“Wait,” Sturnin advised and stepped down into the cold creek. He sank a little in the mud and then held out his hands. “Let me carry you across.”
She stared down at the frigid waters and shivered in spite of herself. She didn’t want to appear weak, though. “I can…I can make it,” she said, nodding.
Sturnin gave her an amused smile. “The cold can hurt you faster than you’d think. I’ve seen men die of the cold after crossing rivers. Big men. Now come here.”
Hesitantly, she lowered herself down and let the knight carry her. His armor was hard and biting, but she didn’t fuss as he waded through the wide creek. On the other side, he boosted her up the embankment. Reaching down, she tried to help pull him up, but he was far too big and heavy to be much help. If she had been with Quickfellow instead, they probably would have crossed it and then shivered together. He certainly wasn’t big enough to carry her across the creek. She smiled at the thought. Why was she thinking about him? He was too pale, too rich, and a stubborn Shae to boot. But he had a charming smile – that was certainly in his favor. He was generous in a world that did not nurture generosity, especially among a people noted for their bartering and deceit. Yet he fit neither description very well. That intrigued her. It always had. Quickfellow was...unique. So different than Tsyrke.
The memories sparked to life again and she shivered with anguish. That was why she was thinking about Quickfellow so much. She had been trying to forget Tsyrke Phollen. Lies, all along. She had fallen in love with Tsyrke months ago – or who she thought he was. A rich sea merchant from Ilvaren who wanted to take her away. She was blinded by the gold coins, his roguish smile, and the possibilities of what it would be like to be called his wife. But then he had left and never returned, leaving her with a small pendant to whisper those promises in the dark. But they were lies! He was a Bandit commander. It was his army she had just crossed. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had been there. She would never forgive a betrayal. Not one. She’d warned him of that. She was one man’s woman – wouldn’t share him with anyone else. Well, he’d had his chance. Now all she had left was Flent. And Quickfellow.
It felt like she had been walking for days when they finally reached the base of the hill leading to the city-fortress. The fog had receded a little, but the moisture clung to their skin and clothes. Ticastasy was exhausted. The traveling pack dug into her shoulders, and she was tempted to leave it behind in the rushes.
“We’re almost there,” Sturnin said, following the base of the hill until they joined the Iron Point Road that wound its way up to the summit. Her legs groaned in protest, but she plodded forward, shaking the mud from her boots as they climbed the stone road up the side of the hill. Her breath came in quick gasps and the muscles in her calves knotted up.
“Are…are they going…to listen…to us?” she panted.
Sturnin nodded, his face drawn with fatigue. His pace never wavered. “When the Accords of Dos-Aralon were passed, the knights were given authority to command any garrison to defend the kingdom. We’ve had more training against the Bandits than most, so the Governor may just turn over command to me. He probably has a retired battle commander in the city for token duties,” he added. “But we’re facing a full regiment out there. He’ll need experience.”
Ticastasy nodded, wondering how Sturnin kept his breath after marching all night and all morning. She couldn’t wait to reach the Wee Kirke and a hot, steaming bath.
The city rose out of the mist like a forest made of stone. The watchtowers loomed overhead, breaking up the even blue of the sky with stark gray lines and ridges. It was enormous, and she gasped in awe. Noises rose from the city proper, along with smells from a hundred places. Dumplings frying in tallow, smoke and cinders, stews and cheese vats, curing oils and dross. They were all welcoming smells to a girl who had spent her whole life in Sol.
The main gate lay open, but the portcullis was down, its huge timber frame blocking the way. Sturnin Goff advanced and greeted the gate captain on the other side.
“Well, sweet bleeding Achrolese,” the man said in a thick Shoreland accent. His hair was trimmed down to the roots in the fashion of the south. “It’s a bloody knight of Owen Draw. Take a look here, would you. By the Druids, I can’t believe my eyes.”
“You’re using the porter doors?” Sturnin asked. The captain nodded, and the knight nodded with relief. “Good. I need to speak to the garrison commander. Send for him.”
“Will do, sir,” the gate captain said cheerfully. “Hey Hollom, open the porter door. Got a knight here. Hurry up, now! I don’t have the banned key, I gave it to you this morning.” He gave Ticastasy a low bow. “Sorry, your queenship. We’ll have it open in a moment.”