It takes about another ten minutes to reach the camp proper, and I do a better job of not thinking of plot-relevant information. I let my thoughts drift to my family and indulge in a bit of self-pity. If I assume that time continues to flow in my world, my parents won’t notice I’m missing until the next day, when I miss my morning check-in.
I doubt the rescue workers will be able to cross worlds to find me, so it’ll seem like I vanished into thin air. Which I did. I wonder if I’ll appear on Unsolved Mysteries or something like that. I can imagine the melodramatic music and voiceover as bad photos of me are splayed across the screen as a cautionary tale.
(Would my fiance—ex-fiance—care at all? No. No, he doesn’t matter. I don’t care if he thinks about me. I let myself feel bitter and hypocritical, and for the rest of the ride, I wish a variety of nasty, cruel fates on him.)
I start to feel my exhaustion just as we arrive, but I push it away again and evaluate the camp. Even for someone used to modern American cities, it has a lot of people. There are at least a couple thousand soldiers from what I can guess, all packed into neat rows of tents. It’s more organized than a good chunk of temporary housing I’ve seen after disasters. Lord Ravas runs a tight ship.
Several soldiers greet us, and everyone except me dismounts. I have no idea how to get off, but Laon comes to my rescue again and coaches me through the process. I stumble when my feet hit the ground. Laon steadies me before I crash into anyone.
“Thank you,” I whisper to him.
He simply nods.
While the horses are being led away by the footsoldiers, Lord Ravas gives orders to the rest of his men. Finally, he turns to us.
“Laon, go with Prince Kyzeg.”
Oh, so Kyzeg is still around. We’re definitely in the middle of the first book. He’s one of the emperor’s younger sons, and a traitor who—fuck, trees, rock, trees, trees.
Lord Ravas glances at me. He makes it look natural, but he’s obviously heard me accuse the younger prince of treason in my mind. The betrayal was a surprise to everyone, including Lord Ravas. Thanks to his royal training, the prince had powerful mental shields, and he got help from—
Maybe math will be better. I start running through multiplication tables. The multiples of 14 are challenging enough to keep my attention when I get to the higher numbers.
Lord Ravas has finished giving orders to the rest of his men, and he looks back in my direction. “Chandreeka of Folorda, you will come with me.”
“Yes, of course.” I don’t know if I need to say ‘Lord’ with that, but just to be safe, I add a belated “Lord Ravas” to the end. (I don’t correct the mispronunciation of my name either, for obvious reasons.)
“Uncle, are you going to interrogate the stranger yourself?”
“I am. Are you concerned she might be a threat?” Lord Ravas says dryly. He glances at the prince and then looks me up and down. “I do not foresee any danger from her. Am I correct?”
“I’m not—I won’t hurt anyone,” I stammer out. Saying that I pose no danger isn’t strictly true: what I know is definitely dangerous. But I’m not a warrior or assassin. Nobody will be in physical danger from me.
“She speaks the truth. Are you satisfied?” Lord Ravas is smiling faintly, displaying nothing but the warm, familial relationship he has with his nephew.
Kyzeg, who’s a handsome, elegantly dressed man in his late twenties, makes a face of mock indignation. “You just want to hear all the tales of her distant land. Truly, uncle, you should have been a scholar.”
Ravas makes a dismissive gesture, but his expression is still fond. “Kyzeg, if you would proceed with your task…”
“As you say.” Kyzeg touches two fingers to his throat in a lazy salute and turns away. Laon makes eye contact with Lord Ravas, and then he glances at me. There’s something like sympathy in his gaze, and he gives me a short nod before following after the prince.
----------------------------------------
Neither Lord Ravas nor his guards say anything to me as we walk through the camp. Soldiers pause to salute as their general passes, and they also gawk at me. Even if I weren’t being escorted by their lord, I would stand out: I’m a foreign woman with golden skin and strange, masculine clothing.
I have enough time to think about whether I’ll die. In the wrong hands, I’m a disaster. Yes, Lord Ravas isn’t a cruel man in the books. If anything, he’s the opposite. His powers mean he feels everyone’s emotions deeply, and he hates causing pain. But he’s ruthless despite his gentle nature, because he has to be. There’s this one scene where he orders his closest friend to—
No, stop. I count the tents as we pass them. My knowledge is my best bargaining chip. I’m a daydreamer by nature, and I have a habit of getting lost in my own thoughts. After I read or watch something I enjoy, I tend to think about my favorite moments for days after. It’s hard to remind myself that he’s listening. Each thing I think about is a card I no longer hold.
I don’t want to die, but I can’t think of any alternatives to pleading for mercy. If I run, I’ll be captured by soldiers in a couple seconds. Maybe I can try to escape at night, but now Lord Ravas knows I’m thinking about escaping, and he could order me shot full of arrows. I’ll have to bide my time—but will thinking that make Lord Ravas trust me less? I hate having to reconsider my every thought.
What could I have done differently? Stay in the wilderness and freeze to death? If I’d known that I landed in the setting of Winter of Knives, maybe I would’ve been more careful about how I approached them. But I didn’t know that then. I’m too used to relying on the better nature of people. I’ve seen people at their absolute lowest point, after one disaster or another, and I’m always struck by how many people are still good. They’re still willing to help, even when they have nothing themselves.
(Another reason why I like the books: the characters go through so much, but in the end… it all works out.)
I’m not scared yet. I’ve turned the panic into clarity. I’m not scared, I tell myself again. I’m focused. When everything is falling apart, giving into base animal instincts makes it all worse. It’s better to trick your mind into interpreting the fear as focus.
Ravas doesn’t even look at me until we reach his tent. It’s much larger than the others, though the outside is made of the same plain canvas as everyone else’s. Inside, there’s a silk hanging that divides the tent in two. The guards pull back the curtain to reveal a desk and bedroll on the other side. Ravas gestures for me to follow him in.
“Stay at the entrance,” he says to his guards. “Use your best judgment, but try not to disturb me for anything but the most urgent matters.”
They give me a dubious look but nod, letting me enter the tent before they step out. Sure, I’m a mysterious stranger, but I’m also a tiny lady in a patriarchal, militaristic society, and Lord Ravas is known for his impeccable judgment. (It’s easy to be a good judge of people when you can see their every thought and emotion.) And it’s not like I can overpower him anyway. Well, I do have a pocket knife—not that I plan to use it. I don’t! I’ve never stabbed anyone in my life. I promise that I don’t plan on starting now.
Ravas raises his eyebrows at me, and I think he’s amused, but maybe I’m imagining it. The expression isn’t anger, at least. He pulls the curtains shut, and then he ties the curtain strings around a single silver disk. It shimmers slightly: a talisman of silence. No one will be able to hear us speak now. (My heart jumps. Magic. Real, honest magic. Incredible.)
“Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the chair on the other side of his desk. It’s intricately carved but very uncomfortable. Once I sit down, he takes his seat in a chair that looks the same as mine. In the Empire, the most important person takes their seat last. It’s flipped in the clans, much to Laon’s initial confusion.
I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that I binged the series last week for the fifth time. Everything is still fresh, but then again, everything is still fresh and now Ravas knows that. Well, if he believes me and doesn’t think I’m a crazy foreigner who’s discovered his secrets some other way.
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. He’s just watching me with his dark eyes and blank expression. I know he has a lot of experience in hiding what he’s thinking. Lord Ravas probably hears the weird shit of everyone’s mental monologue all the time.
“What is your name?” he says finally.
“Chandrika Trivedi,” I say again. I wonder if he’s asking normal questions to detect a baseline. Like a lie detector. Or maybe he’s seeing if I’ll be tripped up by answering the same questions.
“Where are you from?”
“Florida. It’s in a region known as America,” I add. Again, I expect this to mean nothing to him.
“Folorida,” he repeats. It’s closer to how it’s actually pronounced. Ravas needs to understand the dialect in order to accurately read thoughts, and he’s put a lot of time into learning a broad swath of languages.
That gives me an idea. My Hindi and Telugu are rusty, and my Spanish is barely the level of a stupid highschooler, but… with some effort, I start to think in Telugu.
(Immediately, the complexity of my thoughts go down. It takes me longer to phrase each idea, and I struggle for vocabulary.)
Lord Ravas is… moving? Twisting. He is twisting his ring around his finger. The ring of the Emperor’s… I don’t know the word for ‘seal’ in Telugu, and my train of thought flips to English. Damnit. He’s twisting the ring that bears the Emperor’s Seal. A nervous habit of his, especially when he’s contemplating important decisions.
I try to think in Telugu again. I notice the… what’s the word for ‘scar’? I don’t remember. God, I’m thinking in English again. My vocabulary is so basic. I should’ve listened to my mother when she told me to practice my language skills. Lord Ravas pauses in his movement, and I realize that I’m staring at the scars on the back of his hand in silent frustration.
I drop my gaze. I’m being rude on multiple levels. I know that the scars are from Leyza’s Test. In the empire, mind magic is looked upon with suspicion. The most powerful of practitioners can override someone’s will: implant false memories, enslave minds, erase identities… the potential is horrifying. People with mind magic that’s too strong are known as warlocks, and they’re sentenced to death.
Leyza’s Test is a way of weeding out warlocks. It’s ritualistic torture. You impale both hands with a long, sharp blade covered in poison that intoxicates the victim and intensifies the pain. The intent is to remove the person’s inhibitions and metaphorically corner them. Almost every warlock lashes out and takes control of their torturer to make the pain stop. Those that fail the test are killed. Those that pass are left with distinct, pale scars.
His brother put him through the ritual as a child, knowing that Ravas was a warlock and wanting to test his self-control. After Lord Ravas succeeded, he swore an oath to the emperor and the gods to never override someone’s will, and he kept it until he—
I start mentally counting backwards in Spanish. I’m so bad at this. He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? I can’t help but glance up to see his reaction. His eyes widen before he forces his expression back to placid neutrality.
I’ve just implied that one of his deepest fears would come true. Mentally calling Lord Ravas an oathbreaker and god-forsworn isn’t something I’d intended to do. At least I didn’t reveal any major details of why or how. Small mercies.
I’m so tired. I’m beyond stressed. I’ve walked for twenty hours straight, and the reality of my situation is starting to set in. I would really like for Lord Ravas to either say something or put me out of my misery. No, I don’t actually mean that. I know that my exhaustion is making me less sensible, but knowing that doesn’t make it stop. Even as my thoughts turn into a dark mush, I stay outwardly calm.
He sighs and twists his ring again. “Chandrika,” he says my name carefully and correctly, “please know that I meant my offer sincerely. I wish to know your story, and I have no desire to cause you harm. Do you understand?”
I don’t think he’s lying—Ravas genuinely hates causing suffering. Every time he puts someone to death, he feels everything they do as they die. But not wanting to do something doesn’t mean that you won’t do it. I don’t say that, though. I just nod.
He lets the silence linger for a moment before continuing. “Would you tell me how you became lost in the woods?”
So we’re not acknowledging the elephant in the room. That’s fine. I don’t see a point in hiding the full truth from him, since my survival depends entirely on his mercy. I give him a succinct, clear report: I was hiking in a place called the Catskill mountains, and then I wasn’t. I fill in details when he asks for them, knowing that he’s getting even more from my thoughts. To help convince him, I picture the exact moment everything changed with as much detail as I could.
(It really was in a blink. I stepped forward, and even the air turned from muggy summer humidity to a crisp fall morning.)
After maybe an additional five minutes of interrogation, he seems satisfied. Not necessarily convinced, but satisfied. Lord Ravas leans back. “Tell me about your nation. Folo… Florida of the Ameriga.”
“What do you want to know?”
He raises an eyebrow. “What do you wish to tell me?”
I’m not sure what to say. After a moment, I tell him about its environment first: beaches, swamps, and some inland forests. Then I talk about the weather and the growing season, and that quickly turns to information about hurricanes. I’ve given so many speeches about hurricanes and hurricane safety through my work. Average wind speed, flood risk, safety preparation—I can recite statistics in my sleep.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
While I talk, I’m thinking about the dozens of hurricanes I’ve lived through, the terrifying beauty of their clouds on satellite imagery, the awe-inspiring torrents of rain, wind, and lightning, and the devastation they can leave in their wake.
He lifts his hand, and I stop talking.
Ravas seems both faintly shocked and fascinated. “You speak of storms the size of provinces?”
Right. I don’t think the empire has hurricanes. It’s an arid, almost Mediterranean climate, and a good third of their land is covered by desert. This must sound so fantastical to him. I know I get carried away when talking about storms; I wanted to be a stormchaser as a kid, and I’ve never lost my interest in it.
“Yes. They can last for days, though they weaken quickly when they make landfall. I mean, when they reach the land. Hurricanes form over the ocean, and they get their strength from warm water.”
“You have some way of tracking these storms?”
“We do…” I trail off.
I’m not sure how to explain satellite imagery or planes. I think Ravas would be interested in hearing me try. His nephew is right; Ravas has a temperament and curiosity more suited to scholarship than war, despite his skill in conquest. His best friend and second-in-command always teases him about the poetry and academic treatises he carries around. Even now, I see some books stacked on the corner of his desk.
I glance at the writing on the spines and then freeze when I realize that I can’t read them. The script looks faintly Arabic—delicate, intricate lines, though it has more triangular characters—and I pick out two different scripts that are more circular. It’s writing, clearly, but… it’s not English. None of this makes sense. Or maybe it’s in a different language than the one we’re speaking?
Before I can spend too long stewing in my frustration and confusion, Ravas changes the topic with some visible reluctance. “Truly, your land sounds fascinating. I would be delighted to hear more tales of your home. However, I have more questions I must ask.”
I nod, expecting the obvious.
“It seems that you were brought here by the gods,” he says softly.
Well… I hadn’t expected that.
“What? The gods?” I open and close my mouth. I don’t even know what to say. Winter of Knives does have divine entities, but why would they… why?
He gives me a long look. “There are tales of the gods taking a person from one place and moving them to another. Sometimes the distance is small. Other times the distance is vast. Sometimes they return to their homelands, and other times they do not.”
I’m still shocked, but as I consider it, I start to realize that it’s a possible explanation. Gods canonically exist in this world. They prefer to work through intermediaries, but in book four, Laon makes a sacrifice and travels through the dream-realm of a God of Night in order to deliver a message across a great distance. Things like space and time don’t apply to the gods. I still don’t know why they’d involve me, though.
“Does that happen a lot? People being… taken?” I feel like it would’ve been mentioned in the books if it was, but then again, the books weren’t supposed to be real.
He shakes his head. “No. I know my great-great-grandfather once met a god-touched worldwalker, and there are legends about mythical figures being from far-off lands. Of course, there may be worldwalkers who arrive and are lost to obscurity, but I certainly wouldn’t know of them.”
I’m not entirely convinced, but I also acknowledge that I’ve been thrown enough curveballs that nothing feels rational anymore. What are the implications of this for me? Do the gods expect something from me? I’m not holy now, am I?
“I would suggest you keep your origin as a worldwalker secret,” Ravas says when I don’t respond. “The story you gave is reasonable, as you are truthfully on a pilgrimage.” He takes out a map from his desk and rolls it out flat. I can’t read any of the labels. They’re all in the strange, not-Arabic writing.
Ravas points to the northern edge of the map. “The lands beyond Iijha and Urthen are less known, especially to the west. I suggest that you imply that your home is somewhere there, and that you have been traveling through these lands.”
“How long would it take me to travel from there?”
“At least a year. Perhaps two.”
I hesitate. Book three had some scenes set in Iijha, so I know a little about that setting, but Urthen is never brought up. “If that’s my story, I’ll need to know more about Iijha and Urthen.”
“You won’t need to know about the Oshgan lands?” he says mildly.
I can’t help but grimace. Yes, a good chunk of the books take place with the clans, so I know more about that culture. But if I supposedly traveled all the way through those wintery lands, I probably ran into Oshgans, didn’t I? I’d need names. Names that couldn’t be corroborated. This was going to be complicated.
“No, you’re right. I’ve heard stories of the clans, but I should probably learn about them too,” I say, knowing he got the real answer from my thoughts. My frown grows and I ask a question of my own. “What will happen if people learn I’m a worldwalker?”
“The stories of worldwalkers are not well known.” Ravas absently runs his finger along the map. “But those who do know those tales will no doubt want to use you for their own purposes.”
Like you, I think but don’t say.
He doesn’t acknowledge that thought, but I didn’t expect him to. Instead, he says, “The tales of worldwalkers often mention them being bestowed a divine blessing. It seems like you are no exception.”
I stare at him.
“There are traces of divine magic around your mind.” His finger pauses on the map. “It’s not unlike the patterns created by practitioners to bolster the acquisition of new skills—I’ve personally used similar magic to learn a language more quickly. The effect around you is subtle. One would have to be quite powerful to have a chance of noticing it, and even if they did have that power, they would have to know exactly what to look for.”
There’s an ironic tilt to his head as he waits for my reaction.
So that’s why we can understand each other, but it’s a secondary concern now. He’s finally admitted it. Well, he’s partially admitted it.
“You have mind magic?” It comes out flatter than I intended. “You can read my thoughts?”
He gives a slow nod, still as implacable as before.
I’ve been half-wondering if he’d ever mention it. It’s not beyond him to play mental games; I’m surprised that Ravas didn’t lie and say that he couldn’t read my mind—to subtly convince me that maybe I was wrong and paranoid, or that the gods had shielded my thoughts from him.
“I would not lie about the actions of the gods.” He doesn’t quite snap at me, but he looks a little offended.
Right. Religious respect was taken seriously here, since the gods could actually smite you. Even in the empire, it’s taboo to lie in the name of divinity. Suggesting that he’ll betray the gods is a pretty grievous insult, and I did already imply that he’ll be a godforsaken oathbreaker—I hastily cut off that train of thought. Honestly, if it’s the gods that brought me here, I wonder why they didn’t just shield my thoughts. That would’ve made my life so much easier.
“Do you want me to apologize for what I was thinking?” I say it with genuine concern, though I realized after speaking that it might come off as sarcastic. I don’t know what the etiquette is in this situation.
He sighs. “No.” He sounds tired. “I spoke more harshly than I should have. I’m the one who should apologize. I won’t hold you to your offhand thoughts, now or ever.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. I don’t really blame him for being off-balance either. I mean, I appeared out of nowhere, and I’m casually dredging up his deep fears and dark secrets, the things that I doubt he’s told anyone.
“It does seem like you were also blessed with some form of premonition.” He speaks quietly, just above a whisper. “It’s rare that a seer knows of both the past and the future. Usually they can either look forward or back, not both. Your thoughts don’t have the blurred quality of false memories, but neither do they quite feel like the visions of a seer.”
I mean. Well. It’s more like I read someone else’s predictions of the future. I know one path, at least, and that’s already changed since I’m in the middle of it. If I leave now, then maybe it will proceed unchanged. Ravas and Laon do win eventually, after all. I glance up, not really expecting that to convince him.
“The future you saw ends with me victorious,” he says.
The series does have a happy ending. Hell, most of the books end on a high note. “Yes,” I say firmly.
Ravas’s expression is blank again. “A victorious, god-forsworn oathbreaker who falls prey to the curse of a warlock.”
I open my mouth and close it. “That’s… putting it like that makes it sound worse than it is.”
“Do I break my oath to never enslave a man’s will?”
Yes, I think, and I immediately wince. I want to say again that it’s not as bad as he’s imagining, but… I shift my train of thought to hurricane statistics, this time the required windspeed for each category of storm.
Ravas closes his eyes briefly, and I see a glimpse of the weariness weighing down on him. When he opens his eyes, it’s gone.
“I’ve seen flashes of truths in your mind that you should never have known,” he says finally—emotionless. “I know that you are god-touched. But nonetheless, I would like you to tell me something from these books of prophecy. Tell me a full truth that only the gods could know.”
I think about it. I’m glad that I decided to drown my grief away with those novels rather than alcohol because I remember enough details to fulfill his request. Thinking of the bastard who used to be my fiance also brings a surge of anger, and I try to use that to hide my thoughts. I don’t know if I’m successful: Ravas’s expression doesn’t change. I decide on what to say after a minute. In book four, Ravas is close to death at one point, and he confides in Laon an old secret.
“Before you swore your oath to the emperor and the gods, you once took the will of a bluebird,” I say slowly. “You were maybe eight years old at the time. You didn’t understand what you were doing. You made the bird fly in circles, and then you made it dance on the fountain. When you finally let the bird go, it fell dead to the ground. You were horrified. You buried its corpse in front of your mother’s roses. When you were put through Leyza’s Test, you managed to resist by thinking of that bluebird.”
Ravas doesn’t say anything for several moments. “I’ve told no one that.” His voice is faint, and I can tell he’s rattled. “Not my wife, not my emperor, not any priest. Perhaps… perhaps a more capable warlock could have taken it from my thoughts, but…”
Ravas is an incredibly powerful warlock. Even if someone managed to get past his impenetrable mental shields, it’s impossible for them to have done that without his notice.
He takes a deep breath. When he exhales, his composure is back. “Chandrika, as a warlock, I have the ability to shield others from mental influence. It’s undetectable when done right, both to other practitioners of mental magic and to the person themselves. I would not normally ask permission to do this, but I want to set deeper protections on you. I promise to teach you how to shield your thoughts regardless. Yet, I ask that you allow me this.”
I know immediately what he means. Shielding surface level thoughts from other practitioners is something he does for his people almost on instinct—it’s a common technique used even by practitioners who aren’t warlocks. A deeper shield, though, requires that he put his mental mark on me. It’s a branding that can easily turn into a chain. He’ll have the ability to take over my will. He hasn’t sworn to never place a tether; he’s only sworn to never use it to enslave others.
The thought terrifies me. I don’t even know if it would work—it’s not like Earth has mind magic. Maybe it would backfire horribly, and I’d end up dead. (Like the bluebird. It’s a cruel thought, but I’m unable to stop it in time.)
“I can’t keep you from putting this on me,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “Even if I say no, you could still do it.”
“Yes,” Ravas acknowledges.
I look to the side. I’m not prone to panic, but I feel vaguely nauseous again. Would I even know if he does it? If he’s already done it? Laon never noticed him placing a tether in the books, and when he found out, he was furious. The Oshgal have a much harsher attitude towards mind magic: they put all practitioners to death.
“If it was a shallow tether, you wouldn’t notice,” he murmurs, surprisingly gentle. “If I let it strengthen naturally over time, you would never feel its presence unless I used it on you. But with what you know, I cannot take that chance. I need to place the tether quickly, and I have to anchor it deep in your mind. You have no mental shields. Any warlock could tear this knowledge from your mind with minimal effort. Even a weak practitioner could catch glimpses of what you know.”
I don’t really have a choice. But at the same time, Ravas isn’t wrong. I want to live. This will… probably increase my chances of survival. And Ravas never used his tether as a chain until—
“Do it,” I say out loud.
Ravas twists his ring, his jaw clenched—he’s not bothering to hide his horror this time. He doesn’t look at me. His gaze is focused on the seal on his hand.
“You seem convinced that I… that it happens,” he says finally. “Why do I—what could possibly force me to break my oaths?”
“You break them to save the empire.” I hesitate. “And to save the life of a man who you consider to be a son.”
His eyes tighten with pain. I know that his oldest son died not so long ago in battle, and he’s probably thinking about how he failed him. I know I’m dredging up old and new regrets. I try to turn my mind to other things: I start counting by sevens, but I do a poor job. I’m too anxious to see Ravas’s reaction.
He rests his hands flat on the table. “I’m going to place the tether on you now.” His voice is even and emotionless.
I feel a spike of fear. “Do I need to do anything?”
Ravas shakes his head, and he makes a visible effort to soften his expression. “This will hurt,” he warns.
“I’m ready.” It’s a lie.
He stares at me, and at first I don’t feel anything, and then it hits like a train. It’s like a migraine and a tension headache and a hangover all at once. I gasp and press my hands against my sockets. After a few seconds, the blinding agony lessens, but it’s still a stabbing pain through my temples, behind my eyes, and in the back of my head. It’s so bad that I have to remind myself to breathe.
I slowly open my eyes and wince at the light. It suddenly feels too bright. Ravas’s eyes are pinched, but he offers me a wan, concerned smile as he rubs his temples.
“Do you—” My voice catches in my throat. “Does your head hurt too?”
“Unfortunately, yes. This is worse than how it usually goes, I admit.” Ravas sighs. “I know it’s improper to offer, but would you like help standing?”
Right. No touching and all that. “I can manage.” It takes me a second, but I do.
“I will have my guards escort you to the women’s quarters. We can speak again after you rest. I know we have more to talk about, but I can feel your exhaustion, and the pain will lessen after you sleep.”
“Yes,” I croak. I’ve been trying not to think about how tired I am, but now the headache makes it impossible. The pain even blocks out the relief I feel—I don’t think he’s going to execute me anymore, not after he’s gone through this trouble. “Good idea.”
Ravas removes the talisman and pulls back the curtains. He tells one of the guards to bring water, but I don’t understand what he means to do until he takes out a cup from his desk.
The cup is made from rough, black stone, but the inside is gilded. When the guard returns with the pitcher, Ravas takes it from him and pours the water. He hands me a cup. The two guards are watching with impassive expressions. The guest-right ceremony needs witnesses, and I bet they’ve done this plenty of times before.
“I name you as a guest to my home and hearth,” he says, loud enough for the guards to hear. “Drink and be welcome.”
I know that I’m supposed to say a specific phrase in return, but I don’t remember the exact wording. Something along the lines of ‘I promise to be a good guest.’
In a low voice, Ravas says, “I thank you for your hospitality, and I name you my host. I swear to abide by guest-right in your home and hearth.”
I repeat after him, and at his gesture, I drink the stale water. I’m significantly more reassured that I’ll live through the day. Guest-right is serious business. It’s only broken once by a rebelling province in book two—and Ravas personally puts the entire family to death, three generations out.
Ravas is watching me with an odd look in his eyes. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. (He’s obviously sure of what I’m thinking.) He takes the cup from my hand, and after shaking his head slightly, orders the guards to escort me.
“I will see you after you rest,” he says, and I bow my head awkwardly.
One of the guards takes me to the other side where the camp women are. None of the women are soldiers, not in this society. But the wives of the officers handle a great deal of the logistics, and there are practitioners, washerwomen, cooks, and others who take care of auxiliary tasks.
I’m introduced to someone. I don’t register her name. She takes me to a tent with a bedroll, and I barely remember to take off my pack before I collapse. I loop my arm through my bag’s straps as an instinctive precaution while my last morsel of consciousness fades away.
I fall into a blissful, dreamless sleep before the woman even leaves the room.