“You’re to gently remind them,” he said, “of what Count Pesavolta and the Regent already promised on their behalf. Petty nobles are more likely to help if they believe we’ll notice.”
He held out the satchel; I took it and peeked in at the sheaf of parchments. “Nice to have legitimacy.”
Kiggs laughed; I’d hoped he would. He was a bastard and had an odd sense of humor about it. His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight. “I shall miss you, Phina.”
I fidgeted with the leather bag on my lap. “I already miss you,” I said. “I’ve been missing you these last three months.”
“You too?” he said. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair. “I’m so sorry.”
I tried to smile. It felt thin on my lips.
Kiggs tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I hadn’t appreciated how hard it would be not to see you or speak to you. We cannot control our hearts, but I thought we might at least control our actions and minimize the lying—”
“You don’t have to defend yourself to me,” I said quietly. “I agreed with you.”
“Agreed? Past tense?” he said, picking up on something I hadn’t intended to reveal.
This prince was too astute. I loved him for it.
I swiftly crossed the room to my bookcase and found the book easily amid the clutter. I waved the slim volume of Pontheus’s Love and Work that he’d given me.
“Is this a rebuke?” he said, leaning forward, his expression keen. “I know what you’re going to quote: ‘There is no pain in truth, no comfort in lies.’ And that is all very well, except when you know the truth is going to hurt someone you love, and you know, furthermore, what pain she endures already: her mother dead, her grandmother dying, she herself thrown into the deep ocean of queenship and war before she’s ready.”
He rose animatedly and declared, “I will see her through this, Seraphina. I will bear this pain, suffer anything on her behalf until she’s through this storm.”
“It sounds so noble when you put it that way,” I said, more snappishly than I meant to.
His shoulders slumped. “I’m not trying to be noble. I’m trying to be kind.”
I stepped toward him until we were face to face, the breadth of a book between us. “I know you are,” I said quietly. I tapped his chest with the volume of Pontheus. “The day will come.”
He smiled sadly, then placed his hands around mine so we were clasping the book together. “I believe that—with everything I have,” he said, holding my gaze. He kissed the edge of the book because he could not kiss me.
He released my hands—just as well, because I needed to breathe—and reached into his hidden doublet pocket again. “One last thing,” he said, pulling out another medallion, gold this time. “Not a thnik,” he said hastily, handing it over.
It was a Saint’s medal, exquisitely engraved with an image of a woman holding her head on a platter: St. Capiti, my patroness.
My public patroness, that is. When I was an infant, the psalter had chosen St. Yirtrudis, the heretic. The quick-thinking priest had substituted St. Capiti. I was glad he had; I was scary enough without St. Yirtrudis tied to me. I had never been able to learn what her heresy consisted in, but the label heretic marred everything associated with her. Her shrines had been smashed and her images excised.
I had never told anyone about her, not even Kiggs.
“May Heaven smile upon your journey,” Kiggs was saying. “I know you’re not pious. It’s for my peace of mind more than yours. And belief aside, I want to make sure you know.” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “Whatever you may find upon the road, you have a home and friends to come back to.”
Words caught in my throat. I did have friends now, more than ever before in my life. I did feel at home here. What gap was I still trying to fill by gathering the ityasaari? When would that emptiness ever be filled?
Kiggs made for the door and I followed, silent as a shadow. He paused with his hand on the latch, looked at me one more time, then turned and walked away.
I closed the door behind him and drifted toward my bedroom; the bed was piled with the clothes I meant to take and the bags they weren’t quite fitting into. I held the volume of Pontheus to my heart, pressed the Saint’s medallion to my lips, and then shoved them deep into one of my bags, underneath my linen shirts.
I would carry my home with me, out into the world, as I looked for others to bring into it.
The epic journey Dame Okra, Abdo, and I made across the Goreddi countryside can be distilled to one word: miserable. It seems grossly unfair to our suffering that two weeks of mud, broken carriage wheels, and Dame Okra’s swearing should be so reducible, but there are only so many Saints to swear by, and a carriage has only four wheels.
Mud, on the other hand, is infinite.
The roads improved once we crossed into Ninys. Four smooth-rolling days later, past cattle pastures, windmills, and the first inklings of spring wheat, Dame Okra’s coachman delivered us safely to the capital, Segosh. Dame Okra had a house there, a narrow affair wedged between two others and sharing a gravel carriage yard at the back. Rusty diamond-shaped tiles shingled the roof above a jaundiced stucco facade; arched limestone cornices over shuttered windows gave the building a surprised expression, as if it couldn’t believe we’d made it here without killing each other.
Every night of our journey, in every possible grade of roadside inn, I had cleaned and oiled the scales on my arm and midriff and tended to my garden of grotesques, focusing particularly on three ityasaari: Glimmerghost, Bluey, and Finch. They seemed most likely to be Ninysh, based on their pale complexions and fair or red hair, and the occasional spoken words I overheard during induced visions. Glimmerghost lived a hermetic existence in a pine forest; Bluey seemed to be a mural painter, which may have explained the colors swirling in her garden stream. I believed Finch lived in Segosh because I’d once spied him, in full plague-doctor gear, scuttling past the Cathedral Santi Wilibaio. Even Goreddi schoolchildren knew about its golden domes.
There were two other half-dragons in the Southlands: the Librarian, who spoke Samsamese and seemed to be a highland earl, and Tiny Tom, who haunted a cave in some mountains, I couldn’t tell which. I suspected he was Goreddi, living on the borders of dragon country. I would look for him last, when I returned home.
Dame Okra had volunteered her house for the Ninysh ityasaari. Once the ityasaari were found, we would send them here, and she would put them up (“put up with them,” she’d said; I pretended to believe she’d got the Goreddi idiom wrong). Later, she would escort the three back to Goredd while Abdo and I moved on to Samsam.
We had to be in the Samsamese town of Fnark by St. Abaster’s Day, before midsummer. There was only one half-dragon in Samsam, a bald, fat fellow I called the Librarian, and our best chance of finding him was at the annual meeting of highland earls. We did not have time to waste in Ninys.
Upon our arrival, a phalanx of servants ferried my things to a sickly green guest room on the third floor and mercifully prepared me a bath. When I finally felt human again—insofar as I could, with silver dragon scales around my arm and torso—I went looking for Dame Okra. I found her on the ground floor, glaring up the center of her winding staircase at Abdo, who had climbed the banister to the top of the house. He slid back down in a slow circle, grinning impishly and crying, The floor is full of sharks!
Dame Okra seems unamused, I said, glancing at her reddening face.
Because she’s a shark. Don’t let her eat me! He scampered back up the railing.
“Ah, children,” growled Dame Okra, watching him climb. “I forget what darlings they are. How I long for the opportunity to forget once more.”
“I’ll be taking him off your hands soon,” I said soothingly.
“Not soon enough,” she huffed. “Pesavolta will provide, have no fear, but—regrettably—it may be a few days before you can set out.”
“That’s fine,” I said, my patience thinning. “Finch is here in Segosh. We’ll look for him tomorrow.”
Dame Okra peered up at me over her spectacles; her eyes were wide-set and watery like a spaniel’s. “Finch? Is that what you call him in your head? I shudder to imagine what you once called me.”
It was clearly an invitation to tell her, but I pretended not to understand. I foresaw only two ways she might react to the name Miss Fusspots: amusement or incandescent anger. I was not so sure of the former that I cared to risk the latter.
“Does he have wings?” she continued. “Or chirp?”
“Finch?” I said, momentarily confused. “No, he’s got a … a beak.”
Dame Okra snorted sharply. “And he lives here in the city? Blue St. Prue, you’d think someone would have noticed.”