Locked in his little room, Evander stuffed a change of clothes, basic wound care, and a flask of water into a rucksack. He changed into a pair of brown canvas pants, boots with good tread, a cotton shirt, and a brown leather vest. Overtop, he shrugged on his shearling coat. A departure from the professional attire of a Silvanlight training officer.
His resolve guttered like an oil lamp in rain. What harm would it do if he told Valenna he loved her, had loved her since the first day he saw her in Largotia?If she’d never reappeared, leaving would be easy. As it was, he felt like he was severing a limb to escape the crush of two boulders.
He found his old map and traced his finger over the faded red line that led the long way around Whyspenware, through the mountains. Going through the forest would save him almost a week of travel, but it was too dangerous. The forest spirit lurked among the trees, and the Odenbarrow serpent slithered among the boulders, hunting men. He’d never make it out alive.
No, the mountains would be slow, but safe. And this time, he wouldn’t have to pass through Barrimore Heights and The Crag.
The very thought of that place sent a chill down his spine.
Evander opened the door and walked into Samara.
“What are you doing?” she asked, taking in his clothes and rucksack.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “Shouldn’t you be packing to return home after the paddocking?”
“You’re running away, aren’t you?” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Abandoning your post, taking the hydra that belongs to this dracorium, and scampering off!"
Evander shouldered past her.
Samara leaned against Hera’s stall door. “It's a touch hypocritical, don’t you think? Sending Lysander home in disgrace, and then running away with a stolen hydra?”
“Yes, well, I don’t want to die, Samara.”
Samara wrinkled her nose in disdain. “Are you that scared of the paddocking?”
“It’s not the paddocking I’m afraid of.”
“What, then? Bournemuth? I don’t believe that.”
Evander ignored her, unlocking the stall and stepping inside. It was empty. “Where is Hera?” he asked.
“Oh, that.” Samara inspected her fingernails. “Yes, Bournemuth moved the paddocking. It’s already begun.”
Evander dropped his rucksack.
Haldir knew. Somehow, he knew Evander was going to take Hera and run, and he’d moved the paddocking to thwart him. Much as Evander hated to admit it, Haldir had outsmarted him.
“What are you doing here, then?” Evander snapped. “Go on up to the paddocks. I’ll be there directly.”
Samara eyed him nervously. “But … are you going to run?”
“Without Hera? What would be the point?”
She shrugged, then jogged out of the barn, her thick braid swaying.
He didn’t have time to wait for Hera; he would have to risk the journey without her. If he stayed in the mountains, undercover … he hadn’t seen Raska in years. Perhaps she wouldn’t find him.
Poor Hera. The guilt battered him like shotfire balls on dragon scale. He should have sent her home to the sea years ago. He promised himself he’d find her again, in Sennalaith. Perhaps steal her, or buy her, but he certainly wasn’t any use to her dead.
Evander watched over his shoulder for any nosy underkeepers as he slipped out the door and into the dappled sunshine. He turned to run down the path, but when he looked into the trees, he let out a startled cry and stumbled backward, crashing into the heavy barn doors.
A shadow moved deep in the woods. Something black and glistening and as big as a dragon. It bobbed through the forest, hopping like a bird.
Raska.
But how?
Evander wasn’t afraid of many things, but the queen of Ashkendor’s scavenger froze his heart in his chest. He’d seen that bird on battlefields, picking over decaying bodies for shiny trinkets, searching for anyone valuable enough among the dead to return to her mistress. It was said that Marwenna had a special tree that revived the corpses, if she pleased.
