“Wait. Did ya fall inthide a fire hole, boy?” Edith dragged her gaze away from the mirror long enough to look Stain over from head to toe. “Ya be a bit more torn than usual, and thkorched to boot.”
“Scorched indeed, and his clothes are but weeds.” Dregs flicked the icicle-shaped growth at the end of his long nose, as if in thought. “Earlier, there were night soldiers and a dog nearby . . . five we saw, with intent in their eye. Walking the wood and headed that way,” he pointed the direction Stain and Scorch had avoided. “Be a dangerous lot to engage in horseplay.”
She forced a shocked expression to assure them she’d be cautious. An out-and-out lie. The fact that there were five of the soldiers walking about on foot with the dog meant Scorch’s plan had just been simplified by half. That would leave only five at the Nerezethite camp with their mounts. And since neither Dregs nor Edith had mentioned ravagers among the wanderers, the assassin must be one who stayed behind.
Both the goblin and the old woman suddenly shifted their gazes across her shoulder, wearing horrified expressions as Scorch lumbered out from behind the brush—his mane and tail glowing hot, embers alight in eyes wild with rage and resolve. Against Stain’s bared nape, warm gusts stirred from his healthy, flapping wing. Even with the other wing pinned back, he posed a formidable threat.
They’re harmless. Leave them be. Stain placed a hand upon his velvety muzzle as he towered beside her.
They dared speak my name.
They didn’t. They were referring to my scorched clothes, and you know that. They’re guilty of nothing but enjoying life for the first time in some while.
He snorted. They’re in our way. Send them off, or their last taste of life will be the lick of my flame upon their charred tongues.
Wearing an apologetic frown, Stain waved good-bye to her friends—insistently. As if waking from a trance, the two stumbled toward a thicket that opened in the direction of Crony’s, their retreat not nearly as refined as their entrance.
Scorch trudged onward and Stain followed, prisoner to a promise she wished she’d never made. The cessation course would soon be underway. It made her stomach lurch to think of attacking the ravager and other four soldiers in their sleep.
The trees drooped lower once they abandoned the lofties. A rainstorm brewed outside, and the fresh scent of moisture mingled with a tapping across the leafy canopy offered an oddly tranquil backdrop to their murderous venture.
Scorch avoided a patchy opening where the rain rolled from one leaf to another. Normally, Stain would have to duck around such a space herself, as sunlight filtered in. But with it cloudy, she was able to walk under the miniature waterfall. She lifted her face, washing off the blood caked on her lips, cheeks, and forehead. Water beaded along her lashes, coating them like dew gathered upon spindly webs. She followed next with her arms, rinsing her wounds as well as possible with the sparse supply.
How she wished to be outside in truth. To actually stand in the storm. To feel the rhythm of the drops race along her skin, to see them fall from an open sky in sheets—a glimmering dance of crystal in the sunlight.
Sighing, she sipped some droplets to appease a niggle of hunger. Then she dragged the ravager’s knife from the bag and caught up to Scorch. She wished the assassin’s blade could be used to catch a fish dinner rather than to take a man’s life.
I’ve never killed anyone, Scorch. She sent her companion the thought, so hesitant it would’ve been a whisper had it been spoken aloud.
He didn’t slow his pace. His only acknowledgment was the swish of his tail. Not that you can remember, you mean.
Stain poked the knife’s point into her thumb’s tip, indenting the pale flesh. Her sunlit magic pooled beneath her skin and warmed the silver blade to a reddish heat. The resulting burst of agony caused her to tuck the knife away in the bag. She shuddered. I give life to the flowers smothering in the soot. Surely, I can’t take a life. I was just a child when I came here.
A baby serpent’s venom is deadlier than that of his parentage. We are all born with a will to survive. In some of us, you and I for example, that will is greater than most. A grave injustice was done to you . . . someone abused you. You are made of life and death, according to the mother shroud. I would like to think you had a taste of vengeance before being cast aside. And if you didn’t, I’ll see that you have revenge one day. Whoever hurt you will answer to both of us. And now I should like your help to get the same satisfaction.
Stain grimaced. He cut you only once.
It’s more than that. I smelled my death in him. Then he attacked me, proving me right.
Stain clamped her teeth. You speak of the instinct to live. Yet you won’t acknowledge that the ravager cut you for that very reason . . . to protect himself. To protect his companions. You were the one who instigated the attack.
Upon this, Scorch paused, his left wing tugging awkwardly in its binds. His ears lay flat against his head. The danger called to me from within the thorny maze. His blood asked to be spilled before I even encountered him. I had no choice but to act.
Stain moved around his powerful flanks and twitching muscles, getting ahead. She walked backward to watch him, knowing every root and gurgling pit by memory. And he reacted. There are consequences to everything we do. Will you ever step outside of your beastly brawny stubbornness and learn to stop and reason for that?
Scorch’s eyes lit to orange. There is no place for reason within a beast’s heart. Instinct is my master. You would do well to remember that, and squash these tender emotions that weaken and blind you. Had you acted on instinct earlier, you would’ve stepped aside while I trampled him, and we wouldn’t be having this argument now.
He started forward again, his silver hooves plodding through the powdery groundcover. She spun to follow at his right, reaching up to grasp his dark mane when the ground grew uneven and sent shooting pains through her toes and ankles.
He moved closer and curled his healthy wing around her. She leaned her temple against his shoulder, feeling tendons grip and slide beneath his satiny coat. The scent of horse musk intertwined with smoke to fill her nostrils.
Am I not your friend, tiny trifling thing? he asked as they loped in synch with one another.
Thunder rolled in the sky, shaking the leafy roof above her wet head and the ground beneath her weary feet. Yes. The dearest one I’ve known.
Because I’ve never lied to you.
She captured a black curl draping his neck and twisted it around her fingertip, stirring sparks to scald her skin. Other than withholding your absent past.
Scorch released a sooty puff from his nostrils. I told you I didn’t wish to speak of it. That was no lie.
Stain clucked her tongue, the only sound of derision she could make.
And I’m not lying now. Scorch flicked an ear, ignoring her. There is danger in this man.
Well, he is an assassin.
No. He’s something more. A personal threat to me. I tasted it. I scented it. Something in his blood wants to bind and suppress my flame. If it’s too much for you to stab him in his heart, then lure him out of camp—away from his companions. I’ll see to the rest.
Their mental conversation ended as the aroma of roasted fish marked their arrival to a grove of trees around the campsite. Stain’s mouth watered and her stomach grumbled.
Hush. Scorch sent the silent demand while leading them to a spot behind a scattering of thick, wide trunks that enabled a view of the camp-front without being seen.
Stain was about to argue that she had no control over her stomach’s protests when he interrupted again: Wait here. I’ll scout a plan of attack.
Stealthily, he slipped from tree to tree until he reached the labyrinth, where the thorny walls—tightly bound and towering all the way up to the canopy—offered camouflage with tiny openings for peepholes.
To free her hands, Stain looped her arms through her bag’s straps, hanging it secure at her back. She then peeked from behind the tree. There were three enclosures set up in the distance: two, set apart beside the horses that had been relieved of their armor and fixed with feedbags upon their muzzles—more serendipity, as they wouldn’t smell Scorch and panic. Since there were six mounts, it reasoned that the scouting party Dregs had mentioned had returned for their horses, but only four left again. The caged birds she’d heard screaming during the chaos in the labyrinth must have also gone with the scouts. Stain hoped they had the dog with them, too.
In the two farthest tents, the flaps were shut, and snoring sounds drifted out.