Forest of Ruin (5 page)

They were finishing the meal when Moria reached for the last rice ball and her cloak fell open, and she realized the ends of the prayer band again dangled past her short sleeve. She gave them an impatient tuck up again.

“This is what I mean, Keeper,” Gavril said. “It is not as easily hidden as you seem to think. If my father finds it . . .”

“He'll not.”

“I'd rather avoid taking the chance and—”

“Shhh.”

Gavril glowered at her. “Don't shush me.”

Moria slapped a hand over Gavril's mouth. Before he could wrench it off, she pointed to the east, where she'd seen movement in the long grass. He caught it, too, and then he did push her away, yanking his blade as both of them rose, weapons ready.

Four figures stood in the distance. Four armed men, with
swords and cudgels. Not warriors, then, despite the blades.

“Sabre's father's men?” Moria whispered.

Gavril shook his head, and Moria lifted her dagger to hurl at the first man who moved. None did. Then two more appeared beside the others. Gavril swung toward them, his sword raised, and Moria spun just as yet another two men stepped into the clearing. Big men. Rough men. Armed men.

“The traitor and his whore,” one said, stepping forward. “The goddess has smiled upon us tonight.”

“S
tay your dagger, Keeper,” Gavril murmured as Moria flexed her throwing hand.

“I can fell—”

“Only one, which will then leave you unarmed.”

“You can give me
your
dagger, Kitsune,” Moria said. “And I'll take down two.”

“I gladly would, but the odds are still against us. Heavily against us.”

Moria surveyed the bandits encircling them. She now counted eleven, possibly more behind them, lost in the night.

“Listen to your lover,” the lead man called. “You cannot escape this alive. Letting us return you to the emperor is your only choice. He has not yet reinstituted executions. He may only exile you. Torture you, yes. Perhaps enough that you'll wish you were dead. Yet there is a chance of survival. Strike against us, and there is none.”

He was right. Moreover, while Moria still worried what punishment the emperor might need to inflict on them for appearances' sake, that would not include execution. Not when Emperor Tatsu was the one who'd sent them here in the first place.

“Lower that dagger, whore,” the bandit leader said. “We'll take your weapons.”

“I would ask you not to call her that,” Gavril said, his voice low.

“Oh, that's very sweet. The traitor loves his Keeper whore, and he does not appreciate hearing her maligned.”

Gavril opened his mouth, but Moria whispered, “Do not argue. Just lay down your weapons. You'll not be able to keep them. Nor to fight.”

They both set their blades at their feet. The bandit leader approached. He looked to be from the steppes—almost as light-skinned as Moria, with shaggy, brown hair. Not nearly as intimidating as Alvar's man—Barthol—but Moria knew better than to put much credence in appearances. She'd learned much since Edgewood.

“Bind them,” he called to the others, then scooped up their weapons and examined them like a merchant eyeing new goods. Which was apt, given that Moria doubted she'd see her dagger again.

Two other men approached with ropes. Gavril and Moria held out their hands as the leader walked through the camp.

“Good horses,” he said. “Take them. Oh, and what do we have here?” He lifted Moria's cloak. “This is particularly fine. I believe I'll keep this for myself.”

Gavril's mouth opened in protest, but Moria stomped on his foot to silence him.

“You're in no position to demand anything, Kitsune. He'd likely cut it to shreds if you tried.” She gave him a look. “And you call me the impetuous one.”

“You've changed.”

“I've had to,” she said, and let one of the men lead her away.

The smell of sweat did not particularly bother Moria. If one engaged in physical activity, it was rarely convenient to draw a bath immediately after. So long as bathing—even with a bowl and cloth—was a regular part of one's routine, the smell rarely escalated to a stink.

In the Wastes, with no access to spare water, both she and Gavril had reeked. She'd grown accustomed to it quickly enough, and would only notice when she woke in the night, confused and unsettled, and then the smell was actually comforting. Gavril was there, and whether they were tolerating each other or barely speaking, if danger came, he'd be at her side and she'd be at his.

Gavril was there; she and Daigo were not alone; all was well.

Had someone asked exactly what she'd smelled, waking up those nights, she'd have said it was simply the stink of an unwashed body. Now, having been put in a wagon by the bandits and left to sleep, side by side again, Moria realized she recognized Gavril's scent as well as Daigo might.

And now she smelled it again, tossing in her sleep, and it tormented her with memories. Gavril in the palace court when
she confronted him about his father. Gavril admitting he knew who had massacred her village. Gavril holding her at sword point before he escaped. Gavril in the dungeon. Gavril turning his back on her, telling his father he did not care what happened to her. Telling his father she was a foolish, stupid child, and leaving her in that dungeon, to the guard's torments.

She dreamed she was back in that cell, fighting off the guard—Halmond—pulling back the knife to stab him. Only in the dream, he wrested it from her fingers and slammed it into her gut, and she gasped, her eyes closing and then opening to see, not Halmond holding the blade, but Gavril.

Moria shot upright, screaming, still feeling the agony of the blade buried in her gut, and then she saw Gavril, right there, his hands on her shoulders, saying her name. She fought wildly, half asleep, seeing Gavril's face in both dream and reality, his cold and empty expression as he plunged the blade in deeper, and then the other Gavril, his eyes wide with alarm, her name on his lips, his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries.

“It's all right,” he said. “It's me. I'm here.”

She kicked and clawed, biting his hand and struggling with everything she had while he fought to restrain her, muttering, “Not the right thing to say, apparently.”

Moria scuttled backward as Gavril crouched there, his hands raised, talking to her in what he must have thought was a soothing tone, but sounding more like he was trying to calm a spooked horse.

The floor rattled. She could feel the vibrations, and they scattered most of the dream, leaving her staring about in confusion. Vibrating wood floor. Low wooden ceiling. Dark,
cave-like space lit only by the moon shimmering through a hole in the roof.

They were in a wagon. They'd been tossed in here, their bindings removed, apparently deemed unnecessary given that they were surrounded by mounted and armed men.

“We're in a wagon,” Gavril said.

“I see that,” she snapped. She continued looking about, orienting herself. There were blankets on the floor. She tugged on one and backed farther from Gavril. Then she lay down and pulled it over herself. When silence fell, she could hear her teeth chattering as she shook convulsively, as much from the dream as from the chilly night.

Gavril took the second blanket and passed it to her. When she ignored it, he started to stretch it over her.

“Don't,” she said.

“Until the dream passes,” he said, and pulled it onto her. “Was it about your father?”

“It was about many things.”

“We ought to talk—”

“No.”

A hiss of air expelled through teeth. “I know you think I cannot explain, and you are correct,” he said. “There is no excuse. I do not expect you to understand, but it would help me to say my piece.”

“Yes, it would help you.” Moria rose, sitting, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “You think I'm punishing you, don't you? Not allowing you to explain.”

“I understand that I deserve your anger.”

“Do you? After you left the city, I wouldn't speak to anyone
of what you did. I could say I had made up my mind about you and would not waste time discussing the matter, but Tyrus determined the truth. He wanted what I wanted: an explanation, an excuse. To have you return and say, ‘This is not as it appears.' Because no matter what you'd done, we both remembered another Gavril. He remembered his childhood friend. I remembered a boy who fought at my side through the Wastes.” She lifted her gaze to his. “But you are not that boy.”

“I—”

“If you explain yourself to me, I'll see that boy again, and I'll realize it's not as simple as I thought. That you are not one thing or the other. That you can be both. That I can trust you with my life, and that I can trust you not at all. And how would that help me? Am I safer to be on my guard at all times? Or to rest certain that you will always have my back?”

“I have your back, Keeper. Always. Yet you are safest to pretend otherwise, to watch it yourself, and work with me, as best you can, to escape this situation. Then you may decide what you wish to hear. I will wait for you to do so. I will not ask you again.”

“Thank you.”

She tried to hand him back his blanket, but he said, “Keep it. I'm sitting watch anyway.”

“Wake me at dawn so you can sleep.”

G
avril did not wake her, but the morning sun did, and she insisted he sleep. They needed to keep their wits about them, which meant they both needed to be rested. He slept fitfully. When he stopped tossing, she shifted closer and saw that his eyes were open.

He pushed up, gazing around.

“We're in a wagon,” she said.

He gave her a look, and she countered it with a faint smile. He did not return it, but his face relaxed, and he nodded, acknowledging the jest.

“Have we stopped at all?” he asked.

“No. It's midmorning if the sun is any indication.” She turned to him. “We need to talk.”

The look on his face made her stomach clench—seeing his hope and relief and knowing she was about to crush it, hating
herself for that and then hating herself for feeling guilty.

It was so blasted complicated. So fraught with emotion and all of those emotions painful, and she was struck by the overwhelming urge to leap out the back of the wagon, fight their captors. Because whatever happened, it would be action and a pain she could deal with so much more easily than this.

“About our plans,” she hurried on. “You know the emperor better than I do. What will he do when we are delivered to his doorstep?”

Gavril took a deep breath. “That is . . . difficult to say. I knew him well enough when I was younger, but my opinions on the man have changed. Justifiably in some ways and yet in others . . . I'm realizing now . . .” He shook his head. “You didn't ask for my opinions on the emperor himself.”

“No, go on. I'd like to hear them.”

Gavril hesitated. “It is impossible to explain without touching closer to breaking my promise than you might like. Everything is colored by the past, and in explaining that, you may think I'm trying . . .”

“Anything you say about your experiences with the emperor helps me understand what we might be about to face.”

“All right, but I warn you, this may be more about my father than the emperor. It's . . . difficult to separate the two.”

“I can imagine.”

He seemed to relax at that and sat cross-legged before he began. “You know that they were best of friends. Boon companions. They grew up together. They fought in the imperial wars together. When Jiro Tatsu was made emperor, I'm certain my father felt slighted. It happened before I was born, so I
know little of it, though I do recall once hearing them talking, alone together, and the emperor saying it was only luck of birth that gave him the throne over my father, because my father was not empire-born.”

“That is true,” she said.

“In public, they remained as close as ever, but even as a child, I felt the tension between them. At the time, I only worried it would affect my friendship with Tyrus. My father . . .” Gavril shifted. “My father did not encourage me to form relationships.”

“What do you mean?”

“He . . .” Gavril shook his head. “It adds nothing to the tale, because my father
did
encourage my friendship with Tyrus. Or, I should say, he encouraged . . . No matter. The point is that we remained friends, and so the emperor was like an uncle to me. He was very kind to me, and always had time for me, and I greatly admired him and often wished . . .”

“Often wished what?” she prompted when he trailed off.

“My relationship with my father was not easy. I envied Tyrus's with the emperor. It was the difference between being a bastard to a man with four legitimate heirs and being the only child. My father said that someday I would be glad of his harshness, because Tyrus could never be more than he was, and I could. I did not care. I would have gladly shared my father's attentions with a dozen brothers, if I could be as free as Tyrus.”

“Tyrus is not free.”

“I know. His burden is different but no less. A child doesn't see that. Later, my view of the emperor changed. I was confused
for a long time. No one truly explained what my father had done, and people thought him either a martyr or a monster. I was still friends with the son of the man who had sentenced my father to exile, and the emperor himself was as kind to me as ever, as if nothing had changed. But then I grew up, and I heard how my father had been betrayed by his best friend, how the emperor exiled him on false charges because he feared my father's power. I heard that from my uncles and in the streets. Then Tyrus went away to the Okamis and I was moved into the barrack for training. That separation also meant a separation from the emperor himself, and my opinions on the man changed. My view of his actions changed.”

“He became the enemy,” she said softly.

Gavril nodded. “Time tempered my memories of my father, too, and all around me I heard what a great man he was, and how any rumor of his ruthlessness or cruelty or, yes, madness was from his enemies, who spread lies for the emperor. Even my opinion of Tyrus altered. I was . . . more influenced by others than I like to admit. I felt alone and . . .”

He cleared his throat. “That is no excuse. The fact is that it was simple for me to believe we had grown apart and the fault was more Tyrus's than mine, and that if he continued trying to renew our friendship, he had an ulterior motive.”

“Tyrus never has ulterior motives.”

“I know, and I know it does not speak well of me to admit I thought him guilty of that. It was easier to believe I had avoided a trap than that I'd lost a friend, which I now know I had. I now know many things. About Tyrus, about myself, about my father, and about the emperor. But it is the last that
concerns you. What do I think of the emperor?”

He took a deep breath. “I am almost certain we face no hero's welcome. Jiro Tatsu is not the kindly uncle I once believed him to be. Nor is he the monster I later thought. He is the emperor, and all that entails. He must put us into the dungeons, exactly as these men expect. If he makes any other move, his enemies will pounce, and the empire will be further split. It will not be comfortable nor pleasant, but it will be safe. We will be there for appearances only, and only until he can find some reason to free us.”

“But then we cannot go to your father's camp.”

“No.”

“Which is a problem.”

Gavril exhaled and stretched his legs. “It is.”

“Because not only does it mean I can't spy on him, but when he discovers we've been taken, it gives him more fodder for his cause—his only son and an imperial Keeper thrown into the dungeons.”

“Yes.”

“How will this affect his next move?”

Gavril looked over and frowned.

“You said he is planning a major move. I'm presuming now you can tell me what it is.”

“I would, if I knew. My father realized . . . he did not have my full devotion. I was simply too poor an actor, as I'm certain you saw. I could not feign the degree of filial loyalty he expected. I led him to believe it was simply because we'd been too long apart—he was a stranger to me—but he took care not to tell me anything of a sensitive nature. I know only that he
was mobilizing troops and that he had some grand move in mind.”

“Martial or sorcery?”

“I . . . I would like to say that, given the mobilization of troops, it was the former.” He looked at her. “But I fear it was not.”