As the sun struggled into the sky and burned away the morning mist, Venick watched the shadows form and change across the ground. He thought about a conjuror’s ability to shift shadows, to pull them in or push them away or shadow-bind them to a quarry, enabling the conjuror to track the individual’s location. He wondered what that must feel like, being tethered to another, then decided that he already knew.
After a time, men and elves began filtering into the stables. They rubbed the sleep from their eyes, chatting as they made to ready their horses. The muffled thud of hooves in hay. The creak of old hinges, the thump of saddles being dropped onto the animals’ backs. Only a small fraction of their army had earned riding privileges, and of that fraction, an even smaller number had managed to secure a spot in the city’s stables. Yet the space felt stifling.
Venick stepped outside. The morning sky looked like threadbare cotton. The streets were grey and damp, the city’s rooftops dusted white. It had snowed again.
He waited as long as he could. Eventually, he had to concede that she wasn’t coming.
Venick told himself to be glad. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? For Ellina to stay behind with Traegar. For her to be safe. It had been selfish of him to press her to come campaigning in the first place, not when she’d just spent a month locked away in the dark, not when she was hurting and silenced and worried over Dourin. Yes, Venick thought. He should be glad of her choice.
But Venick wasn’t glad. The emotion he felt was nothing like gladness. It was small and hard, wedged beneath his heart. Rigid at the corners, and sharp, so that it hurt to move.
He scuffed the toe of his boot into the ground. Made a wet divot.
He felt the urge to go looking for her and beat it back. Ellina had made her choice. He had to respect that.
He went to ready his horse.
???
Soldiers gathered along the Taro, crowding up the riverbank and spilling into nearby streets. The morning was loud with military sounds, the clank and stamp of boots, the clink of armor, idle conversation.
Harmon was there. She had changed out of her flowery highland garb and back into an outfit similar to the one she’d been wearing when they first met: dune-colored, stiff fabric. Brown riding boots, a cropped overcoat, plus a winter hat lined with fur. She watched Venick as he approached on foot, Eywen trailing obediently behind him. Her expression was reserved, a little aloof. She glanced around but said nothing of their missing member. Venick decided that if she wouldn’t, he would not, either.
“Ready?” Harmon asked lightly.
Venick mounted Eywen and let that be his answer.
???
They rode through the city, gathering soldiers as they went. Despite the early hour, citizens lined the streets. Some people waved, kissed loved ones goodbye. Others stared stony-faced, glad to see the resistance go.
Venick turned around in his saddle to watch the city disappear behind him. He finally realized why Igor looked so familiar. It wasn’t because he’d seen this place before—it was because Igor, with its brown buildings and milling market and dirt-paved streets, looked very much like his home city Irek.
Sentimental now, are we?
Not sentimental, no. Poignant, maybe. There was a metaphor to be found somewhere in there. The boundaries between their countries were an illusion. The wars they’d fought, the slights they’d perceived, the hatred and fear they’d lapped onto each other, and for what? They were all just people. They looked alike. Their cities looked alike. They were even named alike: Igor and Irek. A similarity that was suddenly impossible to miss.
And the elves?
Different. Colder, harder to crack. But that didn’t automatically make them an enemy.
And Ellina?
Venick shut down his thoughts.
???
They set a course northeast. They would follow the Taro for as long as they could before breaking north around the bay. It would be slow going; they could only travel as fast as their foot soldiers, and their supply wagons, which struggled to maneuver down unpaved winter roads.
Harmon rode by his side, unusually quiet. Venick was bothered by her silence, but he knew he’d also be bothered if Harmon felt like talking. He focused instead on the low drum of the army behind them, which filled his head like white noise. It drove out all thought. And yet, Venick still carried that emotion with him from the stables. Dense. Sharp, like an arrowhead.
Snow drifted down in flurries. The temperature seemed to drop, even as the sun rose.
Soon, Igor vanished over the horizon, leaving nothing but wide-open plains and the lazy, sprawling length of the Taro. The land, vibrant most of the year, had turned grey with the season, the poplars skinned bare, the high grass caked and brittle. The snow thickened, coming down in swirling sheets. Later, it shifted to misting rain, slowing their progress to a crawl. By the time Venick called for a halt at the end of the first day, the mood was miserable.
“Do you not have someone to do that for you?” Lin Lill asked when she found Venick on his knees in the muck, clearing a spot to set up his tent. The army would camp in the field between the road and the river that night. This was not the wisest positioning—if they were ambushed, the elven half of their forces would be trapped against the Taro, unable to swim to safety—but relocating would take time and energy, both of which were in short supply.
Venick didn’t look up. “I don’t mind doing it.”
