“Are you done yet?”

Sólveig ignored the question and cast her line again. Her pack sat beside her, her axe ready to go. The blade gleamed. If only she had some blood to whet it. She glared across the bog, where the third member of their group waited. He was splashing in the water again. Fool.

“You can’t just give me the silent treatment,” said Stáli.

“I can do whatever I like,” she said. “We are without our guide. We must guide ourselves.” She reeled in the line. “Unless you would like to take charge? For once?”

Stáli sighed. “Without Flaviana…”

“Flaviana this, Flaviana that.” She re-tied her lure and cast again. Across from her, she watched the southern man jump away with satisfaction. He should be scared. She needed to fish, not waste her time coddling him. “She failed. She is not here. We are. It is your job, as the eldest, to take charge. If you will not, I will! And I say we need to move on!”

She was tired of this. Staying in the same spot, corralled in by dark walls and only a few spots of light from the skylights. They had come for truth. For blood. For the ultimate knowledge.

Now she was stuck following her fool brother’s commands. She glared at the man. He’d fallen over and gotten tangled in her lure. “Get back! I’m trying to get food for you, you worm! Surely you can manage doing nothing!”

“You know he doesn’t speak our language,” said Stáli.

“Translate, then!”

Sólveig couldn’t take this. First they had lost Flaviana, who was already a coward and too slow. A horrible excuse for a leader, even when you ignored the fact that she was southern. Now she was stuck with her brother, who wanted to coddle everyone. He’d even taken in this southerner, who spent all of his time writing in journals and weeping. What a waste of time! They had a job to do!

She stormed to her feet, throwing the rod down. “If you want to eat, catch something yourself,” she said.

“Sólveig, wait,” said Stáli, but as he stumbled to his feet she’d already outpaced him. Even though he was years older, she was taller. Her steps were longer. She stormed away from the moat that had molded into a horrible bog, jumping from lily-pad to lily-pad with practiced hops until she was on the stone ledge. There, she slung her bag over her back again and stomped into the outer reaches of the maze, taking a few turns until she was satisfied he hadn’t followed her.

She drew her legs up to her chest and began sorting through her bag. First she found a soft cloth, wiping the blade of her axe in case it had gotten wet. She made sure to clean the handle, too, lingering on the inscription from the war. The crossed blades of the northern legion. Her grandfather’s weapon.

“I promise,” she muttered to the blade. “I’ll put you to good use.”

Putting it aside gently, she unpacked the rest of her bag, lining it up neatly. Her grandfather’s medals of honor- his injury in battle, his command, his rescue of missing soldiers. All perfectly polished, as usual. Her stores of rations- the ones she’d been keeping concealed until they got rid of the dead weight. She removed some of the wax-soaked linen and gave some of the dried biscuits a sniff. They still smelled fine, at least.

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A flask of hard liquor. Several flasks of water, boiled. A set of lures. Extra line. Vials, for their quarry. Candles. Herbs. A book for recording their discovery. The iron cuffs.

Lined out like that, she couldn’t help but feel impatient. They had everything they needed. They knew where their quarry was. They had been hunting her since the Capital. Why couldn’t they just go get her?

“You should go apologize.”

“I’m not apologizing to anyone.” At the sound of Stáli’s voice, she began repacking her bags. “He’s a no-good, soft, idiot southerner who can’t even fish for himself. Just because we took advantage of his carriage coming up doesn’t mean we have to use him otherwise!”

“It’s not a disease to be nice.”

She looked up, ready to laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!” Something had seriously gone wrong.

“We’re a family of warriors,” she said. “Yesterday, he started scratching out symbols in his journal. To me. I think he’s going mad.”

“He was trying to teach you their language, Sólveig.”

“Why? They don’t have anything to say I care about.”

He threw up his hands. “Why do you have to be so… so….”

“I’m focused! On the goal!”

“He’s a councilman! If we get him on our side, next time, we won’t have to sneak into anything. We can just go. That means no more fishing in temple bogs.”

Sólveig leaned back. He did make a good point.

Stáli tossed her the fishing pole. “I finished your job, by the way.” He held up a fish. “You’re invited. But you have to apologize to come to dinner.”

Sólveig sniffed. “If I had been fishing, the catch would have been bigger.”

As Stáli pulled away, sighing in disappointment- his face was so obvious, he would never do well in a real undercover situation- she held out a hand to stop him. “Well,” she said. “I am hungry. I guess I could do it. Just this once.”

Looking across the fire at the southerner, she decided she’d clearly been going mad when she’d agreed previously. “What do I have to say, again?”

“Just apologize from the heart,” said Stáli. He was rummaging in his bad for the remains of their salt. The southerner was combing his beard- a silly little pointy thing- and looked too perky for someone who’d just fallen in a bog. Sólveig had to resist the urge to throw him back in, just to see his reaction.

“I don’t have a heart.”

“Apologize from the head, then. But make it sound good.”

“Just so you know,” she told the southerner, “This is only because I want the fish.”

She turned to Stáli when he didn’t speak. “Aren’t you going to translate?”

“That wasn’t an apology.”

“That was part of it!”

“Just go on,” he said. “I’ll say all of it at once.”

“Fine.” She straightened. “I, Sólveig, admit that I was wrong to say that you were a blank-minded, false-hearted, useless excuse for breath that is only here because the gods forgot about you enough to let you survive. I should have said that you are a Councilman of the Capital, and that you could one day be helpful to our mission.”

There was another long silence.

“I don’t remember you saying any of that,” said Stáli.

“I was thinking it.”

Another moment, and then he spoke in the southern language. Sólveig frowned. “That was a lot shorter than what I said.”

“Their words are shorter.” He leaned in and adjusted the fish over the fire. “Does anyone want fish?”

Sólveig scowled at the man over the fire. “I want to eat first. On account of how I need energy to guard all of you.”

“Let’s all split it,” said Stáli. “I really don’t want to translate another apology.”

She kept an eye on the southerner as she spit out the fish bones, his face worried over the flickering of the fire. They were running low on the wood they’d been able to scavenge within the maze. Beyond, the bog was quiet save for a few splashes of frogs and fish.

Above, she could just barely see the moon through a hazy skylight. Sólveig curled up next to the fire and watched her brother mutter with the southerner in a language she couldn’t understand. They were both sketching out plans. The pen darted back and forth.

When she closed her eyes, she dreamed of blood swirling across the face of her axe, black as midnight and reflecting perfect, perfect red.