Ren couldn’t guess, so he moved on, the plank walk continuing around the sharply curving cliff face. He followed the path, resting in spots, catching glimpses of the view, the distant mountains and the barren landscape. He had never imagined that the world could hold such vastness, such expanse. The sky stretched to infinity, the desert disappeared into boundless dunes. If I die on this hunt, at least I saw this. He stood with his back to the cliff, eyeing the gently changing clouds till the wind started to blow, and he feared it might topple him. It would be a terrible shame if I survived the Sun’s Justice but let the wind blow me from a ledge.
Ren gripped the rocky face of the precipice, taking one or two more steps before coming to the end of the path, which opened onto a wide plateau. He made camp in the embrace of an ancient cypress, hoisting the dog and himself up into the branches for safety. A light rain fell, but the wide canopy of the tree kept them dry. Still, Ren was not able to sleep, and he again stared back down toward the desert flatlands he had left, the long, low darkness of the horizon ending where the stars began. On the other side sat a high plateau filled with hills and canyons, green and cold. The mongrel whimpered and moaned for a time, as the lowing of a deer hunting in the darkness kept them both awake.
Clouds concealed the moon, the temperature dropped, and the light rain that had been falling turned into soft, white flakes. Ren had never seen snow before but had heard of it, how it would fall and cover everything like a white blanket. He held out his hands to catch it, though as soon as it touched his skin it melted away. It felt like his freedom—a delicate, destructible thing that vanished the longer you tried to hold it.
Even when the snow faded and the dog’s whimpering quieted, thoughts of his family kept him awake. He’d always understood that his father would be dead the day he was sent back from the Priory, and it had been a welcome and unexpected surprise to realize he would be afforded a meeting with the man who’d sired him. Arko was taller and stronger than he had imagined, yet also absentminded—as if the old king were only half there when he spoke. But then, Ren supposed that was to be expected, as he too had just been pulled from his life, summoned to Solus to face the emperor, and gods only knew what else. He knew his mother no longer lived in Harwen, and he had not expected to see her. Ten years in the Priory and the Mother Priestess of Mithra-Sol had not once visited. She was a mystery to him, nothing more. He wished he had been able to meet his sisters, at least, before being sent away to this hunt. He wanted to see their faces, but there had been no time for a reunion. Merit and Kepi were an empty spot in his memories. He knew only his father’s face, but the king must be dead by now, or he would be soon enough.
Unable to sleep, Ren washed in the stream, drinking long and deep, before walking off to piss. He ate Dakar’s bread and finished the amber. He found what he thought was the smoke grass, but he saw no flowers. He waded through the thin gray stalks. The grass grew to knee-height, pale and wispy, like a cloud frozen among the rocks. He stood among the wispy stalks, inspecting the foliage. Was it even the smoke grass? He wasn’t sure. This is folly. Damn the hunt, damn Arko Hark-Wadi and the crown of Harkana.
It was nearly morning and if he couldn’t sleep, he might as well make his way back down the mountain. He walked backward along the trail and then he saw them—white blooms where there had been none. In places, where the moonlight struck the grass, it had blossomed into patches of bright flowers. The smoke-grass flower was night blossoming, its white petals glowing blue in the moonlight. The warden had skipped this fact, or left it out on purpose, or did not know about its nocturnal nature.
The dog barked sharply.
Ren stopped. Turning, he heard a rustling in the brush, saw a shadow moving toward him in the moonlight, looming large and breathing heavily.
26
“Kepi, wake up.” Seth’s voice.
She blinked and opened her eyes. The gray bird was gone and it was noontime. She stood from her perch in the circle of stones, threw down the broken sword, and embraced him. “I thought you were dead.”
“I—” The words caught in his throat. His hair covered his eyes and there was dirt on his chin and on his arms, scrapes on his hands and on his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry I lost you at the bridge,” he said, his voice strained.
“We’re together now. That’s all that matters.” She beamed at him, feeling relief wash over her. She was free—free of the San, free of Dagrun. Seth had saved her at the Rift valley, and what was more miraculous, he had found her in the Cragwood, found her amid a forest of stone.
The sunlight on the stone circle was like the first day there ever was.
“We should go. We’ll need food, water. Horses if we can get them. If we can find our way to your family, everything will be all right,” Kepi said.
“My family?”
“Yes, of course. Dagrun’s caravan was attacked; I’m missing, most likely killed by the San. Don’t you get it, Seth? I’m free. You can go home, to Barsip, and I can go home with you.” As your wife, she thought, but was too shy to say, remembering the wedding cake they had shared.
“Right.” Seth nodded, but he was looking at the stones, over his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked, finally noticing how nervous he was. It was natural, they had both just survived the outlanders’ attack.
He smiled and shook his head. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’m fine. It’s good to see you, you’re alive and that’s all that matters.”
“Let’s go,” she said, linking her arm in his.
For the first time in years she breathed deeply, comfortably. She had no sword in her hand, and she had no need for one. She felt safe. When we reach Barsip I’ll never need to wield another weapon.
They left the throne and fled deeper into the Cragwood. The only direct route out of Feren was the way they had come, but there would be no way to cross one of the bridges over the Rift valley if Dagrun’s men were holding them. They decided to head east, to take the long route along the valley toward the lowland passes, west of the Harkan Cliff, where the rift grew shallow and easier to cross. “Come on,” Kepi said, practically pulling him by his tunic. After the trials of the day before, she felt nearly intoxicated, not quite believing in her good luck, almost singing as she dashed between the stones and scrambled over fallen logs.
“Slow down,” Seth called. “Slow down, will you!” He sounded almost angry.
Ignoring his request, she leapt over a rock, tripped, and fell hard on the earth, nearly landing on her face. The gash over her eye, a present from the San warrior who had tried to kill her, tore open once more, blood leaking down the side of her face. The wound on her neck ached.
Seth caught up, helped her to sit up and calm down. He took the hem of his tunic and wiped the blood at her temple. He shook his head. “I told you to slow down,” he said with an unhappy tone to his voice. “You, with all of your bruises, you’re are always getting hurt.”
She shook her head, still feeling exuberant, liberated. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m dead and I’ve never been happier.”
He frowned. “We’re not free yet.”