Tyrus. Daigo.
And Ashyn. Where was Ashyn? Safe. Moria had to trust in that. Whatever she thought of Ronan, he was clever and he was cautious. He would not have let Ashyn come to danger.
Ashyn would be safe.
And Tyrus? Daigo?
Her stomach lurched again as her fingers dug into the cold dirt.
She closed her eyes and tried to speak to the spirits. Any spirits. She tried and she tried and she tried. Not so much as a whisper answered.
She gave up then, shivering and instinctively reaching to pull her cloak tighter. Like her armor, it was gone, and at that, her throat tightened. After everything she'd lost, the cloak should seem inconsequential. It was not. Her father's last gifts to the girls were Ashyn's ring and Moria's cloak. Now it was gone forever, and in her despair, it felt like losing him again.
When the cold ground beneath her vibrated, she prayed it was a sign from the spirits. But as she pressed her hands against the floor, she heard footsteps. She scrambled up and raked her fingers through her hair and wiped her sleeve over her mouth. She'd not be found lying in the dirt, broken and crying. She would not.
She heard the clang of a bolt being swung free. Then the creak of a wooden door. Light rushed in and the suddenness of it made her head throb. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes.
A man walked in, temporarily blocking the light, so that all she saw was a figure. Tall. Dark-skinned. His hair cut so short the light reflected off his scalp. She could make out nothing more, as hard as she blinked. Then he moved aside, and the light hit again, blinding her.
"I do not see what purpose it serves to show me wretches in the dungeon," a voice said. "I know they're here. I do not enjoy their plight. Nor am I particularly unnerved by it, if that's what you fear. I am supposed to be meeting an ambassador from Umeweil, and I do not think keeping him waiting is wise."
That voice. I know that . . .
The second man appeared. She saw his braids, his bright green eyes, the black-inked sleeves tattooed on his dark forearms, and suddenly she was lying by a campfire, studying those tattoos.
"It's beautiful work."
"I'll remember that when they're doing the inking, and I'm trying very hard not to cry out."
She laughed. "If you fell from a thunder hawk without so much as a gasp, I think you can handle inked needles."
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the dark sky. He reached over and moved her hair away from the fire.
"Before it catches alight," he said.
She'd told herself that if she ever saw Gavril Kitsune again, she'd kill him. Without hesitation. She'd leap up and strangle him with her bare hands if need be. But here he was, standing close enough that she might indeed be able to grab him, yet she did nothing.
Tyrus was right. She remembered the boy who'd fought by her side, the boy who'd confided in her, the boy who'd lain by the fire with her, and no matter what he seemed to have done since, she could not truly believe it.
As she moved, the chain on her leg whispered across the dirt, and Gavril looked her way for the first time. He stopped mid-step and stared, and in his eyes, she saw . . . She couldn't name what she saw. S
he was afraid to.
"Moria?"
The other man chuckled. "You don't even consider for a moment that it might be her sister? You do know her well."
Moria looked at the man. He was wide-shouldered, shorter and broader than Gavril. His skin tone was lighter. His features were rougher, coarser. But there was no doubt who he was.
Alvar Kitsune. Gavril's father.
The man who killed my father.
Just the other day, she had told Ashyn that she blamed the emperor for their mother's death. That conviction paled against this one. Emperor Tatsu had failed to amend old traditions that had caused their mother to take her life. Yet Alvar Kitsune had murdered their father as surely as if he'd wielded the blade himself. No, worse than that, because he hadn't wielded any blade. He'd hidden in the shadows and let monsters do it for him.
Rage boiled up in Moria, and if she'd been close enough to spring, she would have. For Alvar Kitsune, she would have.
"I lived in Edgewood for nearly two summers," Gavril said. "Of course I can tell them apart."