The city looked familiar.
This was what Venick thought as they rode into Igor, his contingent trailing behind him like a great, muddy cloak. He squinted at the buildings, the outpost, the low stone fences, all of which looked halfway to crumbling, pried apart by time and weeds like fingers pry apart a biscuit. He tried to place the familiarity. Was Venick simply imagining things, or had he really seen this place before? In a book, maybe? Or a painting?
Unlikely. The plainslands were located on a peninsula, separated from the rest of the continent by Heartshire Bay. It wasn’t the bay itself that was an obstacle—those waters were smooth enough to rock a baby to sleep—but rather, it was the divide. Plainspeople and lowlanders had been warring off and on for the better part of a century, with little trust and even less trade between them. Not much opportunity for artwork to cross the water. Not much demand for it, even if it had.
Still, as Venick urged his blind mare Eywen down packed-earth streets, he couldn’t seem to shake that feeling of familiarity. It was in the block-shaped houses, the leaden glass windows, the ambient sounds of people and animals. The city itself was of middling size, remote enough to require its own farmlands and grazelands. The goats and sheep had been herded inside for winter, but Venick could see big-bodied horses out in the pasture, their necks dipping gently over frosted bales of hay.
Too many horses, Venick noted. Too many people, for that matter. Igor was large enough to support its residents, but nowhere near large enough to handle the sudden influx of soldiers who’d traveled to meet the resistance. As Venick drew towards the city’s center, he saw soldiers loitering in the streets, in the alleys, even a few up on the rooftops. They smoked fat rolls of tobacco and slender pipes smelling suspiciously of jekkis, their legs dangling over gutters as they watched Venick pass.
“What say you, Commander?”
Erol rode up beside him. As usual, the healer looked well-rested, his grey hair combed neatly back, his white robes pristine, despite hard days on the road. The subject of Erol’s attire had become a topic of much speculation among Venick’s men. How did the healer manage to stay so clean when the rest of them looked like drowned cats? As far as Venick knew, the soldiers still hadn’t uncovered his secret.
“I say I’ll be happy once we’re off these streets,” Venick replied.
Erol cut Venick a look. “You don’t like Igor?”
“I don’t likeambush.”
“We’re not being ambushed, lad.”
Venick drew his eyes up again. “Not yet.”
Erol followed Venick’s gaze to the men on the rooftops. Venick couldn’t be sure if Erol saw what he saw. Then again, Erol hadn’t been raised a warrior.
Venick had. And so it was easy to imagine those were enemy soldiers overhead. Easy, to see their hardened lambskin armor and double-headed spears and envision an attack. Venick had no shortage of memories to supply the vision. At sixteen, he’d enlisted as a trooper in the lowland army and had battled plainspeople bearing that very gear. They’d been a tricky adversary, emerging from the depths of their sacred rivers to strike with spears and blow darts, only to vanish again, like tigers into reeds.Devious,Venick’s father had once called the plainspeople.Those warriors know the land—they worship it, even—and that makes them crafty. Fighting the plainspeople is like trying to catch a fly in one hand.
“Harmon has worked hard to lay the groundwork for our arrival,” Erol said in a tone that made it obvious that he saw Venick’s thoughts and disliked them. “Her missives have been clear. You’ve come to offer these people a treaty on behalf of the resistance, and the councilors of Igor are eager to accept. My advice? Don’t go hunting monsters where there are none.”
Funny, seeing as Venick had been attacked by a monster just the prior night. Yet Venick dropped his gaze. Tried, too, to drop his suspicions. Erol was right—Venick hadn’t come to fight the plainspeople. He’d come to extend a hand of friendship, which the councilors of Igor did seem eager to accept. That made sense, given that the highlands, lowlands, and northern elves were already allied. If presented the choice between joining the resistance or making enemies with both the resistanceandthe Dark Army, the plainspeople would be fools to choose the latter.
Venick thumbed the leather of Eywen’s reins, then kicked her into a trot, guiding their party past a line of low grey buildings and up towards the old baron’s house. In the lowlands, the highest-ranking officers always rode at a formation’s center, not only because it was safest, but because their commands could travel most quickly up and down the ranks. That Venick had taken a spot at the army’s head wasn’t so much a show of leadership as it was a sign of faith, a peace offering in and of itself.I’m entering your city undefended and exposed, and I’m trusting you not to kill me.
Venick glanced back at Ellina. His wasn’t the only position that seemed selected to send a message. During their journey from Parith, Ellina had often ridden by Venick’s side, but now she hovered a few ranks back, her borrowed silver stallion plodding steadily between Branton and Lin Lill. Venick wondered if Ellina had chosen that spot herself. Or had Lin Lill suggested it?
He shouldn’t be bothered—it was such a small thing. Yet when it came to Ellina, all Venickhadwere the small things. Every silent gesture, every glance, every inch taken or given was like a verse in a larger song. The tune wouldn’t make sense if he missed a line. The tune hardly made sense anyway. And still Venick read into everything, because Ellina couldn’t speak for herself. And even if she could, would she tell him the truth?
Not that he deserved the truth. Not that Ellina owed him anything.
They reached the city’s center, a wide plaza paved in uneven stone that stretched between a collection of taller buildings. Harmon was there, looking less like a military leader and more like a puffed-up princess in a dress of deep green, her ankles clad in white stockings, hair piled high atop her head. Gathered in the plaza around her stood a congregation of citizens, soldiers, councilors, a full-color guard, and—to Venick’s surprise and subsequent dismay—a band.
The band struck up a tune. Flags were unfurled. And dear gods, was thatconfetti?
Harmon gave a wide smile. “Hail, Venick.”
Venick cleared his throat. “Hail.”
“You have traveled far, brave Commander. Your return has beenmuchawaited.” Nearby, a group of women giggled. Venick’s neck burned. “But come.” Harmon closed the distance between them, sweeping her arms wide. When she spoke, her voice was pitched to carry. “Your men are weary, but you are here now, and you will find rest and welcome.”
“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Venick muttered.
“Play along,” she warned through her teeth. Then again, in her stage voice: “Let us all convene in the tavern. We have refreshments there ready and waiting for our heroes.”
Venick understood what Harmon was doing. This was a public reunion between the Elder’s daughter and the lowland Commander, the perfect opportunity to showcase their union and, subsequently, bolster the alliance between their countries. Though Venick had broken off his engagement to Harmon, they’d agreed to keep up the façade while the war was ongoing. That had been the smart choice. It was still. Yet as Venick looked out over the sea of eager onlookers, he couldn’t help but think that this was a punishment designed specifically for him.
“Well?” Harmon prompted.
Venick didn’t reply. At that moment, he’d glanced behind him to discover that—while Ellina’s horse was still standing placidly between Branton and Lin Lill—its rider had vanished from the saddle.
