Beside me, the emperor sucked in a breath. “Is that necessary, Yuso?”
The captain gave one short nod.
“I disagree,” Ryko said, dropping to his knees. “Forgive my outspokenness, Your Majesty, but I think—”
The emperor raised a hand, silencing the islander. The sunlight caught the gold of a heavy ring on his finger as he considered Yuso. “Your reasons, captain?”
“The less information High Lord Sethon gets, the better,” Yuso said. “We hold only a few advantages — our number and direction are not known, and the Lady Dragoneye is still thought to be Lord Eon — all of which will be passed on to the High Lord, either from loyalty or torture, if we leave
Until that moment, I had not fully understood what they were discussing. Now it became sickeningly clear. Yuso wanted to kill everyone left alive on the field. Friend or foe. I could not even find voice for the brutality of it.
“Ryko?” the emperor prompted. There was a faint plea in his voice.
“What Captain Yuso says is true,” Ryko said reluctantly. “But it is not what your — it does not feel honorable, Majesty.”
“Perhaps you have been in the harem too long, Ryko,” Captain Yuso said.
The emperor’s face stiffened. Kygo had once confessed to me that he feared his harem childhood had made him too tender. Too womanly. If Yuso knew this, then he was a man who played a deep game, for his barb at Ryko had found its true home.
As if nothing had happened, the emperor motioned to someone behind me. “Is that you, Lady Dela?” I turned to see Dela bow deeply. “Escort the Lady Dragoneye from the battlefield and prepare for our evacuation.” The emperor looked up at the pink-streaked dawn sky. “We leave in a quarter bell.”
“No!” I said. “Your Majesty, you cannot be thinking—”
“Lady Dragoneye!” His voice was harsh. Exhaustion had pared the last roundings of youth from his features. His was now a man’s face, weary and heartsick. “Go.” He nodded dismissal to Lady Dela.
She took my hand and pulled me upright. I met her eyes, trying to enlist support, but she gave a slight shake of her head.
“Where are your swords?”
My swords: for a mad moment, I wanted to pick them up and feel Kinra’s strength slide under my skin and into my heart. She would stop the emperor. I shook my head free of the impulse — no, she would kill him.
“I will bring them with me,” Ryko said curtly.
Dela tightened her grip and led me to the edge of the courtyard. On the ground ahead, a sprawled body shuddered. I heard a faint groan.
“Are they really going to …?” I could not finish the sentence.
Dela ushered me past the groaning soldier. “I don’t know. We are fighting for our lives now, Eona.”
“I could try and heal them.”
“Have you found a way to control your power?” Dela asked.
“No.”
“Then you can’t help.”
“But it is wrong.” I pulled against her hand.
She yanked me closer, forcing me to keep up with her quick steps. “They do not want women here to remind them of life— of mercy — when they must embrace war and brutality.”
I thought of Kinra: not all women were about life and mercy. And what of myself? I barely knew how to be a woman and, after the carnage at the village, I was hardly a symbol of life. Even so, Yuso was urging murder. And the emperor was allowing it. I clenched my fists.
Dela bundled me through the red door flags of the lodging house. The single wall lamp had guttered, leaving the foyer in shadowy half-light. I strained to hear what was happening in the courtyard. Part of me dreaded the sounds that might reach us in the stuffy cloister, but another part knew I had to listen. So far, nothing penetrated the walls beyond the awakening birdcalls and lows of our oxen.
“Are you injured?” Dela propelled me toward the staircase.
“Only my hand.” I held it up for inspection.
The pearls around my forearm shifted, securing the folio against my skin. For the first time, their clicking embrace frightened me. If Kinra’s swords were tuned to the emperor’s death, then what was her journal’s purpose? Maybe it, too, had
I could not risk carrying a book whose power might snake into my mind and take it over, like the power of the swords.
“My lady?”
We both turned. Vida was at the back doorway.
“Solly and I have caught some of the guards’ horses,” she said. “I’ve packed as much as I can into the saddlebags.”
“Good,” Dela said. “Where are our clothes? Lady Eona has to dress. And she needs doctoring.”
I also needed to remove the folio from my arm — and my presence. The decision thickened my throat with loss. The folio had been a constant companion over the last few weeks — a symbol of hope and power. I felt as if a loyal friend had suddenly betrayed me.
Vida beckoned us through to the stable yard. Outside, the air smelled of frightened animals, grain feed, and dung, a relief from the stench of blood and spilled entrails in the courtyard. I drew in a shaking breath, hoping to break through the despair that threatened to overwhelm me. If I could not trust the journal, how could I learn to control my power?
Four horses were tethered along the stable rail. Solly moved between them, calming each with gentle strokes and soft words. He saw us coming and stopped our progress with a raised hand.
“My ladies.” He ducked his head into a quick bow, his usual broken-toothed grin reduced to a thin line. “Stay back from the horses. They’re all battle-trained and will kick anything near their hindquarters.”
Dela ushered me toward the stable. “Go with Vida. Get your arm bound,” she said. “And get dressed. Not the mourning robe, though. Something less conspicuous.”
Giving the horses a wide berth, I followed Vida into the shed. The oxen lowed as we passed their stalls. They were probably hungry. I realized that I was, too, and couldn’t help a wry smile; my body did not care about treachery or despair, only food and rest.
Vida looked over her shoulder. “How bad is your wound?”
The tight embrace of the pearls had deadened the pain. Now, as I focused on the cut, it stung with every flex of my fingers. I showed her the shallow slash across the back of my hand. “It is not too bad,” I said. “It’s not bleeding anymore.”
“I saw what you did for His Majesty. How you stopped him,” Vida said. “It was bravely done.”
I eyed her warily, unaccustomed to such warmth from the girl.
She hurried behind our cart. “All the bandaging has been packed in the saddlebags. I’ll find some when you are dressed.” She flipped back the canvas canopy flap, opened the nearest basket, and dug her hands into the contents. “Here, take these.”
She passed me a pair of woven rush sandals — thin-soled, meant for the paved roads of a town — and went back to rummaging. Finally, she pulled out two packets of neatly folded cloth, one the color of rust; the other, olive green. With a flick of her wrists she shook out the rust cloth into a long, full skirt. The green was an over-tunic: the day wear of a merchant woman. The resistance had supplied us well.
She squatted down, holding open the skirt. “Quick, my lady.”
I stepped into the middle of the pooled linen. Vida pulled it up over my blood-streaked shift, then deftly fastened the ties around my waist. Although it was just past dawn, the air was already hot and close. By midday, I would be stifling under all this cloth.
