“Pigeon, move back,” she said as she bent to pick it up, but the boy only stared at her, his face full of helpless misery. “Move back!” She turned to the man. “When he is at the edge of the dock by those steps, I’ll tie it around my waist. I swear as an acolyte of the Hives of Nushash.”
The man actually laughed, a harsh rasp of amusement. Something was different about him, she realized for the first time—something odd, as though he had lost a bit of his stony outer armor. He was still terrifying, though.
The man nodded. “Go ahead, then.” He called over his shoulder to Pigeon. “Run, child. Once I see that rope tied, if you are still on the dock I will cut off the rest of your fingers.”
Pigeon shook his head again, violently, but Qinnitan thought it was less in negation than in desperation. “Go away!” she shouted. A few people at the other end of the dock turned, their attention finally distracted from the fire in the harbor. “I cannot live with your suffering, Pigeon. Please—it’s the best thing you can do for me. Go!”
The boy hesitated half a dozen heartbeats longer, then burst into tears and turned and ran away across the broad dock, his bare feet banging on the planks. Qinnitan considered throwing herself into the cold green water again, but whether it was the horror of nearly drowning earlier or the feeling that she had somehow changed what lay before her, if only a little, she tied the rope around her waist and then let herself be pulled toward the nameless man. Pigeon, she was relieved to see, was no longer in sight.
The only person left in this world who loved me, she thought. Gone now. Qinnitan let the man lead her off like an animal going to holy sacrifice, away from the sparking chaos of the harbor and back into the shadowed alleys that ran between the narrow buildings clustered beside the docks of Agamid.
19. Dreams of Lightning and Black Earth
“One Deep Ettin killed with hot oil and dragged from its tunnel at Northmarch was more than twice the height of a man. King Lander later brought the bones back to Syan as a trophy.The monster’s hand was said to have been as large as Lander’s great shield.”
She was digging desperately through dark earth, but every time she caught a glimpse of her twin brother’s pale, sleeping face he sank farther into the soil and out of her reach.
Once or twice she actually managed to touch his garments before he slid deeper into the ground, but no matter how hard she worked or how fast she threw aside the dirt she could not catch up to him. Barrick seemed alive but unaware of her, writhing as though trapped in a frightening dream. She called to him over and over but he wouldn’t or couldn’t answer.
She touched something at last and her fingers curled in the damp cloth of her brother’s shirt, but when she braced herself and pulled up hard, what appeared out of the black loam like the cap of a mushroom was not her brother’s pallid features but those of Ferras Vansen. Shocked and startled, she let go, but as the soldier disappeared back into the dirt the earth beneath her abruptly collapsed as well. She fell down into smothering, gritty dark.
She was in a tunnel, bits of white roots worming down from the rocky soil above her head. A flash of silver now appeared ahead of her—just a glimmer, but enough for her to recognize the thing she had chased before… in another…
When? She couldn’t remember. But she knew it was true, and knew that the silvery thing had eluded her once more. She was determined it would not happen again. Still, although she scrambled after it as quickly as she could, she was not meant for traveling on all fours while the thing she chased clearly was: it remained always a turn ahead of her, giving her only glimpses of a pale, fluttering, brushlike tail.
Then she stumbled and bumped against the wall. The tunnel fell in on her and Briony Eddon woke up.
She shook her head, disconcerted to find she was wearing a heavy headdress—why would she wear such a thing to bed? Briony opened her eyes to find herself in her sitting room. Her ladies were sewing and talking quietly among themselves. She had fallen asleep sitting up, in midday, and probably drooled on herself as well like some ancient crone.
Her friend Ivgenia was watching her with a little smile on her face. Briony hurriedly wiped at her chin. “How terrible I am, how rude!” she said, sitting up straight. “I must have dozed off. Why do you look at me so, Ivvie? Did I say something terrible in my sleep?”
“Oh, Highness, no.” The smile widened. “Poor thing. Too many late nights.”
“You’re teasing me. It was only one late night—and it was the last night of Greater Zosimia. You are the one always telling me I should go out and be seen by the people of the court.”
“And you were seen. And you even danced! No one will ever again criticize you for holding yourself aloof, my dear.”
“Danced? ” Briony winced a little. She had intended no such thing, but the revelries had come at the end of a long, tiring day and she had clearly taken at least one cup of wine too many. “You make it sound terrible. Did I make a fool of myself ?”
Ivvie smiled again. “You attracted much attention, but it was the sort many of the other girls envied, I think.”
“Stop. You are cruel.”
“We shall see. Your secretary has a few things for you to look at.”
“What? ” She really did feel terribly thick-headed. These nights of poor sleep and strange dreams—forests, digging, dark tunnels full of roots—were clearly taking a toll on her. Still, that was no excuse for playing the fool.
Feival Ulian had been standing in the doorway with his arms folded on his chest. He had taken to court life very quickly: no other secretary or cleric in Broadhall dressed so well or so colorfully. “Have we finished our little beauty nap?” he asked. “Because there are several messages awaiting your reply—and a few other things as well.” He rolled his eyes. “One of the packages is addressed to ‘The Lovely Dancing Princess’—I suppose that’s you.”
“Oh, dear. You’d better let me see it.” She took the small fabric-covered box from Feival. “What is it?”
Ivgenia giggled. “You goose! Open it and find out.”
“Is it a gift? It says it’s from Lord Nikomakos.” She fiddled it open and drew out a small velvet bag.
“He’s an earl’s son—the one with the yellow hair you spent so much time dancing with last night.” Ivgenia laughed. “Surely your Royal Highness didn’t drink so much wine that you can’t remember him at all?”
“I do remember. He reminded me of Kendrick, my… my brother. But he wouldn’t stop talking about his hawks. Hawk, hawk, hawk… Why should he send me…”—she lifted it out of the bag—“Zoria preserve me, why should he send me a gold bracelet?” It was a lovely thing, if a trifle gaudy, the kind of ornate work that she seldom wore by choice—a twining white rose, the blossoms picked out in pale gems. “Oh, merciful goddess, are those diamonds? What does he want from me?” She was horrified—she would never drink wine in public again. Instead of sounding out the nobles who might be sympathetic to her family’s cause and could help put gentle pressure on King Enander, as she had meant to, she had apparently made a spectacle of herself to shame the worst provincial.
“Are you really such an idiot, Highness?” Ivvie demanded.
“I mean, certainly I know what he wants, and I suppose I’m flattered, but…” She stared fretfully at the bracelet. “I must send it back.” She thought she could actually hear Feival pursing his lips in disgust. “Are all of these gifts from him?”