* * *
I found an empty but mostly intact lifeboat farther up the shore and dragged it back, stopping every now and then to pick things to send her off with. Flowers were in short supply this time of year, but Onal wouldn’t have appreciated them anyway. No, the bouquet I gathered was far less beautiful and infinitely more practical: valerian and yellow dock, dandelion and horehound.
Her body was lighter than I expected; it was hard to imagine how so large a personality had lasted so long in so thin a frame. I laid her carefully into the boat and set the herb bouquet under her pale hands. “Goodbye, you cantankerous old fiend,” I said, touching her hair one last time before pushing the craft from the shore.
As it drifted away, I wondered what shape her quicksilver tether had taken to guide her to the beyond.
A badger, most likely. Or a wolverine. Something with teeth.
I nicked my hand again—too long, too deep—and the blood came swiftly this time. It dripped into the water at my feet, and I willed it out toward the boat. “Uro,” I said, and the blood became a trail of fire to the boat, where it hit the wood and caught, sending up flames the same bright, bold orange as their backdrop of morning sky.
I stanched the blood with my other hand and sat down in the rocks, water lapping at my feet. My blood began to slow just as the fire burned out and the last of Onal’s boat sank below the surface. She was gone.
That was when the grief caught up with me.
Pressing my knuckles against my teeth to stifle the wail that was building up in my lungs, I rocked back and forth in the rushes, sobbing in great, heaving gulps.
For so long, I had convinced myself I wanted to be alone so that I couldn’t hurt anyone, but now that I was alone—well and truly—I had no choice but to admit that Zan was right.
It wasn’t for them. It was never for them.
It was always for me.
To protect myself from this.
Onal’s words echoed in my head. You are
made of nettle, my girl. And just stupid enough to keep fighting when smarter folk think there’s no reason to try.
I dried my eyes, took a breath, and forced myself to my feet.
27
I took me four days to get back to the Quiet Canary, and the first two were spent following the fjord back to its apex, the ruined city and its needle-like tower. There was not much of value to be re-collected there; but I did find Madrona cheerfully munching forest grass not far from where I had left her upon first entering the city.
She was far less enthused to see me than I was to see her.
From there, we followed the River Sentis to its fork, then took the path that became the River Urso. I would have kept going all the way to Greythorne were it not for an image in my scrying bowl that sent me riding at full gallop southwest instead of southeast.
Conrad, sitting at a table lit by a single candle, a fan of cards in his hands. Across the table, his opponent’s mouth was screwed to one side, the surest sign of her imminent defeat. Jessamine was never good at keeping her expressions under control.
The images of Kellan, Rosetta, and Zan were less promising. All I could discern was that they were being kept somewhere lightless and cramped, and that they were sick, hungry, and miraculously still alive.
I hoped that they would stay that way for a little while longer.
The red moonrise was coming, and now so was I.
As I approached the blessedly familiar tavern, it became quite clear, quite quickly, that something was different. Something was wrong. The windows were dark; the stables were empty. The Quiet Canary was finally living up to its name.
I knocked softly at the back door before opening it. “Hello?” I called into the dimness. “Hicks? Are you here?”
I heard a creak on the stair and had to duck when a fireplace poker came swinging at my head.
“Jessamine?” I gasped, jumping out of the way.
“Aurelia?” She dropped the poker and hugged me. “Thank the stars.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Where is everybody?”