It was the first time she’d ever heard him call her by her name, and it sent both hot and cold shivers riding along her skin. She shrugged. “So has it been since we began this dance, you and I.” The dark prevented her from pushing the mare into a pace faster than a cautious walk, even with the aid of the lantern’s pallid light.“I just need to stay far enough ahead until you give up this quest, remember you’re no longer the empress’s cat’s-paw, and return home to the child who misses you,” she said over her shoulder.
“Why do you think I’m here?” he shouted after her as she rode toward the wood’s edge and away from him.
“To take your promised revenge,” she replied in a soft voice he couldn’t hear. “But not today.”
His virulent curses followed her through the trees, finally fading until all she heard was the rhythm of the mare’s steps and the sounds of woodland creatures. Compared to the barren silence surrounding Midrigar, the woods here were almost noisy, and Siora kept her ears open for the howl of wolves and her eyes wide as she guided the horse through the maze of sentinel trees.
She thanked any gods who might be listening when the wood thinned, and she spotted hints of the trade road, a silver ribbon under the moon’s light. The crackling tread of hooves on underbrush gave way to a louder clop when the mare stepped onto the road’s hard-packed dirt.
During the small hours, as the night waned but dawn was still beneath the horizon, the road was deserted, at least by the living. Siora’s gladness at traveling the road alone and unaccosted changed to horror at the sight of several ghosts once more rushing toward her, wispy, tattered flags caught in a wind she didn’t hear or feel. They twisted and clutched the air, silently screaming as they resisted the draw of a force that pulled them toward the wood, toward Midrigar in a relentless tide. They wore the same expressions as those pitiful faces on the barn wall and in the fields as she’d fled from Gharek.
They broke against her and the mare before spilling aroundthe pair like waves against a great rock. Their terrified expressions tore at her, and Siora reached for several, offering herself as an anchor. It was a futile gesture. Revenant hands passed through her clothing and hair, leaving cold trails on her skin as they clutched at her. She peered into every face, no matter how gruesome or decayed. Her heart thundered in her ears as she searched, frightened she’d find her father’s ghost among these captive unfortunates. Relief at not seeing him combined with horror as the dead were sucked toward Midrigar while she stood in the road, helpless to stop it. She’d managed to save a living man from this evil. She couldn’t save the dead.
Whatever scooped ghosts up as if they were fish in a net and bewitched Gharek until he was no more than a puppet pulled on harsh strings, Siora remained immune to its power. She’d felt the frigid abyss of its regard in the woodland near Midrigar, understood in the instinctive way of a rabbit being stalked that it would devour her if it could, but for reasons unknown, it held no sway over her.
Her imperviousness to its power had allowed her to help Gharek, an irony in itself considering what bound them together. There was no ethereal weapon she might wield to break the grip this thing had on spirits. She was a shade speaker, not a necromancer. She could speak to and hear the dead but possessed no death magic, knew no spells to beat back an entity that stalked the departed. She was merely a voice for the voiceless and could only watch as each ghost was snatched toward the black wood, where it disappeared into its depths.
The mare snuffled and shifted her weight, either unconcerned or unaware of the ethereal chaos swirling around her. Siora peeredinto the tree line a final time, listening for footsteps or sepulchral voices. The darkness, and its sister, silence, stared back. Her sympathy for the dead would get her killed if she returned to the wood, and she didn’t believe the mercy she’d shown Gharek would be returned. She urged the mare into a trot, away from the wood, and cursed Midrigar, away from the dead empress’s assassin.
Wellspring Holt offered temporary safety, a place where she might briefly catch her breath before fleeing once more in the hope Gharek wouldn’t find her and, if the gods were kind, finally put aside his need for revenge.
The town was just waking when she reached its outskirts. A rising sun crested the horizon, riding a fiery line that burned away the night. Morning dew sat cool and damp on her shoulders and hair. Tired, hungry, and yawning from lack of sleep, Siora maneuvered her way through a growing crowd of vendors and customers filling the streets, the first to set up their stalls, the second risen early to buy the choice items for sale. She dodged beggars, who watched her pass with the same weary, desperate expressions she wore when she begged, and avoided the vile-smelling trenches that lined the cobblestone streets and alleys and carried the effluvia tossed from chamber pots.
Prolonged scrutiny from others as she made her way through Wellspring Holt made her shoulder blades itch and reminded her she needed to find a stable quickly. Gharek’s mare had been an unexpected boon, and Siora wished she might keep her, but the horse was a fine mount, obvious to anyone with an inkling of knowledge about horses. Far too fine a possession for a beggar woman in rags to be riding unless she stole it.
The last thing Siora wanted was to draw attention to herself.Even when she took the risk of offering her services as a shade speaker, most only remembered what she told them about their dead loved ones, not what she looked like. A gutter rat atop a fine mare attracted notice.
Her talent for communicating with spirits had sometimes bought her a night in a stable or barn among the cattle and horses or sometimes the dinner of a meat pie or bowl of potatoes. It also created problems. Charlatans claiming to have the same talent as she had turned it into a travesty to be mocked, disbelieved, and, on some occasions, punished. Still, the Empire considered shade-speaking a kind of second sight instead of magic, so it wasn’t outlawed. Siora was happy most people thought her a trickster and her gift a sham, even as they gave her money to speak to the spirits that still lingered on the earthly plane.
She halted in front of a stall setting up to sell iron nails. The vendor gave her a suspicious look when she asked the whereabouts of the nearest public stable yard. His distrust didn’t lessen when she told him she’d been charged to drop her mistress’s horse off with a farrier. He pointed in the direction of a cluster of ramshackle buildings, then shooed her away with a wave of both hands.
His directions were easy to follow, and she soon discovered the stable yard, a bustling hive of activity with groomsmen and stable lads rushing to and fro, customers dropping off horses for grooming, vetting, or boarding, and the horses themselves, jostling each other for space at the feeding or water troughs. No one noticed Siora among the controlled mayhem, which suited her fine. She could leave the mare and simply walk away with none the wiser.
It was a shame she couldn’t sell Gharek’s mount, but attempting it guaranteed an unfriendly visit from the town’s constabularyarmed with questions, suspicions, and the strong possibility of a night spent in the gaol, caged and waiting for Gharek to stroll into town and find her.
She found an out-of-the-way spot in the stable yard to dismount and strip anything of value from the tack and saddlebags, tucking them out of sight in her bodice and the pockets she’d sewn into the folds of her skirt. She kept all of Gharek’s coin, as well as a shirt, a tunic, a pair of trousers, a knife, and the half full pack of road rations he carried. She turned his tunic into a makeshift satchel, shoving all but the coin and the knife inside before tying it off. The saddlebags she left with the saddle. Of good quality and well-made, they were far too nice for the likes of her and would only draw notice.
She coaxed the mare to a cluster of other horses still tacked and saddled, whispered a “thank you” for her help, and left her at one of the hay racks before striding away from the stable yard. Soon enough someone would inquire about her owner. By then Siora intended to be on the other side of town, hiding in some niche where she could sleep a few hours and plan what she’d do next.
She hurried past shops catering to the town’s wealthy citizens: perfumeries and tailors, confectioneries and specialty cobblers, silk merchants, a sword smith, and even a book purveyor. The last made her pause for a moment to stare longingly at the bound volumes displayed in cases, the lettering on their spines hinting at the treasures between the covers. Her mother had taught her to read when she was a child. The skill had served her as well as speaking with the dead, though she considered it a gift while the other was sometimes a burden.
“Get away from there, ya lice-ridden tar leather!”
A piece of fruit hurtled through the shop’s open doorway. Siora sidestepped it and jogged away from the scowling shopkeeper who raised his arm to throw something else at her. She did stop long enough to pick up the fruit. An orange. She grinned as she sprinted down the street. The well-fed merchant might think nothing of wasting food in such a way, but Siora blessed such good fortune literally thrown at her. She had something to eat and didn’t have to spend any of Gharek’s pilfered money yet.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. The orange wasn’t much but she could enjoy it, along with a little of the road rations she’d taken to keep the hunger pangs at bay. They’d been her constant companions for many years, with only a few short respites from their presence, including the time she’d lived in Gharek’s household.
She wove a path deeper into the town, away from the main roads used for commerce and onto the narrower back streets and alleys, lined on either side by houses. Some boasted ornate doors studded with rows of expensive iron-nail caps. Others were carved or painted in lavish designs with family crests or murals depicting some familial event for which the occupants were most proud. All spoke of the wealthy living behind them and a message that rabble like her had no place here.
What this neighborhood lacked in welcome, it more than made up for in peacefulness and quiet. No one lurked in the doorways. Children didn’t play in the streets nor did women stand on their stoops to sweep and exchange gossip with each other or share in the labor of laundry from communal washtubs. It was an odd kind of distancing, one Siora welcomed. A gathering of people familiar with each other and their day-to-day lives would be quick tonote and remark on the appearance of a stranger in their midst, even one simply journeying through the town on the way to other business.
Relieved that this street lacked the bustle of others, Siora followed a winding alley dividing the back walls of several homes, searching for a hideaway where she could rest without being noticed. She found what she was looking for in a tiny lean-to, empty of whatever it had been built to shelter. Just large enough for her to crawl into and obscured by a pair of overgrown bushes and numerous lines of damp laundry hanging above it. The perfect place to sleep for a few hours, out of the sun and safe from prying eyes.
Tucked into the space, she ate the orange and a little of the road rations. The makeshift bag holding the food and clothes acted as a pillow, and she lay on the ground, thankful for its coolness in the lean-to’s stifling stillness. The day’s heat and a night of running from her pursuer made her lethargic. She closed her eyes, skating the edge of sleep, wondering at the vagaries of fate that had turned a man, who’d offered her his reluctant but significant trust into a vigilante who’d chased her across half the Empire to exact revenge against her.
The memory of his daughter, small, fragile Estred, crying as she huddled in on herself while a vicious mob bellowed their outrage and hurled rocks at her, made tears seep beneath Siora’s closed lashes. The girl hadn’t even been able to protect her head from the stones with her arms because she had no arms. Courage had engulfed Siora in a red tide of indignant fury at the sight. She’d flung people twice her size out of her way to reach the terrified child and used her own body as a shield to protect her against the hail of stones raining down on them.
The battering had lasted a lifetime, or so it seemed to her bruised body, until it gradually stopped, and the angry shouts turned to fearful cries, screams of pain, and running feet. Siora had found herself unceremoniously flung to the side, the crying child ripped from her arms. She’d rolled, only to gain her feet, ready to launch herself at this newest attacker. She’d halted at the sight of the little girl held tight in the embrace of a man who stroked her hair and whispered soothingly into her ear. He’d stood amidst a scatter of stones and a trio of lifeless bodies, their blood pooling beneath them or trickling in serpentine rivers across the cobblestone street. The mob had fled and left its dead behind.