He stepped left, twisting to inspect his back. The dirt continued down his shoulder blades. The burns too, though far fewer.
“Destined for greatness?” he murmured as he slipped on his shirt. “I know you always said that, Kull, but look at me now. I should be dead, and you should still be alive.”
As the words fell from Merik’s mouth, a memory percolated to the surface. You should be dead, and Mother should still be alive.
Merik snorted humorlessly. Aunt Evrane always used to say that Vivia hadn’t meant what she’d muttered at the funeral. That the sight of their mother’s body, smashed from the force of her jump off the water-bridge, had simply driven Vivia to thoughtless cruelties.
But Merik had known the truth then—and he knew it now too. Vivia had always blamed Merik for their mother’s melancholy. With each new instance of Jana hiding in bed for days on end, of Jana bringing a knife to her own wrists, of Jana locking out her children for weeks at a time, Vivia had turned colder. And colder. For in her mind, their mother had descended into darkness only after Merik had been born.
Perhaps it was true, even if Aunt Evrane always insisted otherwise. Jana’s darkness awoke when she married my brother, Evrane always said. Not after she had you. Yet Merik wasn’t inclined to believe that claim. Particularly since Evrane’s relationship with her brother was no better than Merik’s was with Vivia.
Of course, Vivia had taken her hatred a step further than Serafin ever had: she had tried to eliminate Merik entirely. Not only would it clear the way for her to rule as she saw fit, but it also was revenge for the suicide Merik hadn’t caused.
Vivia had failed to kill him, though.
So now it was Merik’s turn.
* * *
When Cam returned, she was soaked through. Merik opened the door at her pounding, and she pushed inside, dripping water and leaving wet prints behind.
Merik waited until the door was shut to inspect the armful of food clutched at her chest. Hard bread, limp vegetables, and shriveled fruit—all wrapped in a jagged piece of wide-weave canvas.
Merik gathered it from her cold, rain-slick hands, his stomach rumbling, and after a gruff mumble of gratitude, he headed for the dry sink. Though some structures in Lovats had Waterwitched plumbing, Kullen’s place was not one of them.
When Cam made no move to follow, he glanced back. “What is it?”
A gulp. Then Cam slunk forward, rubbing at her damp arms and avoiding Merik’s gaze. “They’re calling you the Fury on the streets, sir.”
Ah. So that had stuck, then.
“Ain’t too many soldiers out now,” she went on, “but the ones who are … Well, they’re all lookin’ for you. For the … Fury.”
With a sharp exhale, Merik dropped the vegetables and fruit into the sink—a limp head of fennel, four fat turnips thick with dirt, and six blue plums only slightly tinged with brown rot. The round loaf of barley bread was stale enough to break a tooth on, so Merik rewrapped it in the wet canvas and set it on the table to soak and soften.
His attention lingered there, brow knitting. “Will it be possible to reach Pin’s Keep? With so many soldiers still searching?” He swung his eyes back to the girl, whose lips puckered sideways. An expression Merik was beginning to recognize as her thoughtful face.
“Are you sure, sir … That is to say…” She cleared her throat, moving abruptly to the sink, where, with surprising urgency, she set to scrubbing at the turnips with her knuckles. The scar on her left hand rippled and stretched.
“What?” Merik pressed, moving a single step closer.
Cam’s cleaning turned all the more enthusiastic. “You sure you want to go to Pin’s Keep, sir? What if … what if it wasn’t your sister who tried to kill you?”
Heat fanned up Merik’s neck. “It was her.” No emotion, no emphasis. “I knew it was her before Judgment Square, and I have no doubt now.”
“Just ’cos she runs Pin’s Keep,” Cam challenged, “don’t mean she sent that assassin.”
The heat spread, rising up Merik’s spine. “I know it was her, Cam. I’ve been a hindrance to her plans ever since I moved back to the capital. And now—now,” he went on, the heat spreading into his lungs, “I have a direct connection between Vivia and the assassin. I lack one final piece of proof, boy. Something tangible to give the High Council. I’m certain I’ll find that at Pin’s Keep.”
“And what if you don’t?” Cam’s voice was a mere squeak now, yet something in her pitch gave Merik pause.
He fisted his fingers. The joints cracked. “Where,” he asked, “is this coming from?”
She scrubbed harder, a loud scratch-scratch beneath her words. “It’s just that, sir, I heard something on the street. Something bad. Something that makes me think … Well, it makes me think your sister ain’t behind all this.”
“And what did you hear?”
“That there was a second explosion.” And with those words, her story tumbled out. “Just like the one on the Jana, sir, and people are sayin’ it was the Cartorrans who did it. Or maybe the Dalmottis. But they’re saying that whoever it was that blew us up, it’s the same people who blew up that other ship too.”
“What,” Merik asked, even as his heart sank in a great downward rush, “other ship?”
“Oh, sir.” Cam stopped mid-scrape of her turnip, posture wilting. “It was the Empress of Marstok’s ship, and everyone on board was killed. Including … including that domna we carried on the Jana. Safiya fon Hasstrel.”