Luca gasped when she saw Touraine. “Your… eyes.”
Touraine had almost forgotten. “Side effect of the other magic.” She started to look down, but then she realized she didn’t have the energy to be ashamed or self-conscious. She didn’t give a sky-falling shit if Luca or any other Balladairan thought she was uncivilized. “I thought you’d gone back.”
“I couldn’t. They refused to let the first ships come close enough to dock. They fired on them as a warning, and… of course, symptoms turned up.” She shook her head with bitterness. “Cantic managed to get a military ship back home before any of the passenger ships. She told them of the outbreak. Loyal, despite everything. I owe her my kingdom.”
Mention of loyalty lit a spark of anger in Touraine’s own chest, but weariness squashed it immediately.
“I go back to Balladaire soon.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know if they told you? We’re pulling out. I don’t have full authority, but I’ll be fighting for it as soon as I get back. I’ll make it official—” She stopped herself and looked down at her boots.
Touraine didn’t let her try to say it, to ask, because she knew if she let Luca ask, if she heard it from Luca’s lips, it would be that much harder to say no.
“I can’t come with you.”
Luca bowed her head slightly. “I thought so. May I ask why?” There was no frostiness in her voice, but politeness covered the hurt. Touraine knew what she was really asking. Is it me you don’t want?
Touraine raised her eyebrows at Gil, who looked to Luca for instructions. The princess nodded, he left, and Touraine stood.
Gil let the tent flap close behind him to give them a moment’s privacy, and they were cast in darkness. Only a sliver of light remained to slice between them.
“I never thanked you for taking care of me when I got sick.” Luca had given Touraine everything—sacrificed her own bed, her own clothes, risked her entire household for Touraine. The night Touraine snuck away like a thief, she’d wanted nothing more than to stay there and get better and then let Luca crawl into bed beside her.
She couldn’t have that then, and she couldn’t have that now. She wanted to touch Luca in reassurance. To hold her hand for just a second. That felt like too much of an empty promise.
“It was nothing.” Luca’s voice hid a blush.
“I started a mess in this country.” This country that should have been her home. She wanted to see who she could be here, instead.
“You didn’t—”
“I helped. And so did you. I want to see it fixed. The other Sands and I—we’re going to do what we can.”
“I see.” Luca bit her lip. Then she held out her arm for a soldier’s clasp. Surprised, Touraine took it weakly. Luca squeezed until Touraine was forced to strengthen her grip. “Thank you for everything, Touraine.”
Touraine couldn’t quite loosen her fingers, though. Her resolution was coming undone with the feel of Luca’s pulse under her fingertips. Luca’s fingers on her skin. Would it be so bad if she just—?
With her other hand, Touraine pulled Luca’s head closer and kissed her. She smelled like rose water and sweat and ink and tasted like coffee. Touraine was breathless when they finally pulled away.
Luca looked stunned, even though one hand was still warm against Touraine’s waist.
“And you’re—”
“Staying.”
The sun was shining, and there were joyous rain clouds on the horizon the day the Qazāli tore the gallows down.
As the last Balladairan ship filled with soldiers, and the princess left with her household, Qazāli and Brigāni and Sands alike took turns with the axes.
They hacked and cheered and sang and drank and ate and celebrated as the rain came down.
EPILOGUETO KNIT
Touraine sat on the rooftop that used to be Djasha and Aranen’s, and watched the rain change the city. The streets were always, always, always yellow-orange muck. Touraine had stopped wearing her boots, because it was easier to wear sandals, or no shoes at all, and rinse her feet off. The city was full of people, almost claustrophobic compared to the fear-spawned emptiness of half a year earlier. Farmers and nomads and the homeless all sought shelter or dry land in the city at the top of the hill. The city wasn’t especially dry, but the river hadn’t swallowed it whole. Qazāl’s flatlands—and Briga’s on the other side—had drowned.
The river raced to devour it all, like a soldier to her rations between long marches. Touraine smiled ruefully, remembering marches with Pruett and Tibeau at her side. Before she was promoted and could order them around. Before they came here.
Someone cleared their throat behind her. Touraine recognized Pruett’s rattle of phlegm. Touraine gestured to the spot on the edge of the roof next to her. Pruett’s hair was slicked to her forehead, only just starting to dry. She still kept it soldier short. She looked even more dour than usual, which was saying something. Touraine hadn’t seen her smile much since the Balladairans pulled out of Qazāl. Only barely when Touraine had woken from her coma.
It was possible that Pruett just didn’t want to smile around Touraine. That would have been more than fair. Tibeau was dead because of her. Touraine had cast Pruett aside for a Balladairan princess, and when Touraine cast the princess aside, she hadn’t come back for Pruett.
They had tried each other again once in the last few months. Several cups of Shāl’s holy water between the two of them and they fell into each other like a tongue in the groove. Even excellent craftsmanship wears under enough strain, without maintenance. They got far enough, but the touches were wrong. They fell into awkward silence after. Since then, though, the relationship had warmed. A little. It was as if knowing what they couldn’t be made it easier to learn to be friends again.
At least, that’s what Touraine
