woman with great sadness. “I wish I knew how to heal. If I did, I’d certainly help Zinnia recover.”

Her amber glow is brightening. Won’t be long now.

I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles, not sure how contagious this Miasma sickness is but now not caring at all. “I wish you both peace,” I whisper.

Zinnia’s eyes close. Her hand goes limp. Her heartbeat slows.

I stay beside her as Gery tends to the horses and to Molly. Anytime Zinnia stirs, I whisper, “I’m right here,” until she slips back into the space between life and death. I trace the stones of my pendant and feel its pulse beneath my fingertips.

The work of putting Maford back together again echoes all around me. Hammering and sawing. Chopping. Shouting. My mind wanders as I sit here, and snippets of poems and songs appear in my thoughts.

With healing hands, she gently weaves…

…for the souls she grieves…

…mourns with a heavy heart…

…dawn approaches.

Are these prayers from my homeland? Something to be recited above a sickbed? I say them aloud as reassurance for Zinnia that I’m still here, as a way to force the rest of this poem from the dim spaces in my mind.

…dawn approaches.

Zinnia opens her eyes, and a faint smile tugs at her lips. “Thank you,” she whispers, the words barely audible before sleep claims her once more.

Farmer Gery slips back into the garden and offers me a meat pie.

I thank him. I’m hungry. I don’t recognize the taste of the meat, but it’s not foul.

The farmer completes a few more tasks and finishes by putting out fresh water for Milo.

Zinnia’s breathing is peaceful and unlabored when he returns to her side, and her amber glow wavers, as if death is struggling to keep a foothold.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he says. “But I have these.” He holds out a bundle wrapped with cloth. “More meat pies for later.”

I thank him and make my way back to the cottage. Jadon’s finished hanging the door, and now he’s fixing the fence. He smiles when he sees me, but then his cheer fades at my expression. “That bad?”

“That bad. She’s not broken. Bruised, certainly. The soldier stole her butterfly ring that Gery gave her on their wedding day. But that’s not why she’s weak. It’s Miasma.”

He watches me sit on the only patch of grass in the yard. “She’s one of the first to get Miasma. She’s held on for a while now.”

My heart swells sharply, and I flick away a tear rolling down my cheek.

He tugs at the bandage on his hand, then comes to sit across from me. “Sorry, Kai. Did she pass?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. She continues to hold on, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or…” I shrug and offer him a weak smile. “But that’s not my decision, is it?” At least she was peaceful when I left. I lift the bundle. “Gery gave me meat pies for my time. They’re pretty good. Want one?”

He takes one and bites into it. “It’s good.” He chews for a moment. “I’ll tell the men doing all the burying to look for the ring in a soldier’s pocket.”

I think about those men doing all that burying.

We should’ve killed her when we could.

Still, I nod my thanks, and we finish our pies in silence.

Which of us will they bury next?