The sounds of approaching footsteps alerted him to company. He snatched up Cimejen’s sword and whirled to face a new enemy. His jaw sagged when he saw who joined them on this evening of unsettling surprises. “Uzmina? Elal?” he said as the two bed maidens drew closer. A quick survey of the pair solved the mystery of Cimejen’s sudden, unexpected collapse.
Elal cradled a dart pipe in the crook of his elbow. Made from river cane, it was a weapon employed for hunting small game and in ambush warfare against an unarmored or lightly armored foe. Depending on the type of poison smeared on the darts, a single, well-aimed shot could bring down something as small as a bird or as large as a man. Bron thought it ironic that a warrior of Cimejen’s sorcerous talents and martial prowess had been brought down by a bed maiden with a sharp aim.
Elal bent down next to Bron, bejeweled fingers carefully turning Cimejen’s head one way, then the other until he foundwhat he was looking for: a dart the size of a rose thorn and wicked-sharp. He plucked it from the mage’s neck and dropped it into a small bag tied to the belt at his waist. He stood and offered Bron a short bow. “I used a poison that doesn’t kill. It just makes you want to die as it goes through you. He’ll sleep for a day and wake up wanting to retch his guts out for another half day.” The bed maiden glanced at his fallen quarry. “That’s if you want to keep him alive.”
Killing Cimejen while he lay defenseless at Bron’s feet was the most efficient action, and one that repulsed Bron. Even without a personal distaste for such an act, it was only e in the short term. Golius would turn Daes inside out hunting down the person who murdered the man who was his brother in every way but blood. Bron understood the motivation. It was why he was in this situation with Disaris.
Uzmina swatted Elal on the shoulder. “You’re a bloodthirsty one, aren’t you, lad?” She turned to Bron. “You were taking too long to return for your horse,” she explained. “I bribed Elal for help.” She pointed to the unconscious mage. “We saw him lurking about our domain. There’s no reason for a eunuch to be hanging about in bed maiden territory. We guessed the fastest way to find you was to follow him.”
Bron bowed to them both. “You’ve a hunter’s instincts, Uzmina. We owe you and Elal our gratitude.”
She shooed him away with an impatient wave of her hand. “Pay us later. Your horse and another wait one alley over, guarded by another bed maiden. The sooner you leave here, the more distance you’ll put between yourselves and the Sun Crow by the time he’s fit enough to sit in the saddle.” She clutched Bron’s arm for a moment. “He won’t stop chasing you, even if his master does. This will be personal for him now.”
He patted her hand. “Understood. Do you feel safe with me leaving him to you?”
Uzmina tutted at him and tossed her loose hair over her shoulder with a nonchalant flip. “I’ve dealt with meaner if not always smarter. He’ll never know who brought him down. Good luck.”
Bron wished her and Elal farewell and urged Disaris into a quick jog to where the horses waited. Uzmina was as good as her word and more. His gelding stood alongside a sorrel mare, both saddled and bridled. Bron tossed Disaris onto the mare’s back and handed her the reins. “Are you ready?” he asked, squeezing her calf. “Because we’ll ride hard once we’re outside the Nesting Grounds.”
She nodded, reaching down to touch his cheek. “Thank you, Bron.”
He stepped away and mounted his horse. “Don’t thank me yet. Just keep up. We’re not out of the thorns until we’re well clear of the encampment.”
They ambled leisurely toward the camp’s northern perimeter so as not to draw attention. A few people watched them pass before returning to the tasks at hand. Bron prayed all they saw was a Daesin soldier followed by a bed maiden riding toward one of the flea-infested makeshift taverns that lined the camp’s borders.
He kept their pace to a walk until they were a quarter league beyond the Nesting Grounds. The vast plains opened up before them like a black sea under a star-salted sky. He looked to Disaris beside him, her brown hair silvered in the moon’s light. He’d often dreamed of her next to him, certainly not in dire situations like this one, but his partner in every endeavor, against every adversity, beside him on horseback, beside him in bed, beside him in death.
She must have sensed him watching her for she turned her head and met his gaze with a smile. Dark circles ringed her eyes,and her features were drawn with exhaustion, but her smile held both anticipation and hope. “Is it time?” she asked.
Well past time, he thought. He thumped his heels against his gelding’s sides. Disaris did the same to her mare, and soon they galloped toward a mysterious gate that led to an uncertain destination and hopefully the rescue of a woman hunted by a madman.
Over the courseof two decades, Bron came to the realization that while Disaris jin Gheza was the lodestone that always drew him back to the place he called home, it was her sister Luda who was the catalyst for the major changes in his life.
She was born when he was twelve and Disaris was ten, and while it wasn’t his first encounter with Death on the doorstep, it was one of the most memorable.
He’d spent the first half of the day working in the fields with the majority of the villagers. With harvest season at its height, everyone with the ability to swing a scythe, cut with a sickle or gather and bundle was put to work. Bron had contributed his time and sweat to Yeoman Ban’s fields, cutting alongside Disa who’d been assigned to bundle shocks of barley for drying before going to the threshing floor. He’d intended to work a full day, eager to earn as much coin as he could to help his mother restock their larder. Hazarin had insisted that this day he work only until the noon hour, then come home and help with the laundry. She’d delivered four children in two days’ time, and the pile of soiled linens from the birthings had grown to a mountain in no time.
“I’m expecting two more babies to arrive in the next week,” she told Bron as they sat across the table from each other, eatingbread slathered in butter by candlelight. The morning sun hadn’t yet crested the horizon, but outside the road was loud with the creak of wheels as farmers transported harvesters from the village to their fields.
She offered him a third slice of bread. “Enjoy it while you can,” she said. “Disa’s amman won’t be sending us her nice bread for a fortnight at least once she has her little one.”
Bron rolled his eyes and wolfed down the bread. He was heartily sick of hearing about the much anticipated arrival of the newest jin Gheza family member. It was all Disa talked about these days: what the baby would look like, whether it would be a boy or girl, what games it would want to play. He’d listened with half an ear, wishing Gheza would just have the goblin so Disa would talk about something else.
Fate had taught him early on, and in the most shocking way, to be careful what you wished for. When the harvesters broke for lunch, Bron bid Disa farewell with the promise to work beside her the next day, and began the trek home. He’d had his hand on the door latch when it was yanked roughly away, and the door flew open to bang against the interior wall.
Hazarin stood in front of him, no longer recognizable as the soft-voiced mother he knew and loved, but a vengeful goddess of war, grim-faced and bloodied from chest to knees. Behind her, the sound of a wounded animal suffering an agonizing death filled the house. “Bron, run to the miller’s,” she snapped. “Tell his wife I need her help with Gheza. Now!” He was halfway to the gate when she called after him. “And have the constable fetch Reylan. He’s delivering salt to the butcher in Twebek. Tell him Gheza’s in trouble.”
By the time he’d done her bidding and raced back, gasping and dripping sweat, the miller’s wife had already arrived and was inside the house. Bron sidled past the horse and cart parked outside the gate, and eased the door open for a cautious lookinside. The house was stifling and smelled of copper. The tiny parlor was empty, but he heard women’s voices in his mother’s bedroom. He stood at the threshold between front garden and house, uncertain he should enter, when the bedroom door opened.
While the miller’s wife didn’t look as terrifying or bloodstained as his amman had earlier, she wore a somber expression as she cradled a bundle of cloths in her arms. A smile wreathed her face when she spotted Bron in the doorway. “Did you find the constable, lad?”
He nodded and swallowed, fearing the answer to his question. “How is Disa’s amman?”
The woman exhaled a long sigh. “It was touch and go for a moment for both mother and baby, but your amman is a fine midwife and Gheza a tough woman. She’s resting right now.” She approached Bron with her bundle. “Hold out your arms,” she said and placed the blanket-wrapped package gently in his arms before he could back away.
He gaped at the strange creature he suddenly held. Swaddled in layers of cloth, it was almost completely hidden except for a head covered in spiky brown hair, and a face that was nothing more than a tiny, wrinkled mass of flesh coated in some kind of waxy, white substance.
Bewildered, he looked back at the miller’s wife. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
