Kings of Deceit - R

[Rosabeth]

They were all growing a bit restless. It showed with Victor the least - who seemed more or less happy to be along for the ride - but even he grew tired occupying his time with putting together the shambling mess of the ransacked manor. For Anja, however, being cooped up in the house was a certain sort of exquisite torture. She was a woman fueled by action who, in a perfect world, Rhys knew would have stormed straight into Ovis and cut off Miriyam’s head herself. Unfortunately, circumstances had not allowed for such a display.

Of course, Anja knew the reality. Weeks of traveling and they’d come with only a half-baked plan, barely anything more than a few vague ideas about how they might find Miriyam and Johannes, and even weaker notions of what to do about the damned knife. That lack of preparation meant things would move slowly, that plans would need to be formed and carved out inch by inch. That Rhys had been more or less become entirely distracted by other circumstances did not help the matter. Still, Rhys knew he would not wave off Anja’s demands for action – and Victor’s restlessness – any longer. That was why the three of them walked shoulder-to-shoulder through the tunnel, heading into the city with another of their famous concoctions of unearned confidence and an impossible goal.

They’d done their best to conceal their most prominent features, but their disguises hardly held a candle to Laurita’s work. There was little Rhys could do about his appearance beyond simple clothes and a hooded cloak. Victor’s blond hair had been darkened with charcoal, his eyebrows looking like two bushy caterpillars on his brow. Anja had done the most, attempting her best to transform into a man – or, at her stature, something more akin to a boy. Her long hair was pinned up beneath a hat, her lips muted with some stray powder found in wreckage of the lady of the house’s dressing table, and her breasts bound flat. It was a credible disguise, albeit highly questionable if it would hold up under scrutiny. It was, at least, something. If they moved quickly and stayed hidden, “something” should be enough.

When they came to the end of the tunnel Rhys gave a gentle rap against the trap door. A courtesy, and the least they could do to soften the rude coming-and-going through this poor man’s house. They waited a moment for the telltale footsteps, but none came. Rhys rapped again, harder this time. Silence. He turned to Anja and Victor, shrugged, and took another step up the ladder to push the door open with his shoulder.

The smell hit him like the crash of wave. It was heavy, cloying, and the sharpness of it stung at this eyes and his nose. Ash? He stepped carefully into the room above to find it empty and dark, and though there was no sign of its inhabitants there was also no signs of a forced entry, a detail that brought some relief. Yet Rhys’s stomach turned at the smell of smoke that hung in the air, surely seeped into the curtains and rugs.

“Did someone singe the carpet?” Victor asked, stepping out from behind Rhys and sniffing about with exaggerated movements.

“Look outside.” Anja, who had slipped silently into the room behind Victor, stood at the far window, pointing into the distance. Rhys and Victor crowded behind Anja, following the direction of her finger. There, in the distance, rising above the many winding rooflines, were wisps of smoke far greater than any fireplace could produce. They flowed towards the sky lackadaisically, like a campfire extinguished but whose embers still slowly burned away. But clearly, given the potent smell of ash that hung in the, this had not been a simple campfire.

“Someone had a rough night,” Victor commented. By then, both he and Anja had moved from the window, having gone back to close the hatch and rearrange the covering rug. Rhys, however, stood silently fixed in place.

It was too unlikely. There were hundreds – thousands – of buildings in Ovis. The city was built up past capacity, every spare bit of land turned into some ramshackle house. It was a wonder the whole city hadn’t burnt down at least once before. It could be anything. And yet…

“Rhys!” Victor called out, but Rhys was already out the door. He walked quickly, talking himself down from running, knowing that would only bring unwanted attention. He kept his head down and eyes low, weaving in and out of crowds. He knew Victor and Anja must be close behind, but as he could not hear their footsteps he assumed they’d taken a slower route, knowing that chasing the already suspicious man would hardly leave them looking incognito. As Rhys drew closer his heart began to hammer. The smell of ash and smoke grew stronger with every step, the tendrils above the roofline growing larger. It could be anywhere. He repeated this mantra, but no matter how many times he did he could not oust the nagging voice in his head that reminded him the situation was just a bit too suspicious. When he finally reached the last street, turning the last corner, his stomach dropped.

Where the safe house once stood was nothing more than a pile of cinders and ash, surrounded by half-charred buildings. Rhys’ feet were rooted in place as he stared, unbreathing. A cluster of soldiers moved throughout the burned wreckage, poking and prodding at broken pieces of timber, kicking stones out of their way. They were looking for something, but what? Evidence? Remnants? Bodies?

Rhys finally heard the fall of footsteps behind him, feeling Victor’s hand clasp onto his shoulder. His friend took in a sharp breath, looking between the carcass of the building and Rhys’ white pallor.

“Was this…?” He asked slowly. Rhys could barely manage to nod. “Oh,” was Victor’s response, his hand tightening on Rhys’ shoulder.

It couldn’t be. Not after everything. It couldn’t come down to this. Rhys realized he’d been shaking his head, dumfounded, his mouth too dry to make words.

“Guys,” said Anja. She spoke slowly, warily, but Rhys did not have the energy to respond.

“Not the time,” Victor muttered.

“No, guys, someone is staring at us.”

It was enough to shake Rhys from his stupor. He looked up, following Anja’s gaze to an alleyway across the way. Standing in the dim light of a set-back doorway was a boy – or perhaps a girl, it was hard to say – covered in a mismatched selection of rags that could barely qualify as clothes. There was no mistaking Anja was right – the child watched them carefully, head cocked to the side.

“Um, do we -?” Victor murmured, all three of them never taking their eyes from the strange child. “Should we leave? This is kind of creeping me out.”

As if the child had heard them – though certain they had not – they smiled. They lifted one hand from their side a few inches and moved two fingers, gesturing them forward. Rhys and Anja exchanged bewildered glances. When Rhys looked back the strange child was still staring, this time jerking their head to the side.

“Do they…want us to go over there?” Victor asked.

“Absolutely not!” Anja hissed, whacking Victor in the side. He let out a low grunt.

Rhys glanced back at the child, only to find that in their impatience they were no longer standing in the doorway but walking across the street straight for Rhys, Victor, and Anja. Rhys looked quickly from side to side but there was nowhere to duck out of the way, not without causing a scene in front of the king’s own soldiers. Instead, he put his hand to the blade at his side, hoping very much he was not going to have to stab a child in the middle of a crowded street.

As the child stepped before them it became clear she was a girl, albeit a scrawny one. She had a strange confidence to her, bordering on arrogance, and a smirk on her lips.

“Looking for something?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” said Rhys, only for his voice to break halfway through his words. The girl smiled wider.

“I was told you might wander by sometime today,” she said, her eyes grazing over the three of them with amusement. She landed on Victor, snickering. “Nice eyebrows.” Victor offered no comment.

“You must be the girl,” she said, this time staring at Anja. Anja’s jaw was clamped tight, knowing better than to let her voice betray her. Suddenly, the girl spun around Rhys, lithely popping up behind Anja as she snatched the hat from off her head. Anja gasped, clawing at her head, but the girl was too fast. In her wild grasp she’d managed not only to snag the hat but the pins as well, leaving Anja’s hair to cascade down her shoulders. Anja reached for her knife but Rhys put a hand of caution against his sister’s arm, staring at her pointedly. The little girl laughed in her own amusement before tossing the hat and the pins back to Anja.

“I knew it. You are them.”

“Who are you?” Rhys whispered. He looked around but they were far enough from the remains of the safe house that the soldiers appeared to have noticed nothing out of sorts.

The girl shrugged, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s not important. All I know is that someone told me some people matching your…general description,” she glanced at Victor, snickering again, “might turn up, and if you did that I was to direct you elsewhere.”

Rhys’ chest hammered. This strange child, looking like a shabbily dressed gremlin, did not seem like a bizarre trap set up by the king, who as far as Rhys knew had no reason to think that Rhys would be here. If she was not with the king, only one logical answer remained.

“Where would you take us?” Rhys asked.

The girl grinned. “Somewhere safe.”

Rhys turned to Victor and Anja, the former looking apprehensive and confused while the latter looked to be repressing some very uncharitable actions. “I think she’s with them.”

“How do you know that?” Anja hissed.

“Why else would she know who to look for?”

Anja scowled but, much to Rhys’ response, did not fight back. “If you get us into some shit I will kill you.” Her eyes flickered to the girl. “Both of you.”

“You’ll take us somewhere safe?” Rhys asked, hoping his emphasis would convey the right message. The girl nodded vigorously, but this time she extended an open hand, waiting expectantly.

“Uh,” Rhys mumbled, realizing a second late what the gesture meant. He dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a handful of coins. He did not even bother to look at the values. When he dropped them in the girl’s hands her eyes lit up with feverish delight, her grubby fingers running over them as she mouthed the amounts. Quickly she shoved the jingling coins into her own pocket and began to all but prance across the way, indicating with her eyes for the others to follow.

They followed the strange girl at a reasonable distance for some time, Rhys trying to remember the streets but finding himself hopelessly lost after a short amount of time. At some point the streets began to clear out, and Rhys found himself alone with Victor, Anja, and the rag-covered child. It was then that the girl stopped, turned, and pulled several rags from somewhere within her outfit. They might have very well been part of her clothes, for all Rhys knew.

“You three – put these on.”

Rhys found a rag being shoved into his hand, and only realized then what was meant by the girl’s words. “Really?” He asked, knowing full well the answer. Anja stared at him as though he was mad.

“You can’t actually expect me to-“

The girl crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. “Just do it,” Rhys muttered. With a deep breath, hoping very much he wasn’t walking into a trap of his own making, Rhys placed the blindfold over his eyes.

The fabric was surprisingly thick, and Rhys found himself plunged into darkness, only a hint of light seeping in from the edges. He felt a small hand grab at his forearm and tug him forward with another larger hand – Anja’s, he was fairly certain – took his other arm. They made their way through the streets at an uncomfortably quick pace for someone who could not see, but there were few sounds of voices near – a good sign. If Rhys found their zig-zagging path from before disorienting, Rhys was utterly lost now. He could barely tell if they were going forward or back, right or left, up or down. The girl moved too quickly for Rhys to catch his bearings for more than a moment. He was fairly certain somewhere in there was a staircase or two, and at one point there was the sound of a door latch, but nothing that gave Rhys any indication of his location more than that he was still – presumably – in the city.

With a jolt, Rhys found himself pulled to a standstill, the girl’s hand pressed into his stomach to stop his forward momentum. It was then that he heard low voices, and a few minutes later more sounds of doors opening and closing. Then the girl spoke.

“Are these the guys?” She said, giving Rhys a tiny shove forward. He dared not remove his blindfold. After a brief pause, and the sound of footsteps moving around him, another voice - familiar, Rhys thought vaguely - answered, “Yes.”

A pair of large, calloused hands gripped Rhys’ shoulders, and he let out a small yelp as he was pushed forward. The air changed, and Rhys became certain from the new sounds of voices that they had reached their destination.

“You can take those off now,” the first voice spoke again. This time, Rhys placed the familiarity immediately. Rhys reached up and untied the cloth from around his eyes, blinking into the dim light of an unfamiliar room. Anja and Victor appeared equally disoriented as they looked around at the tables and chairs scattered about, filled with at least a dozen or more people who paid no mind to the strange newcomers. The only one who acknowledged them was the woman standing before them.

“I’m glad you found us.”

“Laurita!” Rhys found himself throwing himself at his friend, wrapping her in a crushing hug. She let out a squeak, likely from lack of air, but hugged Rhys back all the same. “When I saw the building I thought-“

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. There wasn’t really a good way to tell you quickly, and to be quite honest there were just a lot more pressing matters on my plate so…” Laurita she shrugged in apology. Her hair was a tangled mess, her clothes torn and smelling strongly of smoke. She looked about as frazzled as Rhys had seen her, and yet still remarkably composed. “At least the contingency plan worked.”

“Is-” Rhys didn’t even have to finish his sentence before Laurita was nodding vigorously, putting a calming hand on Rhys’ arm.

“She’s fine. We all are. Well, most of us,” she frowned. “The fire was our own doing. The location was compromised and it was easier to get rid of the evidence entirely than to risk taking the time to get everything out.”

“If the safe house burned down then where are we?” Rhys asked, looking around.

Laurita spread out her arms. “Welcome to our base of operations – this is where the magic happens.”

[Mollianne]

Jessa had been here before, but she could hardly believe it. The sprawling underground safehouse was almost unrecognisable. The walls were the same damp grey stone, the ground uneven and pocked with puddles. But the people… The floor seemed to groan and sink under the weight of all the refugees huddled within. Jessa huddled amongst them, trapped in a sea of bodies. Everywhere she might step, someone lay or sat. Not that she had anywhere to go. After she had watched Laurita ensure her brother was safely ensconced in one of the few private rooms branching from the cavern, there was no place for Jessa. With a squeeze of her hand, Laurita had disappeared, seeking Nayall and answers for how any of this had happened. Jessa had found as quiet a corner as she could — a corner she quickly realised had been left alone for a reason. The fuzz of moss tickled her back through her cloak, which was damp from the puddle hidden by the shadows. She didn’t move. There was nowhere to go.

As the day wore on, the temperature dropped and dropped. Her fingers ached bone deep with the cold. Her cheeks were numb. She thought she might deserve this discomfort – for what was her unease compared with this dank cavern that was both saviour and prison? All around her were the cries of suffering, hammering in her ears and head. Babies screamed. Babies. There were babies here. Was this her fault? Would they be here if not for the war? The woman beside her, wrapped in a threadbare, stained cloak, moaned and tossed in her sleep. The moans echoed across the chamber. The stench of disease, of suffering, clogged her nose. Their cries pierced her heart. They had been living pressed against each other, breathing stale, frigid air with emptiness in their stomachs, for months. But through the despair, men and women in white clothes, streaked with dirt and… worse, clambered through the body sea, brushing hands across fevered heads and smiling at children as they held their hands and filtered the pain from their eyes. Healers.

And despite all the suffering, Jessa knew every single soul would rather be here than not. Here, they might live. Here, they had someone who cared. For they were not here because of the war. They had been running from the king and themselves their entire lives. This was not Jessa’s fault. This was Nayall’s success. It had nothing to do with her. It was selfish to think otherwise.

Jessa watched a child’s eyes light up when an angry, purple bruise covering his arm faded to nothing. They launched themselves into the healer’s arms. The woman laughed. So did the child, their giggles filling the air. People roused, heads turned, all desperate for a little cheer. Smiles ghosted the lips of those closest to Jessa, and she found herself mirroring them. Her heart lifted. For a moment, the chamber buoyed, like a sunken ship rising from its grave to feel air and life once more.

With shining eyes, a man nearby turned to his neighbours. Mirth tugged on his lips as he rested his hand in his sleeping son’s black curls and asked, “Did I ever tell you about the time my boy learned about bats and decided he wanted to be one? He’d run around the room in the dark, eyes closed, trying to—”

The father’s anecdote faded out of her awareness as she saw a small cluster of people enter the room. The energy lifting the cavern leeched from her bones. Nayall and Laurita were among the group, heads bent together. Deep lines of worry carved their faces. She didn’t need to hear their conversation to know their search for answers had so far left them empty-handed.

Something hovered in the fringes of her memory, something important taunting her from the space between sleeping and waking. But her dreams had slipped away from her hours before, lost as a message in the sand washed away by the tides.

Jessa shrank back into the gloomy corner when Nayall and Laurita looked up to survey the crowds. She tugged at her bright hair, surely shining out light a beacon, and pulled up the hood of her cloak. She watched as Nayall pointed to another part of the room. Laurita nodded and herded the group behind them in that direction. Jessa barely noticed, for Nayall was picking through the crowds, bending down every so often to talk to his people with a smile. Dotted around the room were people Jessa recognised as having fled the old safehouse. They glanced warily at Nayall, then glared at the door near Jessa. Behind it was Odaren. He was the cause of their current discomfort, crushed against strangers.

The woman Nayall bent to talk to next pointed straight at Jessa. She forgot everyone else. Dread coiled in her gut.

It was ridiculous. It was Nayall, a friend. What did she have to fear?

She shuffled as close to the wall as she could so he could drop down beside her. He sighed, long and gusty. But when he looked up, he was stoic, always aware that everyone in that room turned to him like flowers to the sun. They needed him strong so they could be. Jessa couldn’t imagine the toll it must take on him.

“I need to ask you some questions, Jessa. No one’s accusing you of anything – we just have to talk to everyone.” The speech sounded tired, practised. He must have been giving it all day at the other safehouses. “What did you do last night?”

“Um…” Jessa frowned. “I went to see Odaren.” Nayall faltered. “But I remember leaving. There was that guard - I passed him as I left, I think. Then I went to sleep. Or tried. It took a while. I don’t remember the time. Then next I knew Laurita was shaking me awake and telling me we had to leave.”

“You think, Jessa?”

Her nose scrunched in thought. The day blurred into one. She couldn’t remember anything specific, just quiet and calm, then fear. Yet she found herself nodding. “I know.”

“You didn’t wake up in the night and leave your room? Maybe see someone?”

She shook her head.

“Who else was in the room with you, Jessa?”

“I don’t know their names. There were four beds apart from mine. Only Laurita’s was empty. Does… that help?”

Nayall nodded tiredly.

Jessa’s chest constricted. Guilt ate at her. “I’m sorry, Nayall. This is all my fault.”

“How do you figure that?” he asked, laughing mirthlessly.

“I… I don’t know. But I don’t believe in coincidences. I arrive and only a few days later, Odaren escapes and nearly gets everyone killed? My arrival must have triggered something. The king must have infiltrated this somehow, and when I got there… I don’t know. I just… feel like it’s me.”

She thought of the thousands that had died in the ambush. The other thousands of innocents and soldiers who had died in the name of a war she had started. There was no end to the suffering she had caused, directly or otherwise.

“Maybe, Jessa, maybe.” Nayall sighed. “But you’re not to blame for the things the king does, or has made you or anyone else do. I know you don’t believe it right now. The Gods know I don’t most of the time. I know what it’s like to be used by that monster. I know what it’s like to feel the weight of everything he makes you feel and do. The way he makes you want it, almost. Whenever I think of all the crimes I’ve committed, I feel sick. And I’ll never be able to shake them. I just have to remind myself that it was him. He did this to us.”

With another sigh, Nayall reached into his cloak and pulled out a book. It curled at the corners, a little battered from its journey across the city. “Laurita saved it before you left. She asked me to give it to you if I found you.”

The Early Years of the Barichene Wars: A Collection of First-Person Accounts. Jessa brushed her fingers across the faded gold lettering. Her throat closed up. She had thought it lost. “Thank you.”

Nayall nodded, clearing his throat. “If you think of anything – anything at all, just come and find me or Laurita.”

Jessa had barely had time to agree before Nayall stood and left her alone. The book called to her. She stared at the tan cover for a long time. She still couldn’t believe she could have forgotten reading this. It still stung her to her core. Perhaps Rhys was lying, but to what end?

Maybe reading it would jog her memory. But as she flipped over the cover, she quickly realised her corner was too dark to read the words. Without hesitation, Jessa stood and manoeuvred around the people in search of a brighter spot.

She had not gone far when a door on the other side of the chamber opened. It was luck that she saw it, saw them. She froze. Blinked. No.

Jessa twisted away and blindly flung herself at the nearest door. She tripped over arms and legs, casting out mumbled apologies as people grumbled and shifted out of her way. It was too loud. They would notice her. How couldn’t they? She imagined Anja prowling near, dagger glinting in the candlelight. Jessa saw her blood splatter on her bedroom floor as pain sliced her throat. No, she reminded herself. You’re not there. You’re here and you’re fine. The words marched through her head until the memory faded. She’d reached the door. Palms sweating, Jessa fumbled with the rusted doorknob. She tried to force calm into her gut, closing her eyes. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Rhys, Anja, Victor, Laurita. They were all still there. None of them were looking at her. She turned away and burst through the door.

“Shit.” A man scrambled to her feet, holding a hand to his heart. She recognized him. Her chest tightened. “No one’s s’posed to be in here. I thought I’d locked the door…”

Of all the rooms. She hadn’t noticed. The room was dim and bare but for the cot in the corner. And in it lay Odaren, his arms hanging awkwardly from the chains cutting into his wrists. He seemed oblivious to them, humming to himself. The song washed over her like dread. She drew back, bumping against the door. On her other visits, Odaren had always been silent, listless. But it wasn’t just that. The lullaby echoed in her head, haunting her. She heard the fire crackle in the grate, felt its heat press against her cheeks as she peered around the door. It wasn’t her mother’s soothing voice she was remembering. It was her father’s, rocking a young Maira to sleep while a young Jessa looked on from the cold corridor, missing her mother. Wishing her father would notice her, needing him to hold her as she fell asleep, wanting him to guard over her in her nightmares. Most nights, she pattered down that corridor and watched her family. Every night, she shivered and went back to her room alone.

Jessa pressed the fingers of one hand into her eyes, trying to push out the memory and stop the tears. She wasn’t a child anymore, starved of affection and craving it from a man who harmed everyone he touched. She balled her fists and forced herself to look at Odaren once more. It was just a song. Just a common lullaby. Odaren smiled at her. She drew in a breath and turned away, gaze catching on the guard. He was holding a key in his hand.

“Weren’t you supposed to lock the door?” she asked, recalling Laurita’s command earlier that day.

The man shifted. His answer came out little louder than a breath. “I thought I did.”

His hands shook as he looked between the key, the door, and Odaren. He sucked in a breath. “Oh Gods, what if I forgot last night? I was so tired, I fell asleep on the job. What if I-” Words tumbled from his lips as he tried to recollect the previous night. Jessa came closer to reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. When he didn’t flinch away, she let it rest. He looked up at her with wide eyes that begged her to absolve him.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “We don’t know what happened. I’m sure you didn’t forget. And we all got out – we’re all okay. All we lost was a building.”

“But it could have been aw-”

“But it wasn’t,” Jessa said firmly. “All we can do now is try to be better.”

She stayed with him until he calmed, then gave him a smile she didn’t feel. Odaren still hummed the lullaby. The truth of the previous night loitered under the surface. Until they knew the truth, Jessa’s words were little more than false comforts. They weren’t safe, not yet. Whoever had released Odaren was still unknown and might strike again. Jessa glanced at the door. There were hundreds of people beyond it, and nowhere for them to go. It couldn’t happen again.

“Lock the door,” she said gravely. The man nodded hastily.

From the other side, she heard the lock click. Hugging her book to her chest, Jessa sighed in relief, the breath cut off as someone barrelled into and enveloped her in a hug. “Thank the Gods, where have you been?”

She relaxed into the hug at the familiar voice. “Larend, you’re okay.”

Jessa hadn’t seen Larend or the Tremonts all day. She breathed in the scent of rain on his collar. “Where have you been?”

“In the chaos, we got taken to one of the other safehouses. Laurita brought us back here a little while ago, but I couldn’t find you. Not until I saw you go in there. Come on, I’ll take you to the others.”

He smiled, and suddenly he was ten years younger in her mind. Her sixteen year old self watched him across the grass, the russet-brown towers of King’s College looming in the distance. His friend held the whole group of them enraptured. Jessa heard nothing, and his exaggerated arm-waving gave nothing away, but soon the group was gasping for laughter. Jessa was transfixed by Larend’s smile. Until he turned and his gaze landed on her. Her cheeks burned. But he smiled.

Jessa smiled back, but it was no longer Larend’s face she looked upon. The hiss of the sea swooping up the beach replaced the rustle of grass in the wind. She tasted salt on her lips as she spun, kicking up sand, laughing. A hand steadied her as she finished her spin, drawing her closer. Laughing with her. His brown eyes sparkled.

No. No. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit. Rhys didn’t fit.

Burn it. It didn’t belong.

“Jessa?” The voice came from faraway. She squeezed her eyes tight, resting her hand on her burning, screaming forehead. The chill in her fingertips cooled her skin, but the agony raged within. The memory needed to die. Her magic rushed to her aid, consuming the images and the laughter that taunted her with it. It shrank, taking its false happiness with it. Her entire being seemed to tighten as the memory was sucked into oblivion. At the last second, when she could recall nothing but the glimmer of joy, Jessa faltered. Laurita and Lady Tremont’s voices rang in her head, telling her that her mind would tear itself apart. She couldn’t lose whatever this memory was. She had to fight.

But it was too late. A sob escaped her lips as the tension left her body. Her book slipped from her fingers.

She opened her eyes. Larend clutched her hands. For a moment, all was still. Then she shook and her legs gave out. Larend grabbed her waist, pulling her to his side as he reached for the fallen book with his free hand. As she shivered against him, he chattered anxiously, “Let’s go to Lady Tremont. Come on, Jessa, you need to move. That’s it. We’ll be there soon. Lady Tremont will know what to do.”

Concerned voices buzzed around her as she was lowered to the ground. She tried to pick out the individual people, but only sensed a vague familiarity — she could only guess they had reached the Tremonts. She cracked open her eyes to find a group of children peering at her with wide, worried eyes. The one in the centre, skin the colour of snow streaked with dirt, said something Jessa didn’t understand. She was scaring them, that’s all she knew. She waved a limp hand, as if they would understand that meant ‘don’t worry’, and let fatigue pull her into sleep.