The next morning, the bunk beneath mine is still empty, the covers untouched.
It’s early, and the last thing I want to do is go upstairs and stumble upon a scene I won’t be able to forget. So I get dressed, make my bed, and sit on the bottom bunk alone, hating every single thing about this situation and wondering how I will ever be free of a man who somehow stole enough of my hatred that I’m sulking over him in the dark of the morning.
It’s only been a matter of days since the rune was reversed, and I’m already tired of feeling so torn. I suppose I have to figure out how to feel less passionate about him on all levels, yet that seems impossible, because the more I’m around him, the worse it gets—the more I hate him and the more I want him—and we’re going to be together for a while. I’m either going to kill him, or I’m going to kiss him. A dilemma I remember feeling not long after we met.
When the curtain moves at the door, I glance up. The Collector enters the room, rubbing the back of his neck, and comes to sit beside me, his knee gently grazing mine. He doesn’t smell like himself. He smells like sweet wine, some sort of sharp, earthy spice, and the brine of the sea.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. And yet, just like last night, I can’t move away either.
He leans his elbows onto his knees. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he says quietly. “We didn’t do anything but talk. I know that’s what you’re worrying about. I can feel it.”
It was and it wasn’t. I had convinced myself they might’ve only shared a kiss, even though I’d felt the magnetism between them. Still, I keep my hands on the edge of the cot, my eyes trained forward.
“I fell asleep in a chair after too much wine.” He rubs his neck again. “And my body is going to make me pay for it today.”
I swallow hard, sensing the truth. He owes me no explanation, though it brings me far too much satisfaction to know that after my night of worry, he’s the one in pain.
He slips his hand over mine, threading our fingers. The feel of three hundred years of sword-formed callouses is pleasantly rough against my skin. It reminds me of all the ways he has touched me. Though I allow the contact for a few moments, relishing it even, I still pull away.
He sighs and scrubs his hand over his beard. “How are we ever going to make it through this, Raina, if you want me so badly I can feel it through a severed bond, and yet you won’t even let me touch you?” Frustration saturates his voice, but it lies beneath a wealth of pain.
The bite of threatening tears stings my eyes. I get up, grab my pack, and leave him sitting there as I push past the curtain and head for the stairs, hoping to find a perch by a four-story window so I can watch the sun rise and think.
Because I don’t know how we’re going to make it through this misery.
I just don’t know.
The Itunnan Harbor is a stunning sight to behold.
We stand in a long line that trails against the side of the soaring stone sea wall, glamours up and tightly weaved, waiting for entry. Orlena is several people ahead of us, wisely keeping her distance. The rest of us hold papers in hand that describe fraudulent accounts of our recent journeys and every port stop. My new name is Stassa Farthorne, a woman who sometimes joins Terrowin’s crew from Malgros as a boatswain.
I glance over the harbor, wondering what it might be like to roam the world. The docks are swarming with activity, the blue-green water shimmering painfully bright under a warm sun. Already, fisherman have exited the city and set up for the day along Goma Pier, and in the harbor, there are at least a dozen more ships and boats floating in the anchorage than last night. Those that need to offload are anchored at the docks, crew members scurrying to clear their holds while harbor officers walk around with ledgers and papers, inspecting every crate and barrel that touches Itunnan’s dockside. It’s so different from Malgros, different from everything I’ve ever imagined.
For the most part, other than the few pieces some members of our group gathered from Orlena’s supplies, we’re dressed in our own clothes, save for our weapons. For now. And we still don’t stand out amid the masses.
There are sailors and trades people here from Malgros, and some from the Drifts, and more from other parts of the Summerland coast, and even more from lands outside of Tiressia, like Persei, Mapor, and Omalli.
I hear languages foreign to my ears and see attire I’ve never seen, but all the color and life and noise culminates into such a perfect amalgam I wish we could stay here and absorb it all, even if for just the day.
But soon we’re passing through the gate. Our bodies and packs are checked for blades, and our false papers are studied with great attention by the guards.
While we stand there being scrutinized, I half wonder if Fia Drumera’s magick might somehow sense us. The Collector especially. But familiarity, good forgery, and a beautiful woman seem to be what saves us, because once the guard to my left meets Orlena’s onyx eyes and she smiles, he pulls her aside to chat, and we’re ignored and waved into the city without further questioning.
The guard takes the copies of our papers and hands them to a man sitting at a small table behind him. The man begins looking through them, and at us, but we are free to go.
We walk through the shade of the ancient city wall’s archway and step back into the sun. Immediately, we all pause, taken aback by the sight.
There are people everywhere.
The city is a collection of temples, fountains, and a maze of wooden buildings of varying, staggering heights connected by city streets that elevate with wide, stone steps for navigating the labyrinth that is Itunnan. White-marbled buildings sit high in the distance, the view spiked with hundreds of ivory minarets pointing toward the sun.
Palm trees and lush, green vegetation seem to have sprung up wherever they could gain a foothold in the otherwise baked earth, and when a wind blows, I can smell the perfume of dozens of flower gardens mingling with waves of rich spice.
The Summerlands are truly a world apart, and I’ve only seen one tip.
Orlena catches up and motions for us to follow her into the busy city. The first thing I notice are the different types of guards. There are foot soldiers standing in archways, along streets, and near fountains, but there are also mounted guards patrolling the city from atop sable-colored horses caparisoned in fine red velvet, their harnesses and bits trimmed in silver. The guards wear black, even covering their heads and faces, their bodies laden with all manner of blades. A polished, silver shield with a snake forged into the center of the metal hangs from their horse’s side, as does some sort of animal horn.
The Dread Vipers.
