Redwing (18 page)

He looked then to Samik, who was sitting up, rubbing his wrists.

“Samik—did you see?”

Samik nodded solemnly, speechless for once. And then Rowan was crying again, sure that Samik would have something caustic to say about it, but unable to hold it back. But Samik didn't say a word. He scooted over beside Rowan and wrapped his arms around him and held him tight until his breath began to steady. Then he spoke very quietly in his ear: “Your sister is a beautiful soul. She will be happy now. And you must find a way to be happy, too, for her sake. It is what she wants for you.”

Rowan nodded into Samik's shoulder. Then he sat up, scrubbed at his eyes and sighed.

He sniffed. “You smell bad.”

“Yes,” Samik agreed cheerfully. “As do you.”

“I puked on my shirt. What did you do?”

“Crapped myself.” Samik carefully pulled off his boot, reached into the hidden pocket and pulled out a small knife. He wiped it carefully on a leaf, and then flashed Rowan one of his trademark grins. “All the way down to my boots.”

BOTH BOYS FELT DREAMY and reluctant to move. Rowan just wanted to hold that moment when he floated in Ettie's light as long as he possibly could. But they both knew they couldn't stay.

It was Samik who broached it. “Rowan, we have to get out of here. I doubt the ones who captured us will ever set foot on this beach again. But the others, the ones who didn't see—they might come for Jago's body.” He gestured toward the dead warlord, and Rowan unwillingly flicked his eyes the same way. He had managed to forget about Jago, but now the savaged carcass crowded out his lovely memory of Ettie. The warlord's neck was crusted and black where K'waaf had torn it open, the sand beneath him stained.

“And they'd better not find us here,” Samik concluded. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and brushed off the sand.

Rowan nodded and slowly rose. Gods, he was exhausted. Now he felt how long he'd been up, how long since he'd eaten, the toll that fear and fatigue and overwhelming love had taken on him. He walked like an old man, trudging his slow way through the sand to the higher, firmer ground where he had first found Samik.

They considered—and decided against—taking the horses. Better not to give Jago's men any reason to continue the pursuit. Instead, they made their way to where poor Daisy and Dusty waited, and then they hoisted K'waaf into the wagon, where he eased himself onto the floor and promptly fell asleep.

“Wish we could do the same,” said Samik. Rowan nodded, watering the mules briefly and giving them each an apologetic nose rub. They were like old friends now, these mules, and he knew he was pushing them too hard. “A proper stable when we get there, girls,” he murmured.

Luckily, they didn't have to go far until the land opened up and they could turn around. The two boys climbed onto the front bench and looked at each other.

“Stormy Head or Kingstown?”

Rowan considered. Ward and Cardinal's place was much too far. Kingstown, he guessed, was a bit farther than Stormy Head—but there were friends there, and free lodging. They needed sleep and food and a bath, and K'waaf needed doctoring. Rowan flexed his shoulder blades experimentally. The cut on his back stung and ached at the same time, but he didn't think it was too bad.

“Kingstown. Let's go, girls.” He shook the reins gently—too gently for any self-respecting mule to respond to. But as if they knew that relief would only come from getting somewhere civilized, the mules headed out with their patient, dogged pace.

“If I fall asleep, poke me,” he said. He hoped he could find the address Marten had given him without trouble. He wondered who would give directions to two stinking, filthy, bloodstained travelers.

ROWAN'S HEAD SNAPPED UP—again—and this time opening his eyes was a physical struggle. It was no good; he would have to pull over and just pray they were not pursued. Samik was already asleep, bent over with his head on his knees despite the jouncing of the cart.

The drama of the night before had left them with a buzzy, high-strung energy that had carried Rowan through the first hour or two on the road. He had replayed all that had happened over and over in his mind, especially the beautiful feeling when Ettie had hovered over him. After coming so close to a terrible death, the very fact of being alive gave a glow to the world.

And then the euphoric feeling drained away, and the midmorning sun grew hot and beat down on his head and shoulders. The need for sleep became a tidal pull that sucked him deeper with each wave.

He was watching for a good place to pull off the road when he saw a man trudging ahead of them. He was heavily burdened, with a bulging pack on his back and dragging some kind of big sack along the ground.

As the mules slowly overtook him, Rowan gave the man a quick appraisal. The walker was an older man, plainly dressed but not impoverished-looking, and his face, Rowan decided, based on nothing but his own hunch, looked honest. He pulled the girls to a halt.

“Going to Kingstown?” Rowan asked.

“Aye.” The man looked up hopefully, but his face went still as he took in the state of the two boys. Samik, lifting his head up in bleary confusion, offered a wan grin.

“We had a rough night.”

A slow nod. “Right enough.” He considered awhile, then his shoulders twitched in a brief shrug, and he asked Rowan, “Can you give a lift?”

“Do you know how to drive a mule team?”

The man nodded. “Surely.”

“Then, yes, if you can drive us to Kingstown and take us to this address.” Rowan rummaged in the pouch under his shirt, pulled out a crumpled scrap of parchment and handed it over.

The man didn't take the paper. “What's it say? I don't read.” Rowan's hopes fell a little, but as he recited the address, the man's face pulled into a grin of recognition.

“Why, Sumach Lane ain't but three or four blocks from where I'm headed! I'll take ye right to the door.”

Five minutes later, Rowan and Samik were stretched out on their bunks, moaning in gratitude. And then they were gone.

TWENTY-FOUR

S
amik woke with a start, realized the caravan had stopped moving and tried to sit up. Pain shot through his body.

“Muki save me.” The words came out in a long groan.

Rowan snapped awake. “What?” He looked wide-eyed and jumpy, like a rabbit ready to bolt.

“Everything hurts,” said Samik. “Everything. Plus, I think we have arrived.”

Sure enough, a second later the canvas flap parted and their driver's head poked in.

“Here we are, lads. Sumach Lane, like you asked. I'll be taking my leave now.”

Rowan got slowly to his feet and went out the caravan door. Samik wanted nothing more than to put his head down and go back to sleep—the need for it was like a deep, yawning hunger. But then he heard the bang of a door, a shriek, a girl's voice exclaiming and gabbling and then more voices, men's voices.

The caravan door screeched.

“Mother of all, look at you!”

Shay. Samik opened one eye, confirmed that Shay was, indeed, kneeling by his bunk, and tore himself away from the sweet arms of sleep.

“Oh, my poor boy, what on earth have you been up to?” Shay leaned in as if to smooth back his hair or touch his cheek, and her nose wrinkled.

“Rowan and I are both beyond filthy, I'm afraid.” With a sigh, Samik braced himself for the pain to come and struggled to a sit.

Shay's eyes widened at his grimace. “You're really hurt.”

“Walking will be even better. Give me your arm, will you, if you can bear the smell?”

Samik's legs felt like he'd run a hundred miles, but by the time he hobbled to the door, they had loosened up enough to let him manage the steps. Outside, Rowan was surrounded by his concerned band members. Shay waded in.

“Lads, lads, give the poor boy room so he can get inside. Can't you see these two are dead on their feet?” She came back to Samik. “Need an arm in, or can you manage?”

“I can do it.” He was grateful all the same when she led them into a cozy room and let him sink into a deep chair.

“Now, then.” Shay stood in front of them, clearly in charge. “We're all dying to know what happened, but I won't be able to listen properly until we get you cleaned up and taken care of. So I'm going to go put on a huge kettle of water, and I will personally kill you both if you tell this lot”—she waved at the men who were now standing around in the parlor—“one word before I return!”

“Do you need doctoring, lads?” Marten looked with concern at the bloodstains on the back of Rowan's shirt.

Rowan shook his head. “I think I'm all right. I might get you to take a look when I'm in the bath, but it's not bleeding anymore.” He met Samik's eye. “Samik, how about you?”

Samik considered. His face was swollen where it had been hit, and his skin was raw in places where the ropes had sawed in. He was bruised from being rattled around in the wagon too, but mostly he was just incredibly sore from that long night on his feet. But—“K'waaf!” he exclaimed. “Where is he?”

Marten disappeared. Samik heard the screech of the caravan door, and then K'waaf was at his side, his big tail whipping back and forth so hard that one of the men took a hasty step out of its way.

Samik bent forward—demon's breath, that hurt—and carefully, gently checked the big dog's coat. Then he had K'waaf lie down and present his belly, and he methodically examined his underside. The fur was stiff and stained in places with blood, but Samik was relieved to find the actual injuries were all scabbed over. Incredible. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered how K'waaf had lain on the beach, his life soaking into the sand.
Thank you, Ettie, lovely soul.

He straightened to find Rowan's eyes fixed on him, full of concern, and smiled through the tears.

“He'll be fine.” He shook his head in wonder, and Rowan smiled, understanding all that couldn't be said. The chatter of the room faded away, and Samik knew they were both remembering that beautiful moment when Ettie's light lay over them like a blessing.

Shay reappeared. “Are you hungry, you two?”

Samik's stomach roared into life. He was starved—how could he not have noticed?

ROWAN AND SAMIK were both writing letters.

Samik's was easy:

I am in the capital city of Kingstown, and will finally have
a chance to send you this letter that I have been carrying about for
weeks. Now I can add on the most important news: Jago is dead. K'waaf killed him, but I do not think there will be any reprisals,
not unless Jago's followers are so loyal they dare to brave the
wrath of the divine! I will tell you the whole story when I see
you. As soon as I can earn my passage, I am coming home.

I pray you are all well,

Samik

Rowan's letter was much harder. He was writing to Ward and Cardinal. He'd only lost a few days from his “detour” to find Samik, but getting back on the road again was more than he could manage. He'd had enough of traveling alone—if that was cowardly, so be it. He hoped to find a textile merchant or carpet dealer who did business with his aunt and uncle and leave the letter to send back on the next delivery wagon.

He wrote about the death of his family, and then stopped. Should he tell them what had just happened? The thought of writing out the whole complicated story of Jago and Samik was daunting, and, in any case, it just felt wrong to tack it on to a death notice. His Aunt Cardinal was quick to laugh and cry, and he knew she would be sobbing as she read his account. She was very fond of Ettie, he remembered, and felt a quick stab of regret at missing his visit.

In the end, he settled on reassuring them that he had found a good position and giving them the address of Marten's tall, narrow house in Kingstown. Once he had settled in with his new band, he wrote, he hoped to be able to take some time off to visit—perhaps in the fall. Meantime, if business ever brought either of them to Kingstown, he hoped they would look him up.

He signed his name laboriously—
Your loving nephew,
Rowan—
and thought with envy of Samik's quick, elegant script. Samik had pulled out a couple of crumpled pages covered in even, beautiful handwriting, dashed off another half-page in what seemed like the blink of an eye, and had the whole thing addressed and ready to send while Rowan was still thinking. He'd always been better at writing out music than words.

With a sigh, he wrote Ward's address on the back of the page, rolled up the parchment so the address showed, then tied and sealed it. Then he set out to see if he could follow Marten's directions to the merchant district and find someone who knew his uncle.

IT TOOK ROWAN MOST of the afternoon to find the textile district and work his way through the various merchants until he found a solid option.

“Oh, indeed, I know your uncle well,” the round little man had said. “A fine business, quality goods. I'm expecting a delivery any day, in fact.” He had been glad to take Rowan's message and promised to send it back with the delivery driver.

It was a relief to have that long-overdue duty discharged. Rowan made the long walk back briskly, more sure of his way now, and got home in time for dinner. The dark city house didn't feel like a true home, not yet—but it was comfortable and congenial, and Rowan even liked that Marten had assigned a work schedule, ensuring that the everyday tasks like marketing, cooking and cleanup were organized and shared. He had been a bit worried that the household might be grimy and chaotic, everyone fending for himself while the bigger tasks were ignored. But Marten was having none of that. “This house is my nest egg,” he had explained, “and I aim to keep my investment sound.”

Samik sauntered in just as they were sitting down. “How'd you make out?” Rowan asked. With a grin, Samik pulled two large silver coins out of his pocket and clinked them together. Rowan's eyes widened.