There was one bright spot in all of this, and that was Vera, and the undeniable fact that she loved him. The mere thought of that made him smile, and every time he glanced over at Vera and saw her smile, well . . . his grin just climbed higher.
She loved him. Would that thought ever cease to amaze him? Probably not. A weight had lifted off his chest, and the desperation to somehow win her back had been replaced by a desperation to kiss her senseless.Again. He refrained—for the most part—when the children were watching, but when they fell asleep each night, he couldn’t help himself.
Vera had hurt him, and he would never forget how that had shredded him. But now that he knew the pain she had been experiencing at the time . . . somehow, it lessened his own.
They traveled at a carefully slow pace, so as not to cause Vera’s wound any strain. The senselessness of her pain—the fact that it had been accidental, and could have been far worse—made his teeth grind. The drunken man who had hurt her may not have sought to cause her harm, but he could have killed her. And for what? A bigotry Venn didn’t understand.
“Do you know what the Zennorians stole from me? My wife. My children.”
Those words, spoken with pure hatred, burned in Venn’s memory. The man’s pain had been fresh, but that didn’t make any sense. Zennor was their ally—there had been no war between them since years before Venn’s birth.
He hoped he found some answers. Not just for himself, but so he had something concrete to tell Serene. His report would be long, but he didn’t have enough details. Grandeur, the Hunt, the increase in refugees, the hostility toward Zennor . . . sometimes it felt like all he’d gained were more questions.
Four long days of travel after leaving the Mortisian village, they reached the city of Zahdir. The refugee camp sprawled outside the city walls, vast and teeming with people. Tents had been erected in meandering lines, and there were even some crudely built structures. Many had set up a campsite of sorts without any kind of shelter. Even though they hadn’t entered the camp yet, the air was heavy with the smells of too many people crammed too closely together.
Tension sang in the air, and the weight of depression, loss, and wariness was unmistakable as people waited to enter the encampment. Standing in line, Finn perked up from his place on the horse and eagerly searched the faces around them, though Venn doubted they would find David Holm so easily.
If he was here at all.
While they waited for entrance into the camp, Venn studied the surroundings. The stone wall that encircled Zahdir stretched high, with several lookout towers and patrols in crimson uniforms walking the battlements. Their city gates were opened, but the line to enter Zahdir was much shorter than that of the refugee camp.
A short wooden fence ran across the front of the camp, though it wouldn’t have been difficult to slip between the open slats. Some men patrolled the fence, though, and even if they didn’t look as impressive as the Mortisian soldiers guarding Zahdir, they looked just as serious. Swords were clearly belted at their sides, and they eyed the newcomers with hard gazes.
As they neared the makeshift entrance to the refugee camp, several men could be heard passing along a message, walking up and down the line. Finally, one drifted close enough that Venn could hear.
“Welcome to Salvation, refuge for those fleeing Devendra,” the middle-aged man said, the words practiced, the tone bored. “A toll will be collected at the gate, and your name will be taken down. Anyone refusing to pay the toll or give their name will be asked to leave. All rules of Salvation will be followed, or you will be thrown out. Some crimes are punishable by imprisonment or death. Keep the law—keep your life.” He drifted past them, and began to repeat his message.
Vera sidled closer to Venn. “This doesn’t sound like what I imagined.”
He agreed. He didn’t like the feel of this place.
“I wonder where the toll earnings go,” Vera wondered quietly.
“Probably into the pockets of whoever set themselves up as the law,” Venn said.
Her brow furrowed at that. “Do you think it could be a Mortisian?”
“I don’t think so. While it’s clear the camp has a good relationship with the city, I don’t see any Mortisians guarding the camp.” The mystery of who established the camp was one he determined to solve, but there was a more pressing concern. He lowered his voice further. “If we don’t give the same surname as the children, someone may become suspicious.” He didn’t want anyone to think the children didn’t belong with them.
Vera considered this briefly. “We shouldn’t change theirs, in case it helps their father find them. I’ll claim their name. I think you should use yours, though.”
He followed her thoughts easily—it would be the best record they could leave in case something happened to them here.
Fates, why did this place called Salvation feel so wrong?
Vera discretely shared the plan with Finn, who nodded, but he honestly seemed too distracted to care what name Vera used. He was searching the crowd with relentless intensity, his grip on Sarah tight as she rode in front of him.
They finally reached the front of the line. A guard with a sheathed sword stood beside a man with a quill and an open logbook, who sat at a makeshift bench. “Names?” he asked brusquely.
“Venn Grannard.”
The guard jotted that down, then glanced at Vera. “And you?”
“Vera Holm,” she lied. “These are my children: Finn, Sarah, and Rebecca.”
“Do you keep a record of everyone who enters the camp?” Venn asked as the man scribbled the names in his book. “We’re looking for someone.”
“You’ll have to see the record master about that,” he said, not looking up as his quill scratched over the page. “He’s stationed in Salvation’s center, in the Keeper’s tent.”
