Chapter 5
In the morning, the Wild Men said their final goodbyes to their village. That included tearful farewells to all the guardian spirits they claimed lived in the trees, and to their ancestors who supposedly had watched over them all these years. If you counted all the invisible imaginary things which supposedly lived here too, it was a very crowded place. They were truly an odd people. It was amazing how only a few generations cut off from civilization was enough time for a group to make up all manner of crazy superstitions.
Ironically, it was Thera who would be providing them with new ones.
She just shook her head at the absurdity of her life and went back to practicing. She hurled another knife at her target. Like the vast majority of her previous attempts, the blade twisted in her clumsy fingers before release, and clanged off the wood sideways.
But that one had felt close.
So Thera walked over to the stump and retrieved all the knives. Not too long ago she would’ve had to wrench each one out, because they’d have been reliably planted deep, right where she wanted them. Now it was all about bending over and picking them off the dirt. For a child of Vane, that was downright degrading. But House Vane had two things in great abundance, pride and stubbornness, so she walked back to the line she’d set at fifteen paces to try all over again.
Even though the village was being busily broken down, no one interrupted her. A month ago she’d lost her temper and snapped at one of the warriors who’d come over to pester her, asking some annoying questions about the will of the gods or something. Lucky for him, when he’d failed to take the hint to shut his mouth, the knife she’d thrown at him had gone sideways and bounced off his boot. But the message had been received, and ever since then they all knew to leave their prophet in peace while she practiced.
She may have been the Voice of a god, but that didn’t mean she knew a damn thing about their inscrutable will. So she wished people would quit asking her about it. Keta was always quick to come up with an explanation for everything, whether it rained or you got stung by a bee, Keta always had some reason why that had been the will of the gods, and he actually believed it.
Honestly the gods’ motives remained a mystery to her. People were asking for her to do things like bless their crops, or heal their sick children, but in her experience all the gods did was meddle and complicate. To hell with making the garden grow, all the gods had gotten her was kidnapped by wizards or into a fight with some hellish nightmare being left over from the rain of demons.
The next knife bounced off the bark a foot away from target.
“Oceans,” she muttered.
The sun was rising over the swamp. Soon they’d begin the long march to the Creator’s Cove. She could only hope that Keta had made it back there safe and sound before winter had gotten bad, and that the place was still in one piece. Her worst fear was that they’d cross the plains only to discover that the Inquisition had found the rebellion’s home, and all that would be left of her adopted people was buzzard-picked bones.
Everything of value these people owned was being taken with them, on their backs or in a handcart. The Wild Men—as the Sons called them—or People of the Woods—as they called themselves—were a hardy bunch, but they didn’t need to carry that much, because they were rather poor.
Well, they had been poor. After butchering the demons they’d killed and salvaging what they could from the smoking wreckage of the House of Assassins, her humble group of refugees were probably per capita the richest bunch in Lok. Every single one of them, man, woman, and child, would be carrying at least a few pounds of demon flesh and bone, rich with potent magic, and incredibly valuable on the black market.
They’d taken the Lost House’s jewels and banknotes too. And whatever they couldn’t carry, they’d hidden in a cave so that they could come back and claim it later. Including the bones of the great demon that were so heavy it would take teams of oxen to carry them back to civilization. If they could ever sell all of it on the black market, the rebellion would suddenly be rich as her old house.
That thought amused her greatly. Her next knife hit the target, but her release had been timed wrong so it landed handle first…But hard enough to make a dent, so that was an improvement. She used to be good enough to pin a running rat to the ground, so it was incredibly frustrating to fail over and over again, but her father had always said that a warrior needed to be realistic about assessing his abilities. So she was still a miserable frustrating failure, but an improving miserable frustrating failure.
“Are you attempting to bludgeon it to death?”
She hadn’t heard Ashok approach. If she’d been able to move as quiet as a Protector, she would’ve been far more successful as a thief. She didn’t intend to greet him with a smile, but she couldn’t help herself. “The goal is to stick it, but I’ll take what I can get.”
Her hand flashed to her belt, and the next knife hit solid, but edge first instead of point. It actually stuck, though shallowly embedded.
“You are improving greatly.”
“It’s not good enough yet.” Thera shook out her fingers. It was hard to get the release right when most of the feeling was gone. Actually sticking a living, moving opponent in combat was a dubious proposition—often more of a distraction than a killing blow—but the warriors of Vane loved to do it anyway. It was tradition, and if she was being honest, normally a rather relaxing pastime. One that she really wanted back.
She looked over at Ashok. He was just standing there, tall and imposing, unreadable as usual, as if nothing had changed between them. Perhaps to him, nothing had. No one else was near enough to hear them, so she said, “You were gone when I woke up.”
“I thought it best. I did not wish to complicate matters for you.”
“You didn’t want these people to know their so-called prophet is a woman of flesh and blood? It might ruin my image as a pure vessel of the gods?” She pulled out the next knife and turned back to throw.
“I doubt even the most idealistic of these fanatics assumed you were that pure.”
That time she missed the stump by a several feet, and the knife went sailing off into a bush. “You fish-eating bastard!” She turned back to him. “You distracted me with all your charm.”
Ashok gave her a curious look. “You are being sarcastic.”
What an odd, damaged man, yet loyal and stronger than anyone she’d ever met. It was strange in a way. Ashok was so infamous as a Law-enforcing executioner that he was known across the continent as the Black Heart, yet despite being so named he was still a far gentler man than her former husband. The last time she’d seen Dhaval, he’d been trying to kill her. Perhaps Ashok only seemed like a good choice because her previous experiences with men had been so bad?
“Obviously. So how goes it?”
“I came to tell you it is almost time to go.”
Ashok seemed like he wanted to say something else, but this recent change was as strange for him as it was for her. She didn’t want to talk about it. She was no idealistic girl reading poems. Life had kicked her too many times for her to be naïve enough to believe in love. The gods—or whatever they were—had thrown them together, they were just making the best of it.
“If you’re worried about complicating things, Ashok, don’t. It is what it is. I was married once before and it didn’t end well.”
“You’ve not spoken much of your past. Death or divorce?”
Thera laughed. “We attempted a little of each.”
“Among the First they simply get an arbiter to dissolve the arranged marriage contract, but from your tone I take it yours was bad even by warrior caste standards.”
“If you genuinely want to know, I slashed him across the eyes with a knife while he was trying to throw me off a cliff into the ocean. It’s a long story. But since I’m telling you my secrets, don’t worry about last night. My husband had children from a previous wife, but he never got me pregnant. I think because I was sick for so long when I was young, the bolt left me near dead for a few seasons, I think I can’t ever have a baby.”
Usually Ashok did a much better job of hiding his emotions, but from the look on his face it was almost as if his brain had tripped over the idea. He had never even considered having a child before. She considered his discomfort payback for what he’d just said about her perceived virtue.
“I had not thought of that possibility.”
“In the moment men rarely do. But it was fun.”
Ashok looked uncomfortable. “Do you wish to speak about what happened?”
“Not particularly.”
“Good.” The man was no poet, but she appreciated his directness.
“Go on. I’ll join you shortly.”
Ashok simply nodded and returned to work.
Thera pulled out her last knife, wondering once again what she’d done to end up in a situation like this.
Three hundred people were counting on her here, and nearly a thousand more back at the Creator’s Cove. Not to mention all of the foolish casteless scattered about Lok who’d heard Keta’s sermons and taken hope from them. She didn’t give a damn about the gods who’d cursed her with a bolt from the sky, but as much as she hated to admit it, their believers had begun to matter to her.
She looked at the target, mostly unblemished after months of practice, and asked herself once again why she bothered.
This knife was a simple tool, four inches of polished steel. It was no less effective than before, but the hand that wielded it had become damaged, clumsy, and unfeeling. She’d learned to use these knives because she’d been born into a warrior house, to a father who’d treated her as if she’d been a firstborn son. Practice had continued even after she’d been married off to a beast because it had made her feel in control. Honestly, she had her own army now, and fanatics who’d lay down their lives for her. She didn’t need to be able to fight with a humble knife when the most dangerous man in the world had pledged himself to fight on her behalf.
But she’d keep practicing so that someday she could feel in control of something again.
Her arm flashed, the motion smooth, and the knife flipped toward the target.
It hit the dirt right in front of the stump.
Today would not be that day.