“Bad.” I run through the inventory in my head. Weapons. Food. Medicine. Coin. “We have maybe a few weeks of supplies if we ration carefully. Less if the wounded need intensive care.”
“The wounded being everyone who’s left.”
“More or less.” I turn away from the flooded levels, heading up the stairs toward the Great Hall. She falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms brush with every stride. I don’t tell her to give me space. Don’t want to.
The Great Hall looks like a battlefield. Which it was, I suppose. The flagstones are cracked, buckled upward in places where the water pressure from below warped the ancient foundation. The braziers have been relit, their green flames casting wavering light across the scattered remains of our defense—broken weapons, bloodstains no one has had time to clean, the charred remnants of ward fires that held back Oreth’s dead.
Thorne is waiting for me. She looks like she hasn’t slept—hollow-eyed, grim, her arm bound in a makeshift sling that suggests the injury is worse than she’s admitting.
“Captain.” Her gaze flicks to Aviora, then back to me. If she has thoughts about our obvious proximity, she keeps them off her face. “The bodies are prepared. We burn at sunset.”
“Who can still fight?”
“Define fight.” She shifts her injured arm. “Brek’s got a cracked rib but he’s mobile. Salt Margit’s leg is bad—she won’t be running anywhere, but she can still shoot. Ven lost three fingers on his shield hand.” A pause. “That’s everyone.”
“Four.” Four fighters, plus me. Out of the forty who held these walls a few days ago. “What about the flooding?”
“Contained for now. The water’s not rising anymore—whatever Oreth did to the foundations, it stopped when he died. But everything below the third level is underwater, and I don’t see how we pump it out without equipment we don’t have.”
I nod. Expected as much. “Food?”
“Salvaged what we could from the kitchens before the lower levels flooded completely. Dried fish, hardtack, a few barrels of ale. Enough for a few weeks, maybe three if we’re careful.” Thorne’s mouth thins. “The fresh water cisterns are intact. Small mercy.”
“Weapons?”
“What we’re wearing. The armory’s gone.” She glances at Aviora again. This time, the look lingers. “There’s something else.”
SIXTEEN
ZORIC
Iknow what’s coming. Saw it in Salt Margit’s face yesterday, in the way the other survivors looked at the woman beside me. “Say it.”
“Henek’s brother is a fisherman out of Saltmere. They’re close. When the supply ship comes in a few days—” Thorne stops. Starts again. “Word’s going to spread. About the siege. About the curse. About her.” A nod toward Aviora. “That bounty’s been posted in every tavern between here and the capital. Twenty-five thousand gold for information leading to her capture.”
Twenty-five thousand. That’s more money than most fishermen see in a lifetime. More than enough to make someone forget loyalty, gratitude, basic decency.
“Henek won’t talk.” I make it a statement. Thorne’s expression tells me I’m wrong.
“Henek lost his wife in the flooding. His daughter was in the Great Hall when that thing came through the window.” Thorne speaks without inflection. “He blames her. Not out loud, not to my face, but I’ve seen the way he looks at her. If his brother asks what happened here, he’ll tell the truth. All of it.”
“Then Henek doesn’t leave Dreadhaven.”
“Captain—”
“No one leaves.” My voice comes out harder than I intend. “Not until we’ve figured out how to handle this. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me directly.”
Thorne’s jaw tightens. She’s not happy. Can’t blame her—holding people against their will isn’t leadership, it’s tyranny. But the alternative is watching Aviora dragged away to pay for sins that aren’t entirely hers, and I find I’m not willing to let that happen.
“Understood.” Thorne turns to go, then pauses. “The supply ship is a few days out. After that, if people want to leave, I won’t be able to stop them. Neither will you.” Her gaze finds mine. “You might want to think about what happens then.”
She leaves. The silence she leaves behind is thick with implications.
“She’s right.” Aviora’s voice is quiet. “You can’t hold people here forever. And even if you could, someone will talk eventually. A fishing boat that passes too close. A survivor who slips away in the night.” She turns to face me fully. “The word’s going out, Zoric. It’s just a matter of when.”
“I know.”
“So why are you protecting me?” The question has an edge to it. Not accusation—but not acceptance either. “You’ve lost everything. Your people, your fortress, your supplies. All because I washed up on your shore carrying poison. You should be helping them track me down, not?—”
