NINIA TOOK A bite of the pasty and sighed. “Shadows … this is good.”
Mira glanced across at the princess. The three of them stood on the edge of the square, a few feet from a pie stall.
Suddenly, the oath all folk of The Four Kingdoms swore at times, took on a new meaning. Whether people liked it or not, the shadows had been part of their lives for centuries—and Ninia was now Queen of the Shadows. They had called her ‘mistress’. The Lord of the Thracken had even knelt before her.
The memory sent a finger of ice down Mira’s spine. Her feelings must have shown on her face, for Ninia stopped chewing and frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.”
That was a lie. Mira’s belly felt tied in knots, her skin felt too tight, and she churned with the urge to blacken the eye of the man who stood a few paces to her right.
Ninia watched her, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. Then her gaze shifted to Asher. The enchanter had barely spoken since they’d left the Dim Hold. Mira forced herself to look at him now. His face reminded her of the first day they’d met: an aloof, arrogantly handsome mask.
Mira’s gut clenched. She hated him.
“Ninia …” Asher was holding a pasty, but had not yet taken a bite. “Back in the Dim Hold … how did you know what the King of Anthor was planning?”
The girl’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “I didn’t.”
Asher’s gaze widened.
“I made it all up,” Ninia continued. “Although judging from the look on the prince’s face, I hit the mark. We now know Anthor plans to attack Rithmar in the spring.”
Asher watched her, his gaze narrowing. “You saved his life … twice. I wonder if he’s grateful to you for it.”
“Probably not … but it doesn’t matter.” Ninia shrugged. “I don’t want his gratitude.”
A silence fell between them then, heavy with things unsaid. After a long pause, the princess broke it. “Once we finish eating, we need to talk … to clear the air.”
Mira’s fingers tightened around the pasty, her fingertips breaking through the pastry into the scalding filling of meat and vegetables beneath. It scorched her skin, yet she ignored it.
I don’t want to talk.
Nonetheless, shortly after they had eaten, the three of them found themselves in a dockside tavern, hands curled around cups of mulled cider. They sat in a dark corner of the tavern, in a private booth where the other customers would have trouble overhearing them.
Mira sat next to Ninia, as far as possible from Asher, who had one side of the booth to himself. When neither the enchanter nor her guardian started the conversation, Ninia took the initiative.
“I want you to know that I’m grateful to you both,” she said, her gaze flicking from Mira to Asher. “You risked your lives for me. Whatever mistakes you’ve made … neither of you have wronged me.”
Mira fought a sneer. That man who sat opposite them was an assassin. Ninia had a short memory.
Not put off by her companions’ silence, Ninia continued. “We do whatever it takes to survive … I know that. The Dim Hold stripped all of us bare. I too saw parts of myself I’d rather not.”
“How long have you known you could wield the Light and the Dark?” Mira spoke up. She virtually growled the question, for she was finding it difficult to remain civil, what with Asher sitting there.
“For the last year … no more,” Ninia replied. “Mother made me swear to keep it secret. I didn’t know she’d sent word to Rithmar, to the High Enchanter.”
“She made a mistake,” Mira said bitterly.
“No, she didn’t,” Ninia countered. “She sent Asher to find us … she could have sent someone else, someone without a conscience.”
Mira who had been taking a sip of ale, choked. “A conscience? You think he has one?”
She knew Asher was watching her, and his silence was infuriating. She wanted him to argue with her. She wanted him to say something that would give her an excuse to lash out at him physically. Yet he did not.
His muteness enraged her.
“Enough,” Ninia snapped. “I know you’re angry, and I understand why … but I need your help.” Her gaze flicked across to Asher. “I need you both.”
Silence settled over the booth. Mira watched as the girl took a tentative sip of ale, wrinkling her nose at the taste. For all her recent maturity, there were some things that still made Ninia seem young.
“I’m listening,” Asher spoke up for the first time.
Ninia’s gaze met his. “Can you take me to The Royal City of Rithmar?”
“Shadows, why?” Mira interrupted. “You know what the High Enchanter plans to—”
“I do,” Ninia cut her off. “But all I’ve wanted, since learning who I am, is to become an enchanter.”
“They won’t allow that,” Mira said bitterly. “You heard the Thracken lord. They believe you to be a threat … another Valgarth. They’ll never take you in. The High Enchanter will kill you on sight.”
Ninia shook her head, her face setting in stubborn lines. “She won’t … not if she meets me. Asher changed his mind, so will the High Enchanter.”
Across the table, Asher frowned. “Irana isn’t like me,” he murmured. “She may take some convincing. I can't promise that she won't try to kill you.”
Mira leaned forward, glaring at Asher, daring him to meet her eye. “If that’s the case, why were you planning to take us there?”
For a moment the pair of them locked gazes.
“I never planned that, Mira,” he replied. “I never thought further ahead than getting through the forest and finding a way to Aldeport. Once we were safe, I intended to speak honestly with you both … but events took that decision out of my hands.”
His attention shifted to Ninia. Watching him, Mira noticed the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his fingers gripped his cup of ale. “I agree with Mira … The Royal City isn’t a safe haven for you. You’d be safer in Farras, where no one knows who, and what, you are.”
Ninia’s expression hardened. “I’m not ashamed of my gift. I won’t hide away like a fugitive. The order is its strongest in Rithmar … that’s where I need to train.”
Asher let out a long breath. “Alright then, if that’s where you want to go, I’ll accompany you.” He paused then. “You just need to be ready for the possibility that Irana might turn on you.”
Ninia nodded. “I'm aware of that.”
The princess then turned her attention back to Mira. “Come with us. “I couldn't have gotten this far without you.”
Mira stared back at Ninia. She was still furious—sweating from the wrath that pulsed through her. She wanted to rage at them both; but most of all she was angry at herself.
If I’d left Ninia at Deeping, I could have avoided all this.
I’d have never met Asher.
I’d have never discovered their lies.
Asher was wrong. She didn’t have a conscience or a sense of duty.
She was afraid.
She feared the unknown. She’d hated her life as a Swallow, but she had felt safe in Veldoras. Running away before the attack had been an easier decision, yet it had taken her years to build up the resolve to do it. Once she and Ninia had fled the city, her role as guardian was all she’d had. She had no purpose in life beyond that.
Who was she without it?
“Why would you want me with you?” she asked, her voice hard and flat, masking the emotions churning within her. “I tried to abandon you.”
Ninia’s expression was solemn as she watched her. “You’re the closest thing I have to a sister.” The girl paused. “I know we’ve not always gotten along … but you're all I have left in this world.”
Mira stared back at her, struggling to draw breath. “I’m not your family, Ninia,” she replied. “I’m your servant.”
Mira stepped inside the small chamber and slammed the door shut behind her. Alone for the first time in many days, she let out a string of gutter curses. Then she locked the door, picked up a water jug from the sideboard, and hurled it across the room. The clay vessel shattered against the wall, its contents running down the white-wash, but it still didn't make her feel better.
Curse them all. I should go now. I should run and never stop.
Tomorrow she would.
She shrugged off her cloak, balled it up, and flung it across the room. Anger still surged within her, and she longed to lash out.
She had taken three small rooms in this dockside inn for tonight, but the following day Ninia and Asher would look for passage north to the seaport of Idriss in Rithmar.
Mira wasn’t sure where she would go.
She had promised Ninia nothing.
The shutters were open, letting in the chill sea breeze. Mira strode over to the window and flung herself against the sill, her fingers biting into the rough stone. She looked out, her gaze taking in the busy port below. Her room was on the third floor of the inn and gave her a clear view of the bustling docks, where men heaved wooden crates onto barges. It was a bright, cold day out; the sun sparkled over the rippling surface of The Cruel Sea. The sounds of stall-holders and fishmongers hawking their wares drifted up, mingling with the tinkle of children’s laughter.
They were the sounds of life, yet Mira felt cut off from it all.
Apart from the rage that pumped through her with every beat of her heart, she felt empty inside.
Mira stayed there for a long while at the window, staring out without really seeing. The sun caressed her face as noon approached. It had some warmth in it, announcing the arrival of spring, but it couldn’t warm the chill within her.
Eventually, Mira closed the shutters and turned from the window. The room was simple, with a sideboard, a nightstand, a rickety wooden chair, a narrow bed, and a single lantern burning in one corner. It wasn’t much, but it was her sanctuary for now, and she would not leave it till the morning.
She wanted to be able to lie down and rest—her body cried out for it—but she couldn’t relax. She unbuckled the sword from her side and placed it on the sideboard. Surprisingly, the shadow creatures had given back the weapons they had taken from the prisoners. They had even given the prince of Anthor and his men back their broad-swords and knives. Mira was relieved to have a blade at her side once more—even if Foebane had been lost—as well as the three sharp blades she’d taken from the soldiers at the leaguefort. They were once again strapped to her body; she felt naked without them.
Unable to sit down, she started to pace the room. It was no good—she couldn’t settle. Her mind and body were in turmoil. She wanted to pummel her fists against the wall, to lash out against the world.
She’d just begun her second circuit when the door burst open.
The lock gave way with a snap and the heavy, oaken door crashed back against the wall.
Mira halted, reaching for the knife sheathed at her thigh as she turned.
Asher stepped inside, a bolus of flame burning on his outstretched left palm. With a flick of his right wrist, a whip of fire lashed out and slammed the door shut behind him. The heavy clunk of the lock filled the room.
Mira went rigid, her fingers tightening over the handle of her knife. “I locked the door for a reason,” she growled. “Get out.”
He shook his head. “We need to talk.”
“Forked-tongued bastard. I have nothing to say to you.”
He took a step toward her, the light still burning upon his left palm.
She snarled at him. “This is how you always get your way, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes it’s necessary.”
“Not this time. Take one more step, and you’ll regret it.”
He ignored her and moved forward once more.
Rage exploded through Mira. All the fury, grief, and disappointment she’d been nursing since the Dim Hold surged through her. With a shout, she drew the knife and threw it at Asher, hard and fast.
Her aim was true, and it had the full force of her anger behind it—but the moment the blade left her hand, Mira regretted the act.
It was too late, for the knife was already in flight.
The blade should have hit Asher square in the chest. Fortunately, he moved quickly—his right hand sweeping a shield of firelight before him.
The blade deflected and slammed into the pitted wooden floor at his feet, quivering with the force of its impact.
He stared at her, his face ashen. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with shock. “You tried to kill me.”
Mira didn’t reply. She was too horrified by the depths of her own temper to respond. Asher’s eyes glittered as he stooped and yanked the knife out of the floor. Then he went to her, closing the gap in just four long strides.
Mira merely watched him, not reaching for another blade. She was rooted to the spot, unable to speak or move. Her act had shocked her to the core.
What would she have done if her blade had found its mark?
Asher stepped close to her, grabbed her right hand, and fastened her fingers over the hilt of the knife. He then covered her hand with his and forced her hand up so that the flat of the blade pressed against the naked skin of his throat. He was close now—so close she could smell the warm, male scent his skin.
“Is this what you want?” He pressed the blade harder against his throat. “Do you really want me dead? Come on then … finish it. Don't let me stop you. You want my blood? You can have it.”