20 – 2
Milo rises from his crouch, hands on Lavinia's shoulders. A bead of sweat drips along a line in the furrow of his brow, the fear that drove him across town making short work of his usual patience. “Zira, this isn't the time to –”
Clarke, twisted in her seat to stare up at me in disbelief, interrupts him, “What do you – mean –, 'no'?!”
I squeeze the fire poker's handle, strangle it in my grip. The wire wrap digs painfully into my palm. I swallow, tongue stuck to the roof of my dry mouth. “I'm not leaving.”
Her blue-sky eyes narrow, anger flashing across them. It's as far as she gets before Milo shouts, hoarse and angry, “Well, why the hell not?!” Lavinia flinches. He doesn't notice.
“Because –”
He keeps going, gripping his daughter tightly by the shoulders. She winces. He doesn't notice. “What's keeping you here?! What could – possibly – be worth putting yourself in danger, putting – us – in danger?!”
Clarke, who has said nothing, continues to say nothing. I feel her gaze on the side of my face, drilling in. Perhaps she's waiting for her turn.
“I – ”
He keeps going. Lavinia squirms in his grasp, a mix of pain and fear on her tear-marked face. He doesn't notice. “Is it revenge?! Is that why?! Do you wanna kill them, too, Zira?!”
Yes, I don't say, that's exactly what it is. It must show on my face or in my eyes, because he sees and understands. He always understands.
Some of the fire leaves him. The anger does not. “Of course,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Moonlit – hell – , but you're a selfish girl, Zira. Is it – do you enjoy putting my family in danger? Haven't we bled enough for you?”
His words cut deeply, as they were meant to. My eyes sting. The wire wrap digs into my palm. I breathe in; it shakes. I breathe out. It doesn't.
“Yes,” I manage, “you have, but –”
Clarke interrupts. She rushes to her feet, shoving herself in between Milo and I so she can glare at me properly. “But what?!” she demands. “But – what – , Zira?!” Her eyes demand an answer from me; a denial, I should think, of what Milo said. Nothing else will be acceptable, the truth even less.
The truth is that I am selfish and hateful. I want them dead, to kill them and the bitch that leads them with my own hands. They're going to teach me how, these Windrunners. They're going to show me what Milo denied me, what I've spent weeks looking for.
I can't say that, so I lie. I've been lying for weeks. What's one more? “I'm tired of running,” I say, like it's a confession. “I just...I don't want to.”
Disgust flashes across her blue-sky eyes. She believes me. “So you'd rather put everyone at risk?! Put – me – at risk?!” She shakes her head. “After all we've been through, I – I thought you were better than that. I thought you'd – know – better than that.”
She turns on her heel. Leaves. Floorboards creak, a rusty hinge whines, and a door shuts. I blink the sting and blur from my eyes. Milo's looking at me with a strange mix of pity, disappointment, and anger. The wire wrap bites into my palm.
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Lavinia tears free of her father's bruising grasp, surprising him. “You were hurting me!” she accuses; and his face falls, toppled by remorse.
“Oh, sweetheart, I – ” His hand twitches at his side, as if a motion to reach for her was begun and ended in the same moment. “I'm so sorry, I – I didn't mean to, I promise.”
“You still did it!”
His face twists. “I know. I'm sorry. I lost my temper.”
“But I didn't do anything,” she protests, “and Zira didn't, either!”
“I know,” he says again, eyes flicking to me. “We'll talk more about it later. Come on, let's take a look at your shoulders.”
“Alright,” she nods. He turns to lead her out of the room; and in that moment, she gives me a look. Go, it says, get out of here.
I do just that, out into Amberdusk town.
- - -
The stalls in the center square, while not as numerous as Valdenwood on Market Day or as populated as Port Viara, are usually in the full swing of trade by the late afternoon. Tradesfolk ply their skills, trappers display carefully skinned and brushed furs, and farmers seek to offload the last of their crop's excesses. A scribe sometimes sets up a table in a sunlit corner, charging quarter-coppers per word to write out letters, deeds, or wills.
A bustling, lively place. Usually.
Today, it is not. While those who sell still earn coin and those who buy still spend it, the stress and tension that everyone carries seeps into the air, like mist from a lake. It makes them short with each other, less inclined to speak and more inclined to arguing when they do. They're angry and afraid; and instead of directing those feelings where they belong, they're unleashing them on each other. There hasn't been a fight, but the threat is in every pair of raised voices or reddened faces. It won't be long, I should think.
Windrunners did this. All they had to do was be here.
I look to Morrow's, door closed and windows dark. It's been shut for weeks. Jeremiah's somewhere inside, drinking through the stock he once sold. They did this, too; and they didn't even have to be here to do it.
Where are they, anyway? How many are they? I look over the square once more. Are they here, disguised? If they were, it would go a long way towards explaining everyone's fear, their anger, and why they won't look at each other. There's no way to know if they'd meet the eyes of someone they knew or someone looking for a reason to hurt them. If they keep their eyes down, they don't have to find out; and if the Windrunners are among them, it would make them feel powerful. They would feel like kings. That's what they want, isn't it? To do what they please, to anyone they please, without consequence?
A man snatches a rabbit's pelt from a trapper's hands. He throws it to the ground and stomps it into the dirt, red face twisted into a snarl. The trapper tries to stop him, but the man is larger, broad, with arms like a smith's. He's easily shoved aside, helpless in the moment it takes the man to sweep the rest of the pelts from the table. The man storms away, shouting over his shoulder about prices and being cheated. The trapper kneels to gather up his dirt-stained furs.
He leaves the square, does the shouting man; and towards the edge of town, where it fades into the trees. I follow him, quiet as a cat, as he grumbles and stomps his way through the narrow streets. Is he one of them, I wonder, or just a man at his tether's end? He does not look like any Windrunner I have seen; but then, what Windrunners I have seen were guardsmen or knights. He could be one. They don't wear signs.
It would be helpful if they did.
The man slows his pace, scrubbing a hand over his balding head. He sighs, loudly enough for me to hear almost ten paces behind, and drops his head. He shakes it, scratches his beard; remorseful, it would seem. He sets off again, and again I follow.
The breeze shifts, bringing the acrid scent of coalsmoke from ahead. There's hardly anyone else walking these narrow lanes, just a few late coming hands from the farms or townsfolk fleeing the market square. He leads me around a bend and there, in the lee of a hill, sits a smithy, stony and stained with soot. A large, brindle-furred dog meets him at the door, barking and wriggling around the man's legs. He scratches the hound behind its ear and herds it back inside, shutting the door behind him.
No Windrunner, I should think, just a man at his tether's end. It really would be helpful if they wore signs. I snort, turn to leave, and almost walk into someone.
The girl who'd just left her family, who'd just taken her first steps down this miserable road, would've screamed. She would've damn near bitten her tongue off and all but fallen over trying to get away.
I bite my cheek instead. Manage to keep my feet, skittering back a few steps to put some distance between us.
He's not much taller than I, nor especially broad. His hair is dark, as are his eyes, and his skin is pale, untouched by the sun. Flakes of dried mud stick to his boots and dirt stains the legs of his trousers. He wears his sleeves long, and a vest of thick leather covers his chest. He's holding his hands up reassuringly, and he's smiling at me.
It touches his eyes, this smile, and there's a familiarity to it, one that makes me uneasy. I've seen it, or the one it echoes, somewhere before. My eyes flick between it and the long knife he wears on his hip.
“Easy there,” he says, teeth gleaming in the afternoon light, “I mean no offense.”
Blood on my tongue, I ask, “Who are you?”
“A traveler,” he answers, lowering his hands. His sleeves rise and fall. I catch sight of the tattoo on his forearm: blue ink, cresting waves, and a looping whorl of wind.