The sun disappears wholly from the horizon, and a sudden chill permeates the air. I think of winter, of unending cold and unending darkness. There are two months, yet, of light left, but already I am longing for the sun to rise.
There’s a chaos of confusion when at last the ferry reaches the far bank. Torches flare, passengers clamor to reunite with their parties or claim their livestock. We find Vil and the rest without trouble, though Pala does a good deal of shouting at the ferry master and still has to hand over an additional pouch of coins before he relinquishes our horses and packs and we’re back on our way again.
We ride away from the majority of passengers, who are returning home to the villages scattered along the banks of the Saadone. Technically we’re in Daeros now, but Skaanda has controlled this section of the river for a handful of years. Many Skaandans work in Saadone City and live here, where it’s cheaper, protected by the small Skaandan army encampment a little ways to the south. We should be relatively safe, for the night at least.
But we’ve only just made camp when a Daerosian rides up to our fire, recognizable by his blue sleeves and scale-armor breastplate. A lantern that pulses red with Iljaria magic hangs from his saddle horn, illuminating him in an eerie glow. He hefts a spear in one hand, eyes glittering beneath his steel helm.
“By whose authority does an armed Skaandan company tread on Daerosian soil?” the soldier demands. His free hand twitches to the bone whistle that hangs on a cord at his neck, ready to alert his own company.
Beside me, Saga seethes, hand on her sword hilt, though she ducks her head out of the light.
“By this token,” says Vil, fumbling for the peace banner that hangs on his belt for just such a challenge. He unfurls it quickly, so theDaerosian scout can see the gold lily on the white field—an ancient symbol of peace. Vil jerks his chin at Pala and Leifur, who sheathe their swords and step back with twin reluctance. “Surely you recognize me,” Vil adds, looking hard at the scout. “I’m the crown prince of Skaanda.”
His brazenness makes my heart race, but I trust him to keep his cool.
Indridi is stirring a pot of soup over the fire, her cheeks traced with orange light. Her hands shake, and the fire seems to burn a little fiercer than before.
The Daerosian scowls at Vil and the banner in equal measure. “You will come and show your token to my commander, and explain to him your presence in Daeros.”
Saga practically radiates anger at this, and Vil’s eyes flick backward, willing her to keep her peace. “We’ll come,” says Vil.
“Just two of you,” the scout objects, glancing uneasily at Pala and Leifur.
Vil shrugs. “Astridur, with me.”
It takes me a moment to remember thatIam Astridur, a false name chosen in case Kallias ever knew mine. The shape of it feels strange in my mind, in the pulses of my heart.
I fight down my rising panic and step to Vil’s side.
We walk on foot after the Daerosian as the stars appear over the wide expanse of autumn meadow, our boots flattening the grass and clouds of gnats swirling up.
I wish Pala and Leifur were with us. We have no guarantee that the Daerosian commander won’t take one look at us and clap us in irons—or worse—peace banner be damned.
Vil strides tall and confident beside me, and I find myself steadied by his strength. His eyes flick briefly to mine as he takes my hand. The touch of his fingers sends a familiar heat through me, coiling down to my toes.
Too soon, the Daerosian camp comes into view below the ridge of a hill, sprawling and vast, thousands of fires stretching into the distance. Iam suddenly, wildly afraid that Kallias is here with his army, that he will see me, know me. That he will drag me back to his mountain palace, back to my iron cage.
Vil senses my panic and tightens his grip on my hand, mooring me to the present, holding me here, with him. I let his stability cover me like a cloak.
The scout leads us down a winding path and into the valley, where raucous soldiers sit around roaring fires, eating their evening meal and passing wine bottles back and forth. The air reeks of smoke and alcohol.
We halt at a huge tent the color of the autumn grass, and at the scout’s call, his commander steps out, a tall man with lines pressed into his pale face. His scale armor is traced with gold, the hilt of his sword encrusted with jewels. He’s clearly been pulled away from his dinner, too, crumbs in the corner of his mouth, lips stained with wine.
Vil lets go of my hand and kneels before the commander, though I know it must grate on him. He holds the peace banner outstretched in both hands. I don’t kneel. I can’t make my body bend. I just stand there and try not to let the panic drown me, while sparks from the nearby campfire leap out and sizzle to nothing in the dirt.
“We come as ambassadors to your king,” says Vil in his tenor-rich voice. “We come proposing peace between our nations, and ask for free passage across Daeros.”
The commander folds his arms across his chest, wholly unimpressed. “Have you some other token, boy, beyond your word and this worthless rag?”
Vil’s body goes tight, but there is no other sign of his anger. He works his seal ring off the first finger of his left hand and shows the commander the eight-pointed red star worked into the metal. “This, sir, and the weight of my blood as crown prince of Skaanda.” Vil takes the dagger from his belt, pricks his finger, and presses the spot of blood onto the truce banner.
The commander scowls, considering. Such a pledge is binding, the blood invoking the gods as witness. Daerosians don’t believe in the gods, but they’ve seen enough Iljaria magic to be superstitious, and in any case their treaty with the Aeronan Empire requires them to abide by offers of peace. Although that still wouldn’t keep the commander from slitting our throats and burning the banner right here, right now, with none the wiser.
In the end he just utters a curse and pricks his own finger, smearing his blood next to Vil’s. Then he thrusts the flag into Vil’s hands and orders us the hell out of his camp.
Vil and I walk back under a star-spangled sky.
It is some minutes before my racing heart quiets a bit, enough for me to hear the crickets in the grass. Vil takes my hand again.
