“Unwrapping of the cords is part of the experience,” I said. “It can be romantic. You can make a dance of it.”
She laughed. “Well, let us do this in reverse. Help me?”
She stood, graceful, and offered the knot in the small of her back to me. Trying not to be distracted by the sight of her long, naked legs and the half-visible curve of her backside, I untied the knot and unwound the red cord from around her waist and chest. The dress fell back down around her like a nightgown, but I could still see the shape of her through the soft fabric. I helped her rewrap and tie the cording, counting in my head to try to suppress my reaction to even the brushes of contact.
Hadrea appeared to suffer no such affliction. She stretched, ran her fingers through her hair, and looked me over with an indulgent smile. She tugged my tunic back into place and took my hand. “We should check on the Chancellor.”
We found him still asleep, but restless again, mumbling and shaking. I checked and noted his signs again; his temperature felt almost normal. In our haste we had knocked over the chair by the bed, so I bent to pick it up, and noticed then something under the bed—a small stack of papers, partially concealed by the overhanging bedding.
“What is that?” Hadrea asked as I picked it up.
“Notes on some things to offer the rebels. Ideas for reparations, that sort of thing.” I smiled; Kalina had worked on this, thinking it was futile—I couldn’t wait to show her the truth. I set the papers down, then noticed markings on the reverse side of one page. It took my brain a few moments to register what I was looking at. Tiny lines and dots in rows, familiar yet unfamiliar; Etan’s code.
“You know I cannot read,” Hadrea said, peering over my shoulder. “But that does not look like your writing.”
“It’s not,” I said, and my voice came out so cold and distant it was like it came from another person. “It’s my sister’s.”
Bloodroot
DESCRIPTION: Root tuber with attractive bright green foliage similar to other edible tuber vegetables; the leaves and stems are mildly toxic and the enlarged tuber is dark reddish-brown and poisonous.
SYMPTOMS: Intense stomach pain, repeated vomiting, exhaustion.
PROOFING CUES: Will discolor other food products; unpleasant strong, mealy taste.
20
Kalina
Breath burning in my tight lungs, I stumbled off the edge of the road and into the shelter of another collection of rocks. I rested against the scratchy lichen, legs too weak to lower myself to the ground. Dawn cast a pale pink-gold sheen over the plains and glinted on the distant river, giving everything an ethereal glow. I couldn’t appreciate a moment of it. The plains had become my enemy.
I had worked so hard over the past year to strengthen my lungs. Though my illnesses would always be part of me, I had swum and climbed and run the tournament courses, and improved my fitness and strength as much as was physically possible. But it counted for nothing. I couldn’t run to the army. I couldn’t even run for a single night. My pace had slowed to a jog and then a walk and eventually a stumble. My breath came in short gasps and my legs ached. The journey to the mining outpost in the southern mountains took three days by boat, upstream, in good conditions. By foot, even running the whole way, I couldn’t imagine getting to the army in less than a week. Maybe too late to save the city.
I had found the south road in the dark, more by chance than design, and by that stage the uneven ground, dotted with rocks and twisted, tough bushes, had given me enough grief to bear the risk and take the road instead. I had seen no one on my desperate journey. But my risk of exposure rose with the sun. On the other hand, going cross-country made it easier to lose my way and lose more time, not to mention turn an ankle or trip. In any case, the Maiso limited any serious cover. I peered over the rocky outcrop, searching the distance for signs of movement. Nothing.
Or was there? Up ahead, just where the road twisted, there was movement—a tiny flutter. I ducked back behind the rock, heart thudding again.
The rocks provided no proper shelter. If someone approached from up the road, I would have to shift around to stay out of sight. With still-shaking legs and sweaty palms, I braved another look over the rocks, this time from a different position.
And then I almost laughed. From this angle the edge of a pole was visible; I’d been frightened by a road marker. The relief flooding my senses gave me new energy, and with a small sip of water from my flask, I continued up the road.
The flag blew away from me in the wind, so I was almost upon it before the symbol was apparent. Even then, gazing up, I furrowed my brow. A white flag struck in the center with a raggedy black mark, like a dark, gaping mouth. The symbol for plague, instantly recognizable anywhere in the world. Had the villages ahead been struck by plague?
It took my exhausted brain some time to understand. We’d wondered how our other cities had been cut off, how someone, anyone, had not seen the siege and sent word to the army, either out of loyalty, charity, or a hope of reward. Here was the answer. The rebels had marked out the roads and spread word of a plague in the city, to delay any potential travelers and prevent outsiders learning about the siege. No wonder there had been no help for the city from any front. Plague signs would keep any visitors far enough from the capital that they wouldn’t see the besieging army; they might even deter our own army from returning. Honor-down, even if we somehow came through this thing, it would take months to convince the world the city was safe again. Our trade interests would be crippled. Perhaps our enemies had thought of that, too, as a secondary way of striking at the city if the siege failed.
Well, fail it would not, if I didn’t get word to Aven. My legs might ache and my lungs might weaken, but what would that matter if my home and everything I loved was destroyed?
Green Bend, more a hamlet than a real village, sprang into sight around midmorning. Panting, I hobbled off the road and found a protected vantage point among the prickly glibflowers to survey the route ahead. By wagon, Green Bend took half a day. The pace encouraged me, although I’d never be able to sustain it.
It seemed there were only half a dozen people in the hamlet: a few children playing in the square with a woven cane ball, an elderly woman outside a hut, head bent over her sewing, and one or two people working the field at the far side. Many of the crofts appeared deserted. Presumably everyone able-bodied had joined the siege. Still, giving the place a wide berth should avoid detection.
But just as I was about to move on, something caught my attention. At the close end of the field, behind a thick hedge, was the wide back of an oku. The big animal grazed there untended, its thick neck bent low as it ate. There must have been something wrong with it; surely the army would have taken all the useful animals. Yet my protesting legs twinged, jabbing at me, and I bit my lip, watching as the animal moved about. Circling dangerously close to the hamlet, I came down the slope. My heart hammered as I approached the thorny hedge and the sensible part of my brain screamed a warning. I’d barely started the journey, and yet already risked detection. My legs moved as if by their own volition until I could peer over the dense, spiky bush to get a proper look.
The oku looked fine. It walked about as it ate, its powerful legs showing no signs of injury. But an animal, even a healthy, easy-to-handle one like an oku, was no good to me on its own. I shuffled along behind the hedge, keeping a look out for any of the villagers, moving toward the rough shelter at the east end of the field. Sweat ran down the back of my neck, under my clothes, like a slimy finger of dread. The gate was in plain sight of at least three buildings, any of which could be occupied. The faint cries and laughter of the children playing were audible. I dropped low and crept around to the east side of the hedge.