“Like you?”
“Like the prioress of the Cloistery.”
Graylin knew the woman and respected her. He slowly settled back to his stool.
“You are not a fool, Graylin. Nor a na?ve sop. Surely you must understand that some matters overrule even a sworn word. You certainly demonstrated that amply in the past. Did not love break your oath?”
Graylin felt his face heat up, not with shame, but with rising anger. “You think you need to remind me of—”
Symon cut him off with a raised hand. “Fair trade.”
Baffled by his words, Graylin took a breath, then sputtered, “What do you mean?”
“Since I gave away your secret, in payment I will give you one of my own.”
Graylin frowned. He did not care about any of the confidences that Symon kept, but he was intrigued enough to wave to the man.
Symon planted his pipe between his lips and bent over. He used a finger to pull the worn hose from his left foot and tossed it aside. He then lifted his leg to expose his sole to Graylin. “What do you think about that?”
Graylin leaned closer and came to a firm conclusion. “You need a bath. With plenty of lyeleaf soap to strip that reek from your flesh. If that’s even possible.”
“Look closer, near my heel.”
Holding his breath, Graylin pushed forward. He squinted and spotted a small raised scar. It looked no more than what one might get from stepping on a hot coal rolled from a fire. “Are we comparing burns?” he asked.
Symon tilted his foot slightly, and the scar transformed from a knot of thickened skin to a vague outline of a rose. Graylin shifted back.
No …
Symon lowered his foot.
Graylin studied his former alchymist anew. “You’re not suggesting you’re part of—”
“The Razen Rose?” Symon lifted a brow.
He scoffed. “They’re just stories, concocted by those who see shadows where there are none.”
“You’ve heard me belch and fart. Is that not real enough?”
Throughout his years in the Legionary and beyond, he had heard rumors of the Razen Rose, a confederacy of spies aligned to no kingdom or empire. They were said to be stripped alchymists and hieromonks who had been secretly recruited to use their skills to a greater purpose: to protect and preserve knowledge throughout the rise and fall of realms. Some suspected their true agenda involved steering history, believing the Rose was the hidden hand that ultimately moved the gears of the world.
Graylin stared over at Symon.
If this man is part of that hand, the Urth is doomed.
“Does that not pay my debt?” Symon asked.
“Assuming what you say is even true.”
Symon shrugged. “A secret sold does not require a buyer’s belief. It’s a value unto itself.”
Growing exasperated, Graylin stood. “Consider your debt paid, but I want nothing to do with the greater world.”
Symon remained seated, even leaned back. “It’s not the greater world that you need care about.” He puffed hard on his pipe, then lifted the scroll over the smoldering bowl. “This missive concerns Marayn’s child.”
Graylin went cold. All the blood drained to his legs. The unquiet peace he had settled upon suddenly fractured into a thousand painful shards.
“A daughter, as I understand it.” Symon lowered the parchment toward the pipe’s fiery bowl. “But if you don’t wish to involve yourself…”
Graylin lunged and snatched the message. He clutched it as his past overwhelmed him.
* * *
KNEELING IN THE sailing skiff, Graylin clasped Marayn’s shivering hands between his warm palms. It was the only way he could keep her from speaking, to stop her from refusing what he asked of her.
He felt her tremble. She tried to free her hands, her eyes forlorn, tears running down her cheeks.
“You must go,” he insisted.
He nodded toward the strip of grassy sand where he had nosed the skiff after poling it as far as he could into the swamps. He could traverse no farther. Marayn’s best hope for her and her unborn child was to hide in the swamp while he tried to lure away the legion’s ships that closed down upon the coastline of these drowned lands.
She tugged her hands free and clenched a fist to her chest, then opened her fingers like a budding rose. [I love you.] She motioned quickly, nearly too fast for him to interpret, but her frantic face was easy to read: [Let me go with you. We must stay together. Even if it means our deaths.]
He placed his hand on her belly, believing he could feel the babe stir under his palm. Even now he didn’t know if the child was his or the king’s. “And what of the baby here?” he asked. “Would you risk its life for another few breaths together?”
She covered his hand with her own. He felt a determined kick under his palm. Must be my child. Despite his terror, he found himself smiling. He looked up as Marayn offered a sad version of his same expression. He leaned his forehead to hers.
“You must go,” he whispered. “If only for the sake of your child.”
She pulled back, pointed to his chest, then cradled her fingers together.
[Our child.]
He nodded. They had come to this decision with the first swelling of her belly. He didn’t care who the father was, only that the child would be his. It was why they planned this flight. The king had waited this long to decide if the child would live or die. Toranth already had two boys, but he considered a third heir, even a bastard, could cement his throne in case his elder sons should die. Then a scryer threw bones, tested Marayn’s chamber pot, and deemed the child to be a girl. As Toranth placed great stock on his soothers and bone-readers, he ordered Marayn’s babe to be expelled through draughts of Bastard’s Herb tea, and failing that, through knife and blood.
So, they fled that same winter night.
“We dare wait no longer,” Graylin said. “If I’m to lure them away, I must set off for the open water now.”
She finally relented, weeping silently, her shoulders shaking. He helped her out of the boat and onto land. He drew her into one last kiss. He tasted the salt of her tears on her lips. He wished he could stay there forever, but it could never be.
He pulled back, fighting his own tears now. As she stood there trembling, he pressed a knife into her hands.
“Travel as far as you can,” he instructed. “And hide. If I can lose the others, I will find my way back to you. I swear it.”
She nodded, clutching the dagger.
He returned to the skiff and poled off the beachhead. He glided across the black brine, staring back at her.
She stood with a fist at her chest and bloomed her fingers.
He repeated the sign, knowing that was where all their troubles had begun. A year ago, Marayn had been offered to Graylin to serve as a private tutor, so he might learn the gesturing language shared by the tongueless pleasure serfs. As captain of the king’s guard, he had hoped to learn that means of communication, to employ it as a tool for the legion to correspond silently among them or even across battlefields.
Graylin thought himself so clever for considering this tactic.
And so did King Toranth.
Graylin and Toranth had been friends for ages. They had gone through their nine years in the Legionary together, growing into bosom companions through hardship and strife. Graylin could still remember a young prince thrust into training from his pampered rooms at Highmount, a waif with girlish blond curls. Though he was destined for the throne, the teachers offered the prince no special favor, as was tradition. The coda of the legion’s school was a simple one: It takes the hottest temper to forge the toughest steel. And their teachers—all hardened soldiers—beat that into them on a daily basis.