Venick was up early. His sleep had been fitful, marked by strange dreams. He’d woken long before the sky began to turn, staring at the vaulting ceiling of his tent, counting the minutes until dawn.
Eventually, he gave up. Morning would come when it did, but hell if he’d keep waiting. Venick rolled to his knees, shrugged on a borrowed jacket. He began his preparations in the dark: bundling belongings, breaking down his tent, carefully stowing Traegar’s book. In his pocket he secured the silver necklace that he still carried, but never wore. He tried to work slowly, to draw out the tasks until morning, but by the time he’d finished the sky remained stubbornly black.
He went to Dourin’s tent. Knowing it would annoy the sleeping elf—and maybe doing it in part for that reason—Venick called to him. When Dourin didn’t answer, Venick stuck his face through the tent’s flap. There was a rumpled bedroll, a burnt-out lantern, the scattered remains of today’s breakfast rations…and no Dourin.
Venick let the flap fall closed. Around the camp, a few other early risers were stirring. The morning was murky, the air thick with fog. Venick walked between tents and bedrolls, asking if anyone had seen Dourin.No, the elves replied, andnoandno.
Venick busied himself with more chores, undoing things he had done already to do them again. He was brushing Eywen sometime after dawn when Dourin reappeared.
“Where’ve you been?” Venick asked. He heard the accusing note in his voice and smoothed it out. “I went to your tent this morning, but you—”
“I think we should head to the lowlands first,” Dourin interrupted.
Venick lifted the brush off Eywen’s back, surprised. “I thought we already agreed.” An old feeling rose up within him, as if in greeting. It clung to his throat, changed his voice. “We agreed that we’d recruit our elven allies first. And Abith—it’s less than a day’s ride away. You want to reroute usnow?”
“I had thought that best, too. To head to Abith, then work our way north. But I do not think that plan is wise anymore.” Dourin went to retrieve his map, returning to unroll it against Eywen’s broad side. “Abith is not as safe as we assumed. Farah has soldiers stationed there. They will be waiting to ambush us as soon as we arrive. We are not strong enough to stand against them, not as we are now. We should veer south instead.”
“How do you know they’re waiting to ambush us?”
“It is obvious.”
Venick peered at the elf.
“We thought Farah might have overlooked Abith,” Dourin continued. “But we did not consider that Abith is the only city between Evov and Vivvre. Farah’s army will have to pass through it. When they do, she will leave a contingent behind.”
“Leaving a contingent behind is not the same thing as planning an ambush.”
“Let’s assume that it is.”
“We can’t afford to change course now. We need supplies. We need to recruit more soldiers to our side before Farah recruits them to hers.”
“And we will. In Ulla and Esota.”
But Venick was still skeptical. “Those are farming villages. Small.”
“And more likely to have escaped Farah’s notice.” Dourin rolled up the map and tucked it under his arm. “We will reroute through those villages before heading for the lowlands.”
“I still don’t understand. If we sent a scout ahead to Abith—”
“It wasyouridea to travel to the mainlands first.”
“Yes, but—”
“You are afraid.”
Venick froze. “What?”
“To go home. You have not been back to the lowlands in almost four years. You are afraid.”
Venick began brushing Eywen again, slowly. He watched her coat twitch and jump under the bristles. “I was banished.” Venick had only ever told the story of his banishment once before. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell it again. But he made himself say, “I killed my father.”
After Venick had fled into exile, he’d tried to understand how it had happened. He’d spent four years trying to understand it. He would sit, head in hands, thumbing through the memories—not just of the murder, but all the days and weeks leading up to it. He pulled at their strings in an attempt to untangle it all, but in the end he only ever made a tighter knot.
Venick regretted killing his father…and he didn’t. If given the chance, he wasn’t sure he would take it back. Wasn’t sure hecould.
But his mother. Venick realized that he’d stopped brushing Eywen, that he was staring blankly at her thick side. His mother had been a gentle woman. Kind, softhearted. Young, when Venick had been born. Young when he left. She didn’t deserve what had been done to her. Whathehad done.
Venick met Dourin’s eye. “The law says I get my chance at redemption, but my father wasn’t just anyone. He was a military general. High-ranking, well-respected, all of it. And he served on the council. Irek took his death as a personal offence. They won’t welcome me back.”
