the tide of refugees, moving slowly. Sometimes it seemed to Harkeld that the press of people even pushed them backwards.
Sounds filled his head—tread of feet and clatter of hooves, rattle of cart wheels, voices—and beneath all those things was the sound of Innis’s skull breaking. Thock . It was imbedded in his memory. It wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t leave him alone.
The road climbed steadily. No rain fell, but a wintry wind blew from the south. The grass became sparser, the trees smaller and more gnarled, but the refugees kept coming. A few called out warnings, urging them to turn back, but most were silent. Harkeld saw emotions on their faces: fear, desperation, grief. Rarely did anyone look at them with curiosity. These people were focused on fleeing.
Mid-afternoon, they halted briefly at a crossroad. Harkeld dismounted, jogged across to the wagon, and pushed aside the canvas covering. “Innis?”
Nellis was asleep, but Rand was awake, crouched alongside Petrus, holding Innis’s head, his gaze unfocused.
Harkeld glanced at Petrus, alarmed. “Is she hemorrhaging again?”
Petrus shook his head.
Rand’s eyes refocused. He released Innis, smoothed her hair, sat back on his heels. “Well done, Petrus.”
“She’s all right?” Harkeld asked.
Rand tilted his head, a half-nod. “No bleeding, no bruising, no swelling.”
“The gland in her brain, the one that gives her magic...?”
“Wasn’t damaged.” Rand smoothed Innis’s hair again. “Now, we just need her to wake.”
“She will, won’t she? If everything’s healed?”
“Brains are tricky things. Trauma this bad... Even once it’s healed, some people never wake.”
Harkeld glanced at Petrus again. The shapeshifter’s face was somber.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
L ATE IN THE day, they came to a town. Britta tried to ride as if she was exhausted, barely awake in the saddle, head nodding on her neck, but every muscle in her body was tense with a painful mixture of anticipation and fear. This could be her opportunity.
They passed through the town gate and rode down a street of wooden buildings. Plain moved closer to her on one side, Curly on the other, hemming her in, their knees touching hers. Plain held her reins tightly in one hand.
Britta’s gaze darted left and right. What if she stabbed Plain’s hand, wrenched the reins free, and plunged down that alley? What if she threw herself from the piebald mare and ran into the crowded market square, hid beneath one of the stalls?
No. They’d be seconds behind her. Her escape would last less than a minute. And people would be killed. Innocent townspeople. Children.
She scanned the town desperately, her gaze jerking from one object to the next: the tall houses with wooden galleries jutting over the market square; the songbirds in cages hanging from the upper windows; the farmers haggling over flocks of geese; the covered well at the center of the square.
Throwing herself into the well seemed the only option she had. Death, not escape, but with the same result: she couldn’t be used to kill Harkeld. But would she reach the well in time to jump in, or would the Fithians catch her first? And if she did jump in, would they haul her out before she drowned?
She hesitated too long. The busy hum of the market died behind them. There, at the end of the street, another town gate stood tall. Desperation rose in Britta’s chest. Jump off the horse. Jump and run .
But where could she run to? An image flashed into her mind of herself scurrying down the street, beating on closed doors, begging someone to let her in, while songbirds looked down at her from their cages and the Fithians closed leisurely around her.
Up front, Leader spoke a few words. Pox nodded and trotted ahead, turned into a street to the left. Britta tensed. Were they stopping in this town? Was there a Fithian house here?
The rest of the party didn’t slow. As they passed the street, Britta glanced down it.
Pox had halted outside
Sounds filled his head—tread of feet and clatter of hooves, rattle of cart wheels, voices—and beneath all those things was the sound of Innis’s skull breaking. Thock . It was imbedded in his memory. It wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t leave him alone.
The road climbed steadily. No rain fell, but a wintry wind blew from the south. The grass became sparser, the trees smaller and more gnarled, but the refugees kept coming. A few called out warnings, urging them to turn back, but most were silent. Harkeld saw emotions on their faces: fear, desperation, grief. Rarely did anyone look at them with curiosity. These people were focused on fleeing.
Mid-afternoon, they halted briefly at a crossroad. Harkeld dismounted, jogged across to the wagon, and pushed aside the canvas covering. “Innis?”
Nellis was asleep, but Rand was awake, crouched alongside Petrus, holding Innis’s head, his gaze unfocused.
Harkeld glanced at Petrus, alarmed. “Is she hemorrhaging again?”
Petrus shook his head.
Rand’s eyes refocused. He released Innis, smoothed her hair, sat back on his heels. “Well done, Petrus.”
“She’s all right?” Harkeld asked.
Rand tilted his head, a half-nod. “No bleeding, no bruising, no swelling.”
“The gland in her brain, the one that gives her magic...?”
“Wasn’t damaged.” Rand smoothed Innis’s hair again. “Now, we just need her to wake.”
“She will, won’t she? If everything’s healed?”
“Brains are tricky things. Trauma this bad... Even once it’s healed, some people never wake.”
Harkeld glanced at Petrus again. The shapeshifter’s face was somber.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
L ATE IN THE day, they came to a town. Britta tried to ride as if she was exhausted, barely awake in the saddle, head nodding on her neck, but every muscle in her body was tense with a painful mixture of anticipation and fear. This could be her opportunity.
They passed through the town gate and rode down a street of wooden buildings. Plain moved closer to her on one side, Curly on the other, hemming her in, their knees touching hers. Plain held her reins tightly in one hand.
Britta’s gaze darted left and right. What if she stabbed Plain’s hand, wrenched the reins free, and plunged down that alley? What if she threw herself from the piebald mare and ran into the crowded market square, hid beneath one of the stalls?
No. They’d be seconds behind her. Her escape would last less than a minute. And people would be killed. Innocent townspeople. Children.
She scanned the town desperately, her gaze jerking from one object to the next: the tall houses with wooden galleries jutting over the market square; the songbirds in cages hanging from the upper windows; the farmers haggling over flocks of geese; the covered well at the center of the square.
Throwing herself into the well seemed the only option she had. Death, not escape, but with the same result: she couldn’t be used to kill Harkeld. But would she reach the well in time to jump in, or would the Fithians catch her first? And if she did jump in, would they haul her out before she drowned?
She hesitated too long. The busy hum of the market died behind them. There, at the end of the street, another town gate stood tall. Desperation rose in Britta’s chest. Jump off the horse. Jump and run .
But where could she run to? An image flashed into her mind of herself scurrying down the street, beating on closed doors, begging someone to let her in, while songbirds looked down at her from their cages and the Fithians closed leisurely around her.
Up front, Leader spoke a few words. Pox nodded and trotted ahead, turned into a street to the left. Britta tensed. Were they stopping in this town? Was there a Fithian house here?
The rest of the party didn’t slow. As they passed the street, Britta glanced down it.
Pox had halted outside
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