And Ramson—Ramson would begin his search for Anastacya Mikhailov, Blood Witch of Salskoff and Red Tigress of Cyrilia.
The days passed in a whirl of activity as Ana began to work with the Redcloak leadership to put their plan together. Yuri had set her up in a tent next to his commander’s quarters—which, Ana noticed, was always crowded with Redcloak guards. They avoided her gaze, but she could feel their eyes on her, always watching. With the loss of her blood Affinity, she was no longer a threat to the Redcloaks—yet the guards never allowed her a moment alone.
And for good reason.
Beneath the façade of cooperativeness she put up, Ana was planning a way to send a letter to Daya and her Bregonian Navy forces—using one of the snowhawks that were kept in Yuri’s commander’s quarters. She simply needed a chance to get in and out without being caught.
Yet the commander’s quarters, the focal point of the camp, remained heavily guarded and bustling with movement even when the night deepened and fires burned bright. With each passing day, Ana felt her chances at kicking her plan into motion slipping through her fingers, her worry for her friend and her forcesgnawing incessantly at her. Whether they were safe, whether they were looking for her, whether they had run into trouble.
Whether they were still alive.
Yuri continued to avoid asking her about her Affinity and her health, but Ana noticed small comforts allotted to her tent that others seemed not to have. Her bathwater was always heated by a quiet fire Affinite so that she could soak the cold from her bones at the end of each day; her pallet had a thick bundle of furs; and she’d woken up several times to find the fire in her pit still blazing, with new logs added.
Given Shamaïra’s prediction on Sorsha’s imminent arrival, Yuri had scouts sent to the nearby ports of Northern Cyrilia to watch for her; several even awaited in Salskoff as a precaution.
“We should leave for Salskoff three days before her predicted arrival,” Ana said to Yuri one night over a crackling fire. They slumped against the table, bowls of kashya scraped empty, papers strewn everywhere from a long day of planning. “Shamaïra’s visions can change; she can see fragments of time, but it’s dependent on a number of different paths. If one of them changes, then the entire vision shifts. We must account for that.”
They agreed to split the team in two: one, comprising their most powerful Affinites, to waylay Sorsha and provide a distraction, and the other, the same team that had conducted the rescue back in Iyenza, to break out Shamaïra and the other Affinites Morganya still kept imprisoned. Ana had told the Redcloaks of the secret tunnel to the Palace dungeons located across the Tiger’s Tail river—the very one from which she had escaped two moons ago, with the help of Kapitan Markov and Lieutenant Henryk.
On the last night before their intended departure, Ana took supper with the rest of the Redcloaks at the meal pit near the living quarters, letting laughter and conversation wash over her in warm waves. The Redcloak cook had pulled out all the stops today, and Ana couldn’t help but see traces of the Salskoff Palace in the dishes: hot kashya, roast venison, grilled beef shashlyk, even sweet chokolad.
It felt like the calm before the storm, sitting before a fire and watching the merriment all around her. Ana took her first bite of food—and that was when she realized it had no taste.
Frowning, she picked up the shashlyk skewer and pulled off another chunk of beef, closing her eyes and focusing. It might have been made of ash.
Bile coated her tongue; she snapped her eyes open, her heartbeat quickening, as she tried to sense if her throat was closing. Nobody else around her had reacted to the food. Across the fire, Liliya tipped her head back and roared with laughter at something Yesenya said; Yuri was deep in conversation with the younger fire Affinite, gesturing animatedly with his hands.
The loss of her sense of taste and her appetite was one of the symptoms the Bregonian medics had warned her of—a sign that having had her Affinity siphoned was slowly taking its toll on her body. She could feel faint ebbings of hunger swirling in her stomach, but the thought of food made her sick.
She stood, glancing at the guards assigned to watch her this evening. They were gathered by the sunwine table, tankards flashing, backs to her.
Platter in hand, Ana turned and made for her tent. She was grateful for the quiet and darkness inside, where she hadn’t the need to hold up any fronts for anybody. Where she could sit andclose her eyes and be herself—whoever that was—for just a little while: tired, and alone, and vulnerable.
The fire in her firepit was out; everyone was at the feast, with the remainder of guards on periphery duty. When she opened her eyes, she could see Yuri’s commander’s quarters through the half-open flap of her tent, just twenty paces away. It was dark, silvered only by the moon.
Empty.
Before she could think twice, she put down her platter of food, grabbed a spare globefire from her pallet, and made for the commander’s quarters.
Ana lifted the tent flap, holding her globefire before her. In the back, the snowhawks’ sleek plumage shone coral, reflecting the lowlight from her globefire.
She stepped inside and let the flap fall as she crossed over to the table. The surface was littered with half-used scrolls and charcoal stubs from their brainstorming sessions. Ana snatched a piece of parchment and charcoal and began to write.
The note was three sentences long, detailing the most important information. Once finished, Ana crossed the room to the roost of snowhawks. The bird she selected cooed softly as she stroked its feathers. She bound her letter to the length of string already attached to its leg for deliveries, then reached back and unhooked the garnet necklace she wore at all times.
The one Daya had gifted her.
“Here,” she whispered, lifting it to the snowhawk’s beak. The bird regarded her with curious, intelligent eyes and tilted its head to scent the necklace. Snowhawks were marvelous creatures—magical creatures, some said—able to track down prey for long distances by smell. The bird took the necklace in its beak.
Carefully, Ana coaxed it onto her shoulder and brought it outside. The snowhawk rustled its feathers as a sharp, icy wind blew into them. With another coo, it spread its wings and took off, its talons digging briefly through Ana’s cloak.
Blood roared in her ears as she hurried back to her tent. The Redcloaks had started singing; she caught drifts of distant song as she ducked inside her tent, the melody soothing and mournful at the same time.
Someone was already there. Ana bit back a cry as Yuri turned to her, the fire he’d lit in her pit lancing sharp and crimson over his features, his eyes searing. “Where were you?”
Ana forced the guilt out of her voice as she said, “I wasn’t feeling well, so I left.” She gestured at the plate of food she’d set down by her cot. Ramson had once told her that the best lie was one that hinged on the truth. “I can’t taste anything anymore, Yuri.”
His expression softened. He took a small step forward and held out his hands to her, and it was then that she saw what he carried in them: a small plate of koffee-colored cubes, cut open to reveal creamy insides. Ptychy’moloko: bird’s milk cake.
