Forest of Ruin (15 page)

A
shyn honored that pledge to keep her thoughts of Ronan pure and untainted by any romantic longing . . . by sharing a sleeping pallet with him. Moria would laugh at that, but for Ashyn it was, in her way, a statement, as much to him as to herself. That they could share a bed, like friends, and she would not lie awake hoping he would slide her way, that his hands would wrap around her, that his lips would find hers . . .

No. There would be none of that. And there wasn't.

They'd staggered back from the dragon's den, drunk and flushed, only to discover that the bitter wind on the steppes made Ronan's pallet outside her tent completely unsuitable. He'd come inside to see if there was a way of rearranging her pallet to make room for his, but the tent was not big enough, and in their intoxicated exhaustion, they'd just collapsed onto hers, Tova curled up at their feet.

Ashyn did wake once, hearing a noise, and Ronan was no longer on his side of the sleeping pallet, but curled up against her back, his hand on her hip, his face in her hair, his breath warm on the back of her neck. She accepted that. She even allowed herself to enjoy it. But she did not press against him, hoping to wake him and, well . . . just
hoping
. Instead, she lay there, fingering her bracelet and thinking about their night, about all of it, everything he'd done and said.

Would things change once they got back to the city? Once he'd returned to his family and fulfilled that obligation?

She'd like to say yes. That the way he'd looked at her and spoken of her meant that this was simply temporary. But after their first kiss, he had reunited with his family . . . and then told her he'd made a mistake.

Was she, to him, like the shopkeeper's daughter? A pointless fancy for a casteless boy? She'd told him none of that mattered, but it did, to him. If he got caste from the emperor, would
that
change?

If
he returned home.
If
his brother and sister were safe.
If
he got caste. An endless string of
ifs
, like mountains to be climbed, and there was no way of seeing how many more waited, whether there was indeed an end.

Was that what her dreams of Ronan amounted to? Endless obstacles? And perhaps, if they did end, the biggest one of all: the realization that, as much as he enjoyed her company, he had other plans, other dreams, of a lover he could marry, children of his own.

Ashyn could not wed, and could only have a child with the dispensation of the emperor himself. She might dream of
a lifelong love, an informal partnership, but a man could want more. Even if she was happy to say, “Don't worry where this will lead—let's be happy together for as long as we can be,” it might not be enough for him.

Was it worth risking her heart? Risking her dignity? Risking the pain of rejection?

Ronan shifted in his sleep, his hand gripping her hip, his face burrowing deeper into her hair, his sleepy voice whispering softly.

“Ash, my Ash . . .”

Ashyn smiled and let her hand rest on his with a soft squeeze. Yes, it was worth it. This was about her. Her choice. Her heart to let break. And if it did, she would still have the memory of a boy in a dragon's den, one perfect night when anything had seemed possible and nothing else had mattered but them.

It was enough. Her heart. Her choice. Her Ronan.

When Ashyn woke, she was alone on her sleeping pallet. Well, Tova was there, but Tova was always there. Ronan was gone, which did not come as any surprise. He'd have slipped out with the dawn, before anyone realized where he'd spent the night. She stretched and immediately regretted it. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with sawdust. Her head pounded. Moving hurt. It just hurt.

She reached for her waterskin, opened it, and drank slowly but deeply. Alcohol dehydrated, as she knew from her healing studies. Preferably the water should be taken much sooner, but the problem with drinking to the point where she required water? She was past the point of being able to
remember that she needed water.

“Mmmph,” she said, lifting her head. “I hope today's preparations don't require movement. Or clear thought.”

When Tova didn't make any answering noise, she lifted her head—gently—to see him still sprawled at her feet. His chest rose and fell in deep sleep.

“You didn't get into the wine, did you?” she said, laughing under her breath.

She shifted down her pallet to pat his neck. When he still didn't move, alarm darted through her and she sat up quickly—too quickly—nearly vomiting as her stomach rocked. Tova opened one eye and snarled a yawn.

“You're fine,” she said. “Just as tired as I am. Do you think we ought to get up?”

He snorted and closed his eye.

“Good idea,” she said, and stretched out with her head on his flank. “We'll sleep until we're woken.”

She didn't even get her blanket pulled up before someone scratched at the door. It wasn't Ronan. He would walk in saying, “You dressed?” without actually giving her time to fix the situation if she wasn't.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Edwyn.”

She groaned under her breath and murmured to Tova, “That didn't take nearly long enough.” Then she called, “I'll be out shortly.”

“May I come in? I must speak to you.”

She looked down at herself. She still wore her clothing from yesterday.

“Yes,” she said.

She sat up and tried to run her fingers through her hair, but as the sunlight hit her, she winced and shielded her face. Edwyn gave a soft laugh and closed the tent flap behind him.

“More wine than you are accustomed to, child?”

She flushed.

“You seemed to be having a good night,” he said, “and I was very glad to see it. You deserved that after everything you've been through.” He glanced down at his hand and Ashyn saw a scroll in it. “I . . . I have news that will make your day less pleasant, I fear.”

She rose. “What is it?”

“Ronan has left, child. He placed this scroll outside, and I will admit that I read it before I realized it was for you.”

“No, that's not—there's a mistake. He wouldn't . . .”

Wouldn't leave because he'd promised not to.
Last night. When he'd been drunk. Then morning came and . . .

No, he still wouldn't sneak off.

Wouldn't he? She remembered when he'd left her behind in Edgewood. She'd found a small group of survivors, and he'd said he'd wait outside. When she'd come out, there'd been a note—and he'd been gone.

She unfastened the scroll. Inside was writing in a familiar hand. Ronan's.

I couldn't stay, Ashyn. I know I said I would, but I must get home to Aidra and Jorn. You know why. I explained it last night. I tried to justify . . . but in the end, I couldn't. Your grandfather will take care of you, and you'll awaken dragons,
Ashyn. I wish I could be there to see it. But my brother and sister need me. You do not. I will see you in the city.

She reread the note, looking for some sign that it was a trick, that someone had taken Ronan in the night and left this note. But it was his hand, and it said things no one else could know.

Ronan had said he'd stay, and he'd changed his mind. Was she truly surprised?

Ashyn rolled the scroll and tucked it into her pocket.

“I know I was not always kind to him,” Edwyn said. “And I hope that played no role in his departure. If it did, then I sincerely apologize, child. I was harsh toward him yesterday, because I knew he was no warrior, and I feared you did not realize it, and he was misleading you.”

“He was not.”

“Either way, I feared he was using you for his own purposes. That he was feigning devotion to you. That is, I admit, why I showed him the treasure in the dragon's den. I almost hoped he would fill his pockets in the night and leave. He did leave, but my guard has told me no one went in there since the two of you during the festival.”

“We were just—”

“—taking a closer look. Marveling at it all. And, perhaps, finding a private spot.”

Ashyn shook her head. “It wasn't like that. We are only friends.”

“You are still friends,” he said gently. “That letter was not a good-bye, Ashyn. It was a temporary leave-taking for the sake
of his family. One cannot argue with that.”

“Family above all,” she said.

“Yes.” He reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “Which is why I apologize if I hurt you by being unkind to him. I truly was only trying to protect you.”

“He didn't steal anything last night. He just . . .” She looked down to see the bracelet. “I'll put this back, of course. He was playing around and found it for me. As a joke.”

“No, child. As a gift.” His lips twitched. “Even if it was not his to give. Keep it, as a reminder that he is waiting for you in the city, once this is done. Now, while you probably do not feel much like eating, I'll have the cook make something bland. We have a full day of preparations ahead of us. Because tonight . . .” He looked at her, his eyes sparkling.

She managed a smile for him. “Tonight I wake dragons.”

M
oria lay in the long grass, watching two men at a night's campfire. They were dressed in drab clothing, blending with the endless brown of the steppes, but her eye caught almost-hidden ornamentation. Shimmering, jeweled rings. A bright-colored tunic under a cloak. Tasseled boots. Braids woven with golden thread. Not merchants themselves—their clothing was of inferior fabric and construction. These were the kind of men merchants loved, because they had money and no taste.

Both men bore swords, though—the dual swords of warriors.

“Mercenaries?” she whispered to Gavril, who was stretched out beside her.

“Imperial bounty hunters.”

“What do they do?”

“Hunt bounties for the empire.”

When she gave him a look, his lips twitched. Not mocking her outright. Nor calling her a fool. Gentle teasing instead. They'd been searching all day and into the night for the camp where Alvar might be keeping his shadow stalkers. While they'd passed settlements and hidden from two wagon trains, these were the first warriors they'd spotted.

Gavril's mood was not unlike what she remembered after a few days in the Wastes, when he'd begun to relax, to tease, and to talk. There were still snaps and snarls and glowers, yet that was Gavril, like the weather of the Wastes themselves—never what one would call easy, but the sunny patches almost made the storms worthwhile.

Gavril did occasionally sink into his grief, but it was quickly shaken off, which did not make it any less genuine. Sometimes, that was the only way to handle grief. One started falling into the pit, and then had to slingshot out of it and carry on. So it had been with Moria after her father's death, and so it was now with Gavril and his mother's.

“An imperial bounty is a price set on the head of a criminal,” he continued. “These hunters try to collect it. Most are little different from mercenaries. If you see those forelocks, though? It marks them as an elite corps, permanently employed by the emperor.”

“One would think an elite corps would dress better.”

A soft chuckle. “True, but bounty hunters are a culture unto themselves, with their own rules and codes and, yes, manner of dress. They're hunters, so they need to blend in. Yet they're arrogant. The jewels and such advertise their success.”

“Do you think they hunt for us? Toman sounded as if he expected a bounty, but it was not clear one existed. Would the emperor do that? Lay a bounty on our heads when we were declared traitors?”

“He'd likely have had no choice. Despite Toman's threats, though, I believe that Emperor Tatsu would have made it clear he wanted us alive—saying that we needed to answer for our crimes.”

She nodded. “Thereby ensuring our safety as best he could.”

Moria eyed the two. The one without rings looked only a few summers older than her. The other seemed a couple of decades older. A bounty hunter and his apprentice, she supposed.

She told Gavril her plan. He thought it mad. Naturally.

“Would you rather hunt for your father's camp while
we
are being hunted?” she asked.

He grumbled.

“All right,” she said. “I'll take the older one, if he's too much—”

Gavril was off before she could finish.

Gavril crawled through the grass until he was about fifty paces from the campfire. Then, when neither man was looking directly his way, he rose and began walking toward them.

“Draw your blades and I'll draw mine.” Gavril's voice echoed over the plain. “If you are imperial men of honor, you will rise and meet me as such, with your hands folded at your waist.”

Neither moved. Gavril stopped. He wore his sleeveless
tunic, his cloak left with Moria, and his clan tattoos were on full display. Yet they were not as easily seen as others—black ink against dark skin, spots of green the only color.

Gavril raised his forearms and said, “I'd hope you would recognize the man you are hunting, even in the night, but shine your torches if that helps.”

The two looked at each other, confused. Was it truly so difficult to identify Gavril? It was not as if the empire was filled with tall, green-eyed, dark-skinned, inked young warriors.

But they still apparently needed to shine their torches, and when they did, the young bounty hunter let out an oath.

“Gavril Kitsune?”

“You sound surprised.”

“We—”

The older man shushed his apprentice with a look.

“Were you hoping to find my father out here?” Gavril said.

“Our target is our concern,” the older man said. “But since you have foolishly presented yourself, we'll gladly accept you as an alternate. The bounty on you is as high as the one we sought.” The man smiled, teeth flashing in the firelight. “And the public acclaim will be significantly higher.”

They weren't hunting Alvar or Gavril then. Was it Moria herself? It didn't matter. They still needed to be dealt with.

“I wish to surrender,” Gavril said.

The older man chuckled. “I don't blame you.”

“I do not appreciate being mocked,” Gavril said. “Whatever my father has done, it does not change the fact that I am a Kitsune and a warrior, and I expect to be treated as such. You
will escort me back to the imperial city, where I will explain everything to the emperor. I will not be taken in chains or bound in any way. I am still—”

“Yes, yes, come along, boy. We'll treat you properly. Eat with us and then we'll head out. It's a four-day hard ride to the imperial city. I don't suppose you're hiding a horse out there.”

“I am not, but I'm certain you'll lend me one until we can acquire another.”

“Of course, my lord.”

The moment Gavril got within striking distance, the older man drew. The younger hesitated, perhaps honestly thinking his master intended to accept Gavril's demands. By the time the older man had his sword out, Gavril's was slashing. The younger man drew his—but a dagger in his shoulder sent him staggering, his blade falling into the fire, sparks exploding.

Gavril and the older bounty hunter fought, their swords clanging. Moria had her other dagger raised, one eye on them and the other on the younger man, who was now trying to rescue his scorching-hot blade from the fire. When the young hunter drew his short sword instead, Moria launched her second dagger. The young man let out a cry, falling to his knees as he fumbled to pull the dagger from his back.

Gavril did not have Tyrus's skill, but he'd been the prince's sparring partner for a reason—he was a fine swordsman for his youth. The bounty hunter seemed a middling one for his age. So they were matched, which meant Moria had every intention of helping, should Gavril falter. This was not a bout for honor. But when the younger hunter fell, it startled his master enough for Gavril to get the upper hand. A perfect parry knocked
the man's sword aside. A sword tip against the man's throat stopped him from going for it.

“Come out, Keeper,” Gavril called. “You ought to watch the young one.”

“Which is why I'm right here, Kitsune,” she said, walking up behind him with her short sword drawn.

“It's true, then.” The older man snorted. “I told you, boy. The Keeper is indeed this traitor's whore.”

“Yes, yes,” Moria said. “It's an old story and a dull one. Also untrue, but I'll save my breath and swallow the insult.”

The younger man lifted his second blade, but unsteadily, one dagger still in his shoulder, the other on the ground, the end bloodied.

“If you ever intend to properly use your sword arm, you'll put that blade down and let me tend to your wounds,” Moria said. “Although, I hear it doesn't take long to learn to fight as well with your left. Only a decade or so of practice.”

The young man's gaze shot to his master.

“Don't you dare, boy,” the older man growled. “There's a sword in your hand, and that is an imperial traitor. You have a duty here.”

“But is it a duty worth losing your livelihood for?” Moria said. “Particularly if your injuries mean I'll be able to pluck that blade from your hand before you can swing it? Also, if I am not your prey, then you have no true duty to apprehend me.”

“Don't listen to her, boy.”

In the end, the young man did lunge, but it was halfhearted, and she dodged easily, grabbing her dagger from the ground and turning on him, the two facing off.

“We lay down our blades together,” Moria said. “Then I will tend to your wounds.”

“We have no intention of killing you,” Gavril said. “We simply cannot afford to have two imperial bounty hunters out here with us. We will tend to your wounds, and then take your weapons and your supplies.”

“Oh, in other words, let us die slowly instead of quick.”

“We passed a settlement within a half-day's walk,” Moria said. “Taking your supplies only gives you cause to head for them rather than pursue us. Now, boy, show us you're brighter than your master.”

He pulled the second dagger out of his shoulder, wincing and tossing it aside. The man began cursing his apprentice with dire threats should he dare lay down his—

Moria and the young bounty hunter laid down their weapons. The older man dove for his sword, but Gavril saw that coming and kicked it aside.

“I do not wish to—” Gavril began.

The bounty hunter dove again—this time at the sword in the fire. He howled as his fingers touched the white-hot metal handle, but he kept his grip, leaping up and swinging the sword. Gavril countered it with his own blade.

“Do not make me—” Gavril began again.

“Die? Yes. I will make you die, boy. The emperor may want you alive, but I'm sure your head will suffice. Your head on a pole at the palace gates.”

Moria eyed her daggers. Gavril was parrying the blows, but making no attempt to land one of his own.

“I think you are mistaken,” Gavril said. “The people of
the empire would much prefer me alive. Executed as a traitor. A platform erected for me to commit ritual suicide before the crowd.
Then
my head put on a pole. I think that would quench the empire's thirst for vengeance far better.”

The man laughed. “You'll say anything to avoid death, won't you? A coward, like your father. Do you honestly believe he was innocent of the charges against him? He was not. I was there. He withdrew from the field under cover of sorcery and left us to die. I saw it, boy, and you are as much a coward—”

The man charged then. Gavril went to parry, only to have nothing to parry, because the bounty hunter's sword swung the other way suddenly, heading for Gavril's neck. Moria lunged to knock Gavril aside, but he spun out of the way just in time. His own blade swung and the bounty hunter feinted . . . and a blow sliced clean through the man's forearm and into his chest. The man's arm fell. Then so did the man himself, gasping, wide-eyed, his severed arm pumping blood, more gushing from his side.

The younger bounty hunter bolted. Gavril followed. Moria grabbed both daggers and tore after them. Once Gavril saw she was coming, he circled back to deal with the other man.

Moria threw one dagger, aiming for the same shoulder she'd hit already. The dagger was still in flight when a dark shape shot from behind an outcropping of stunted trees. A black, four-legged shape running for the bounty hunter. Moria stumbled in her shock, Daigo's name on her lips. Her wildcat pounced at the same moment the dagger struck, and the young bounty hunter let out a scream of pain as he fell face-first to the ground. Daigo pinned him by the back of the neck.

“I'd say ‘surprise,'” a voice called, “but someone ruined it for me.”

Tyrus strolled out from behind the trees, walking toward her as casually as if they'd parted only moments ago.