Some days it seemed that everything she touched immediately began to chafe her skin. Everything rubbed the wrong way.
It was not skill that led her to the road, but the noise of the travelers already upon it. Out of sight amid a heavy growth of ferns, Lizzan studied the procession. A few dozen families—men and women, young and old. A few carts drawn by oxen carried supplies and the weaker among them. But most walked and carried their belongings upon their backs.
Except for the mounted figure at their head. Lizzan could only see her back, but the red cloak she wore identified her well enough. A Nyrae warrior—or so she would have everyone believe by wearing that cloak. Once, those roaming warriors guaranteed the safe passage of anyone who traveled the road with them, for only a fool would attack one of the goddess Vela’s chosen. But few Nyrae warriors had survived Anumith the Destroyer’s deadly march a generation past. Now, it was more likely to be a woman from one of these families—and that she had donned a red cloak in hope that bandits would not risk attacking a party led by a true Nyrae warrior.
But the deceptive practice had become so common that there was little protection in it anymore. Instead those who could afford the cost hired guards—which was how Lizzan earned most of her coin. Of late, she had escorted merchants and nobles fleeing east, as rumors spread of the Destroyer’s return from the west. From the east, she had escorted merchants and nobles fleeing west to escape the tyranny of the warlords in Lith. And from the north came those fleeing unnamed terrors that stalked through the ice and snow.
This was the first party she’d seen fleeing north—usually the only escort in that direction was for merchants’ goods, which were a prime target for bandits. More than all else, the destitution of these travelers might be better protection than any red cloak. For they had little to tempt thieves.
But brigands were often tempted by very little.
A few stragglers made up the tail of the party—likely those who had joined the primary group after it had already started out, for it was Vela’s law that no one would be denied a Nyrae warrior’s protection upon the road. Even if that warrior was truly only a farmer.
Lizzan waited for the entire procession to pass, then began to straggle after the stragglers. With her wet hair hanging lankly over the left side of her face, her armor and leathers wrapped up in her bedroll, she received little more than a curious glance or two from the others, and she remained far enough behind to escape any attempts at conversation.
But she did not escape notice. Lizzan had barely settled into the procession’s slow pace when the quick tempo of hoofbeats announced the approach of the red-cloaked figure.
Oh, and no farmer was she. Not on a horse so fine. Sheer envy struck Lizzan’s chest. Perhaps she would part with her chain mail tunic, after all.
Except this woman did not likely need it. A thick braid swept her black hair away from the proud set of her face. She was not a large woman—shorter than Lizzan and more finely boned—yet the eyetooth-studded belt she wore left little doubt of her skill.
There was also little doubt of her identity, for one could not step into an inn without hearing of how Krimathe’s future queen had set out on the quest that would earn her the Ivory Throne. And all who quested for the goddess Vela also wore a red cloak.
Not a Nyrae warrior, but a Krimathean. So there was little difference.
And although Lizzan had little use for royals, the woman eyeing her now was no mere queen. For legend was that Hanan had fucked one of her foremothers, and that god’s silver blood ran through her veins—and his strength through her limbs.
So Lizzan felt a little bit of a fool when she told the woman, “I have heard that bandits are preying the length of this road. I offer my sword and assistance if we happen upon them.”
The woman’s dark eyes swept Lizzan from drenched head to wet toe, and Lizzan did not think that piercing gaze overlooked a single scar or battle-hardened muscle.
No response did she give, except to cock her head—as if waiting for more.
Lizzan sighed and scratched the side of her neck. “And I would not ask these people for payment, but if the bandits are mounted, I would like first pick of their horses.”
The Krimathean’s eyes narrowed. As if she knew there was more.
And so there was. “Also their flasks.”
The woman’s lips twitched. Then she swept her forefinger over her left eyebrow.
Lizzan’s chest tightened. Yet she could see no way around it. Had she still been in the north, or if it were winter, no one would think anything if she’d covered much of her face. Yet if she’d joined this procession wearing the mask she often used while working, she’d have immediately been thought a bandit. But her hair had not concealed her well enough.
With muddied fingers, she drew back the black strands, revealing the scars that raked down the left side of her face.
“Though it looks similar, it is not Vela’s mark,” she said thickly. “I am not cursed.”
And of all people, this woman might know. For if the Krimathean failed in her quest for that goddess, she would bear Vela’s mark—and be shunned by all. Driven from every village and city to live forsaken and alone. A woman to whom even a Nyrae warrior would not offer protection.
With the tip of her finger, the Krimathean drew a line down the outside of her cheek.
Relief lightened Lizzan’s heart. For that line was where another scar would have been, had she borne Vela’s mark. So this woman must have seen it before. So many others had not. And Lizzan had often known all the weight of the curse that she hadn’t earned.
She had been cursed. And shunned. But not by a goddess. Instead a bastard prince had been the one to steal everything from her. Her rank. Her honor. Her heart. For not all thieves skulked in the forests.
Oh, but she prayed they came across bandits soon. For now that she had thought of him, her sword thirsted for blood.