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  In fact, other than her terror of the autarch and her fear of being recaptured, there was only one sizeable fly in the honey of her current Hierosoline harbor. .. .

  “Ho, there you are! Wait for me!”

  Qinnitan flinched reflexively—in the back of her mind she was always waiting for the moment one of the autarch’s minions would lay a hand on her—although within half a heartbeat she had known who it was.

  “Nikos.” She sighed and turned around. “Were you following me?”

  “No.” He was taller than his father Axamis, all the size of a man and none of the gravity or sense, the fuzz of his first black beard covering his chin, cheeks, and neck. He had trailed her like an oversized puppy since his father had first brought her home. “But he was, and I followed him.” Nikos pointed at the small, silent boy who was standing so close to her he must have come within arm’s reach without her even hearing.

  “Pigeon!” she said, frowning at him. “You were to stay in bed until you’re well.”

  The mute boy smiled and shook his head. His face was even paler than usual, and he had a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. He held out his hands, palm up, to show that as far as he was concerned he was too healthy to be left at home.

  “Where are you going, Qinnitan?” Nikos asked.

  “Don’t call me by that name! I wasn’t going anywhere. I was thinking, enjoying the quiet. Now it’s gone.”

  Nikos was immune to such remarks. “Some big ships just came in from

  Xis, I do you want to go down to the harbor to look at them? Maybe you know some of the people on board.”

  Qinnitan could not think of anything more foolish or dangerous. “No, i do not want to go look at them. I’ve told you—your father has told you—that I can have nothing to do with anyone from the south. Nothing! Do you never learn?”

  Now he did look a little hurt, her tone finally piercing the armor of his nearly invincible disinterest in anything outside his tiny circle of familiarity. “I just thought you might like it,” he said sullenly. “That you might be a little homesick.”

  She took a breath. She could not afford to anger Nikos as long as she lived in his house. The problem was, the boy fancied her. It was ludicrous that she was suffering from the unwanted attentions of a lumbering child her own age when only weeks before the greatest king in the world had kept her locked away in the Seclusion, threatening death to any whole man who so much as looked at her, but along with freedom, she was learning, came the costs of freedom.

  She let Nikos trail after her as they climbed the winding streets of Fox-gate Hill in the shadow of the old citadel walls, up into the crocus-starred heights where shops and taverns gave way to the houses of the wealthy, pretty white-plastered places with high walls that concealed gardens and shady courtyards, although all these secrets could be seen from the streets above, so that each level of society was exposed to the inspection of its wealthier neighbors. These houses, despite their size and beauty, still stood close together, side by side along the hilly roads like seashells left along the line of the retreating tide. She could only imagine what it would be like to live in such a place instead of Captain Dorza’s noisy, rickety house that smelled of fish and spilled wine. She wondered even more acutely what it would be like to have a house of her own, a place where no one entered without her permission, where she did what she wanted, spoke as she wanted.

  It was not to be, of course. She could hide here in Hierosol with people who spoke her language, or she could go back to Xis and die. What other choices were there?

  Pigeon was tugging at her arm; she was suddenly reminded that her own life was not her only responsibility.

  Freedom. Sometimes it seemed that the more of it she had, the more she lacked.

  • * *

  Nikos had pretended to bump against her for the fifth or sixth time, and this time had actually managed to put his hand on her rump and give it a squeeze before she could slap it away, when she decided to turn back to the captain’s house. Her privacy stolen, her thoughts dragged down by Nikos’ innocently stupid questions and less innocent attempts to paw her, she knew the best of the day was over. Qinnitan sighed. Time to go back to Tedora and that laugh of hers like the cry of an irritated goat, to the thick smoke in the air and the endless noise and the jumble of screeching children. She couldn’t blame Nikos for wanting to spend time out of doors, she just wished he would spend it somewhere other than in her vicinity.

  She put her arm around Pigeon, who pressed against her happily—he, at least, seemed quite content with their new life, and played with the younger children as comfortably as if they were his own brothers and sisters—then pulled her hood a little closer around her face, as she always did when she walked through the neighborhood around the captain’s house, where nearly half the people seemed to come from Xis and many of them were sailors who shipped back and forth across the Osteian Sea several times a year. The house seemed oddly quiet as they walked down the long path: she could hear one of the younger children talking cheerful nonsense, but not much else.

  The captain’s wife Tedora looked up from her stool by the table. She had started her day of drinking wine early that morning—part of the reason Qinnitan had left the house—and judging by the jug and cup set beside her, not to mention the blurry, sly look on her seamed face, she had not slackened her pace in Qinnitan’s absence.

  She must have been pretty once, Qinnitan often thought. Pretty enough to catch a captain, no small trick in Onir Soteros. The bones were still good, but Tedora’s skin was as cracked as old leather, her fingers knobby with age and hard work—not that Qinnitan had seen her do much of that.

  “He’s waiting for you.” Tedora gestured to the bedroom, a sour smile flitting across her face. “Dorza. He wants to see you.”

  “What?” For a moment Qinnitan could make no sense of it. Was Tedora sending her in to become the master’s concubine? Then she realized that, of course, in a house so small, the single bedroom would be the only place to carry on a private conversation—she had seen Dorza take some of his crewmen back to talk about matters of the ship and of their involuntary exile from Xis.

  A chilly heaviness lodged in her gut. A private conversation, was it? She felt certain she knew what he wanted, and had been fearing it for days. Axamis Dorza, saddled with the feeding of two people who should have not been his responsibility, was going to try to marry her off to young Nikos, to bind her properly to his household so that she could be set to work. Qinnitan had no doubt it was Tedora’s idea. If, as she suspected, Dorza had another family back in Xis, he would be more than willing to do it, just to keep the peace here in his Hierosoline harbor. The thought made her heart as cold as her stomach.

  “You asked to speak to me?” she said as the flimsy door fell shut behind her. It was dark in the room, only a single small oil lamp burning atop the large sea chest Dorza used as his captain’s table. The shape there stirred, but so slowly and strangely that for a moment Qinnitan had to fight back an urge to scream, as though she had found herself locked in with a savage animal.

  The captain looked up. His face, normally as clean-lined as a ship, seemed to have lost its bones, chin sunk against his chest, eyes almost invisible under his brows. “I have been . . . talking,” Dorza said slowly. “With men newly come from Xis.” She could smell the wine on his breath from halfway across the small room. “Why did you not tell me who you were?”

  A different kind of chill descended on her now. “I have never lied to you,” she said, although that was another lie. She wondered if sacred bees were dying in the Temple of the Hive, as a few were said to do whenever one of the acolytes abused the truth or thought an impure thought. If that’s so, I must have killed at least half of the poor bees by now. What a sinner I have become in this last year, in the simple matter of saving my own life!

  “You did not tell me all. I knew you were .. .” He lowered his voice. “I knew you were Jeddin’s woman. But I did not understand . ..”

/>   “I was never Jeddin’s woman,” she said, anger overcoming even her fear at Axamis Dorza’s strange, grim mood. “He thrust himself upon me, put my life in danger. He did not lay with me, nor has any man!”

  “Well, no matter that,” said Dorza. He seemed a little surprised by her claim. “The knot at the center of the thing is this—you are fled from the autarch’s own Seclusion.”

  She took a breath. “It is true. It was that or be handed over to Mokori the strangler, although I had done nothing wrong.”

  Dorza lurched to his feet, swaying. “But you have murdered me!” In-roared.

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort, Captain Dorza. You have done nothing wrong, and can say so. You gave a young woman passage on your master’s order, without knowing your master had fallen out of favor—and certainly without knowing anything of the woman herself. . .”

  He staggered a few steps toward her, looming over her like a tree that might topple. “Nothing wrong! By the fiery balls of Nushash, do you think the autarch will care? Do you think he will call off his torturers and say, ‘You know, this fellow isn’t so bad. Let him go back to his life again.’ You liar. You heartless bitch! You slut . . . !” The captain’s hand shot out and clutched her arm so hard she could not escape, although he could barely stand straight.

  “I have done nothing wrong!” she shouted. “Nushash himself is my witness—I was taken as a virgin from the Temple of the Hive and Jeddin came to me in the Seclusion and told me he was in love with me. Is it my fault he was mad, the poor dead fool?”

  Dorza’s free hand rose up, trembling, to strike her, but then it fell again. He let go of her arm and stumbled back to his chair. “Then that son of a bitch Jeddin has destroyed me as surely as if he had shot me with a musket ball.” He turned a red eye on Qinnitan again. “Go. Get out of this house and take that idiot child with you. I do not care where you go—I never want to hear your name again. When the autarch’s men come to cut my head off and drag my wife and children into slavery, I will be certain to tell them what you said ... that it was not your fault.” He made a horrible barking sound, half laugh, half sob.

  “You are casting me out? With nothing? Out of fear that some of the autarch’s spies might find out . . .”

  “The autarch’s spies? Are you whores of the Seclusion really so ignorant? We always thought you knew more of events than we outside the palace ever could.” He spat on the floor—shocking from such a tidy man. “It is only a matter of a few moons or so before the autarch’s fleet sails. He is outfitting new warships and arming soldiers even now.” Dorza took a key from his belt, then bent and clumsily unlocked the chest chained to the table leg. He took a few pieces of silver out and dropped them to the floor. One coin rolled right to Qinnitan’s feet, but she did not stoop for it. “Take those. At least you may then get far enough from me before you’re caught that I will gain a few more weeks of life.”

  “What do you mean, the autarch’s fleet? Sails where?”

  “Here, you foolish, foolish girl. He is coming here, to conquer Hierosol, then the rest of Eion after it. Now get out of my house.”

  6. Skurn

  Here is truth! The light was Tso, and Zha was the wife he created out of the nothingness. She fled him but he followed. She hid, but he discovered.

  She protested, but he persuaded. At last she surrendered, and at their lovemaking the heavens roared with the first winds.

  —from The Revelations of Nushash, Book One

  GUARD CAPTAIN FERRAS VANSEN woke to the sickly glow of the shadowlands, unchanged since he had fallen asleep. His cloak was no longer covering his face and rain spattered him. He groaned and rolled over, scrabbling for the hem of the heavy woolen garment, but it was trapped between him and the dampening ground and he had to sit up, groaning even louder, to free it.

  He was just about to roll back into sleep when he saw a hint of movement at the corner of his gaze. He held his breath and turned his head as slowly as he could, but saw nothing except the long, wet grass and the familiar lump of Barrick’s sleeping form. Beyond lay the terrifying creature called Gyir, but the warrior-fairy also seemed to be asleep.

  Vansen let out what he hoped sounded like the honest snort of someone whose slumber had been briefly but inconsequentially disturbed, then lay silently, praying that his heart was not really beating as loudly as it seemed to be. He knew he had seen something more than the simple bouncing of rain-bent grass.

  Movement resumed beside the soggy remnants of last night’s fire, a rounded shape bobbing along slowly only a few paces from the sleeping prince.

  Vansen flung his cloak at it and dived after; the thing let out a muffled squawk and tried to escape, but it seemed to be tangled. Vansen scrambled across the wet ground on elbows and knees and managed to catch it before it disappeared into the darkness again. As he held it wrapped in the damp wool, he found it smaller than he had feared and surprisingly light, loose as a bundle of sticks and cloth in his hands: even with a poor grip on it, his strength seemed more than equal to the task of holding it. The captive creature let out a terrified, whistling shriek that sounded almost like a child’s cry. He could feel by its struggles that it was a large bird of some kind, with wings that must stretch nearly as wide as a man’s arms.

  As he tried to protect his face from the darting beak something else rushed toward him, startling him so that he did not even fight when the bird was ripped out of his hands. By the time Vansen could turn his head, the shadow-man Gyir had a squat knife with scalloped edges pressed lengthwise against the creature’s throat as the bird thrashed and made odd, almost human noises of fear. It was a raven, Ferras Vansen could see now, mostly black, with a few patches of white random as spatters of paint, but Vansen paid it little attention. He was terrified and astonished at the sudden appearance of Gyir’s knife, and shamed by his own incompetence.

  Great Perin, has he had that all along? He could have murdered us at any time! How did I miss it?

  But he could not ignore the bird after all, because it had begun to talk.

  “Don’t kill us, Masters!” The voice rasped and whistled, but the words were clear. “Us’ll never do wrong at you again! Us were only so hungry!”

  “You can speak,” said Vansen, reduced to the obvious.

  The raven turned one bright yellow eye toward him, beak opening and shutting as it tried to get its breath. “Aye. And most sweetly, too, given chance, Masters!”

  Prince Barrick sat up, tousle-haired and puffy-eyed, looking at least for this moment more like an ordinary sleepy young man and less like the maddening enigma he had been. “Why precisely are you two pummeling a bird?” He squinted. “It’s rather spotty. Might it be good to eat?”

  “No, Master!” the raven said, struggling uselessly. Patches of gray skin showed where it had lost feathers, making it seem even more pathetic. “Foul and tasteless, I am! Pizen!”

  Gyir changed position to steady the squirming bird, poised to kill it.

  “No!” Vansen said.”Let it be.”

  “But why?” asked the prince. “Gyir says it’s old and going to die soon, anyway. And it was thieving from us.”

  “It speaks our tongue!”

  “So do many other thieves.” The prince seemed more amused than anything else.

  “Aye,” the bird panted, “speech it good and well, thy sunlander tongue. Learned it by Northmarch when I lived close by your folk there.”

  “Northmarch?” It was a name Vansen had barely heard in years, a haunted name. “How could that be? Men have not lived at Northmarch for two centuries, since the shadows rolled over it.”

  “Oh, aye, us were young then.” The raven still struggled helplessly in Gyir’s grasp. “Us had shiny pins and joints all supple, and us’s knucklers were firm.”

  Vansen turned to Gyir, forgetting for a moment that it was harder to communicate with him than with the raven. “Two centuries old? Is that possible?”

  The fairy came the closest to a human gesture Vansen had
yet seen, a kind of slithery shrug. The meaning was clear: it was possible, but why should it matter?