Vren shook his head and Aramal nodded, accepting.
“Still, it must be a hard life.” Aramal returned to his leather stitching. “No metal for tools, pots, or pans.”
“We’ve bone and stone,” Vren shrugged. “Glass too, and pottery.”
“But isn’t glass forced?”
Vren shrugged again. “The Elders think it’s because glass is formed of sand and heat and then shaped. ‘When the Blood turned on the Blood and the wrath of the elements fell upon us, there was no reasoning with the forces of wind and fire. We adapted to their ways, at their command.’” He dug into his pile of possessions and held up a glass disc. “So we make fire with this.”
“I can see good parts and bad parts to that,” Aramal mused. “Mostly having to do with cloudy, dark days.
“Again, we adapt,” Vren said. “I welcome my return to the Wastes tomorrow.”
“It will take more than a few days to trod that path. I’ve a good piece of cow hide that might work to fix those boots.” Aramal set his work aside. “Let me fetch it.”
“My thanks,” Vren called after him, then waited until his footsteps had faded before digging out the most precious of his burdens.
The glass vial was still well stoppered with cork and sealed with the wax that Queen Kara had dripped on it. The blood within gleamed bright red.
The small key that he’d wrapped with it was also still safe. He didn’t know what it was made of, but it was worked metal and probably magic at that. “You’ll not survive the Wastes,” Vren told it. “I’ll cache you with my sword and daggers until the Liam figures out what to do with you.”
He wrapped the items up again and placed them back in his pack, along with his cloth garments, then continued to sort through his belongings. Funny, how so much metal wormed its way into his pack on his travels. Buckles, pins, spoons. Yet they were easy to shed, once his focus returned to the Wastes.
As his fingers worked, he considered his options.
There had been no sign of pursuit for some time. He’d thought of back-tracking and killing her. The vore might aid him in that, even if Athelbryght was neutral.
But that wasn’t his goal. He wanted the pursuer to fail, to report back that he’d escaped with the babe into the Wastes. Anything to pull their attention away from Orval and Amari.
So he’d play the prey a bit longer and wear the sling.
Just in case.
Iris knelt bythe rough wood of the barn wall and pressed her ear close. She was numb and shivering, naked, every inch of her dark skin covered with a thick layer of muck from the pig sty. She stifled her curses at the wind, and the cold, and the muck, and idiots who slept in a barn instead of a warm bed. It had taken many a miserable night to learn that much.
But he was in there. She could hear the men talking, but their words were muffled. She leaned in, seeking a crack, holding her breath, hoping to hear something. Anything.
The wind died.
The local spoke, his voice deeper, louder, asking about the wastes. Then the breeze picked up and she heard little of the marcus’s reply.
At least now she knew her target was male. Which just made her more determined to cut off his private parts.
Iris found another crack, a bit wider, with more light. She checked her surroundings, then pressed in close. The words became clearer.
“What about that doll, then?”
Iris caught her breath.
“A distraction for any who might pursue me.”
Rage shook her so hard that she lost the rest of the conversation. Her vision darkened and it took everything she had not to rise up and kill them both. Muck-covered, naked avenger with naught but her gleaming knife in her hand, teeth bared, as she slit their throats.
He had no babe.He. Had. No. Babe.
Her whole body shook at the fury of being fooled. Fierce hate filled her.
Death was too good for him; she’d inflict such pain as she was able.
