“… Mia…”
She woke in the hold of a ship, creaking beams above and the sound of the waves all around. As she opened her eyes, she felt a cool, featherlight touch on the back of her neck, a whispered sigh of relief in her ear.
“… at last…”
The hammock she lay in ebbed and rolled, her mouth dry as dust. Garish light filtered in through a small glass porthole, a glimpse of two blues framed beyond; sunsburned bright and ocean deep. Her ribs burned like a dying fire. Mia reached up to her face, felt a bandage over her cheek and brow, crusted with dried blood.
“Don’t touch it,” came a voice. “It’ll heal best when let alone.”
Mia looked up and saw Maggot, her dark eyes and pretty smile. She was hovering over Furian, the man swinging in a hammock beside her. Glancing to her shadow, Mia saw Furian’s had apparently left hers somewhere as they slept. But still, that sickness lingered, the ache of a missing piece of herself swelling in her chest.
She took a deep breath, signing in Tongueless so only Mister Kindly might understand.
Where?
“… the gloryhound…,” came the whispered reply. “… bound for crow’s nest…”
Eclipse? Ashlinn?
“… they follow, a handful of turns behind us…”
Furian?
“… not good…”
Mia nodded to herself, looking about the cabin. She’d not been up here before—every trip she’d taken had been spent locked down in the hold. The room was cramped, a chest full of Maggot’s implements and herbs and some wooden crates were the only decor. Three hammocks hung from the ceiling, Mia in the middle. Bladesinger was belly-down to her left, eyes closed, swordarm and back swathed in bloody bandages. To her right, the Champion of Remus Collegium lay unconscious, soaked through. Furian’s torso and throat were swabbed with a greenish salve, but the wounds from the silkling’s venom still looked awful. Above the bilge and the sea and the sweat, Mia could smell the beginnings of a high, ripe decay.
Maggot held a cup of fresh water to her lips, and Mia drank all she was given despite the pain, sighing with relief.
“Bladesinger…,” she began, licking at dry lips. “H-how does…”
“Passing fair,” Maggot whispered, so as not to disturb the sleepers. “The tendon and muscle in her swordarm are badly cut. But she stitched up well. I think she’ll wake.”
“And … F-Furian?”
Maggot sighed, looking the Unfallen over. “Not so well. Infection is taking root, and I fear it will turn to blood sepsis. I need to get him back to the Nest.”
“We sail as fast as Lady Trelene and Lady Nalipse allow.”
Mia looked up to see Dona Leona at the doorway, eyes locked on the Unfallen. Magistrae stood beside her, ever the dutiful second.
As usual, the magistrae’s appearance was immaculate, but Mia was surprised to see the turn Leona had taken. The dona usually dressed as if she were attending some grand salon, but now, she wore only a simple white shift. Mia could see her fingernails were chewed down to the quick. In her right hand, she held the silver torc that had once encircled Furian’s neck. The metal was melted slightly by the silkling’s venom.
“Domina,” Mia nodded.
“My Crow,” the woman answered. “I am heartened to see you wake.”
Mia sat up with a wince, head swimming. Her cheek felt swollen, and she could feel the pinch of sutures in her skin. Ribs aching, she took a second cup from Maggot, drank until it was empty.
“H-how long did I sleep for?”
“Three turns since your triumph,” Leona said.
“It is ours, then?” she asked, stomach thrilling. “The magni?”
“Aye,” the dona replied, stepping into the room. “It is ours. My father is many things, little Crow. A snake. A liar. A bastard. But no sanguila would dare renege on a wager made so publicly. With the laurels he has won, he had berths to spare. He can afford to lose one to us. But now, thanks to Bryn and Byern’s sacrifice, he has no equillai. And thanks to your valor, he has no champion.”
The woman fixed her eyes on Furian.
“All we have desired is now within our reach.”
“How is Bryn?” Mia asked.
The dona’s haunted glance was Mia’s only reply. But Bryn had lost her twin brother, right before her very eyes. Crushed and bled out before a booing mob. And all for nothing. No purse. No glory. Nothing at all.
How the ’byss do you expect her to be?
“How are your wounds?” Leona asked.
Mia gingerly touched the bandages at her cheek, looked to Maggot.
“You tell me.”
“Your ribs are cracked,” the young girl replied. “The bruises will be awful, but you’ll mend. The cut to your face is healing well. Though I’m afraid it will scar.”
Mia focused on that thought, briefly burning hotter than the pain of her wounds. She’d never been pretty when she was a girl—she’d only discovered what beauty was once Marielle wove her face into a portrait in the Quiet Mountain. And truth was, she’d reveled in the power it bestowed.
She wondered what Ashlinn might say. How the girl might look at her now, and whether she’d hate the reflection she saw in those pools of sunsburned blue. For a moment, she wished she were back in the Mountain, where Marielle could mend all hurts with a wave of her hand. She supposed that option would be forever denied her now she’d set herself against the Church. That this scar, the brand beside it, would be hers to cherish until she died.
Mia pictured her father, swinging and choking before the mob. Her mother, weeping and bleeding out in her arms. Her brother, dying as a babe in a lightless pit.
And, hand falling away from her face, she shrugged.
“The choice between looking plain and pretty isn’t really a choice at all. But any fool knows looking dangerous is preferable to both.”
A mirthless smile curled Leona’s lips, and she slowly shook her head.
“I like you, Crow. Everseeing help me, but I do. I know not what you were before this, but for the assistance you offered our champion and your courage in the arena, I will be forever grateful.”
“I wonder if your champion will say the same, Domina…”
The dona’s eyes returned to Furian, fingers clasped so tight about his silver torc that her knuckles were white. Mia wondered how often the dona had visited his side since they left Whitekeep. Wondered if perhaps she did truly care for him. Wondered what Arkades would be making of it all if he knew …
“Perhaps we should head back up to the deck, Domina?” Magistrae murmured, squeezing the woman’s hand. “Let them rest.”
Leona blinked as if waking from a dream. But she nodded, allowed herself to be led away. As she reached the cabin door, she stopped, turned to Mia.
“Thank you, Crow,” she murmured.
And with that, she was gone.
*