Another Survivor
THERE WERE STREAKS of light in the sky as the wind blew the last of the storm clouds—and the bedraggled trio—along the coast.
Huddled under her blankets, jolted and bumped with every rock the cart was hauled over, Katia listened to the Prayer of Awakening, spoken by her rescuer in between grunts of exertion as he hauled her onwards.
“God of Moon we thank you . . . urgh . . . for our rest. God of Sun, rising from the darkness, light . . . ngh . . . our day. Bring us fresh . . . oof . . . energy to face what lies ahead. God of Mountain, bless . . . urgh . . . our labours for ourselves and our fellows. Thank you all for . . . gnnng . . . this new day.”
The prayer didn’t seem enough this morning, not after the events of the night before. So Katia added a few silent ones of her own. Thank you that Mynott saved me . . . Thank you that I’ve still got the Kingstone . . . Thank you that I’m alive to say these prayers . . .
“Not long now. See, up ahead?” The priest, his brow beaded with sweat, pointed to a cluster of low buildings near the edge of the cliffs. Smoke rose from their chimneys, promising warmth and food and rest.
As they drew closer, a door in one of the buildings opened and a girl in a novice’s dress ran out.
“Get the fire roaring, Ailsa! Heat up the soup. We have two more half-drowned souls to minister to,” the priest called.
“Will do, Senior Brunyan. Let me ’elp this one in first. He looks ready to drop.” The girl took Mynott’s arm and led him inside.
Just a few minutes later, and Katia was inside too, seated in front of a blazing fire, her jacket steaming and her fingers prickling with the burn of hot aches. Mynott had collapsed on a bench; his head was against the wall and his eyes were closed.
“Now then, no sleeping. Get out of those wet things, put on dry.” The priest dropped an armful of clothes onto the table and shook Mynott into wakefulness.
Ailsa, the novice, knelt in front of Katia. “Let me ’elp you.”
Katia didn’t protest when her sodden jacket was peeled off. She was so tired, needed to sleep. She closed her eyes, dimly aware of Ailsa’s fingers working at the buttons of her shirt, undoing them—
Oh gods! Katia’s eyes flew open. She slapped Ailsa’s hands away and tried to snatch the fabric closed again. Had she been quick enough, covered the lacy vest?
One look at Ailsa’s face told her she hadn’t.
“You’re a—”
“Sshhh. Please, don’t say anything.” Katia shot a frightened glance at Mynott and Brunyan. The priest was busy sorting through the clothes and Mynott, already wearing dry trousers, was checking a wide belt strapped around his waist.
“You got any injuries?”
“What?” Katia dragged her attention back to Ailsa. The girl was staring intently into her face.
“You hurt? Cuts, bruises?”
As though the mere mention of injuries had made it hurt again, Katia’s leg made her wince. “Yes. My leg. A rope burn.”
Ailsa nodded and got to her feet. “Senior, the boy has an injury needs seein’ to. I’ll tek him next door to sort it.” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled some items from the clothes pile, wrapped an arm around Katia’s waist and helped her to limp into the next room.
It appeared to be a workshop of some sort, with bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling and bottles of odd coloured potions filling the shelves. Ailsa directed Katia to a chair and shut the door firmly behind them.
“Right—out of those wet things, now. Brunyan leaves me be when I’m ministering in here, so he won’t find out you’re a—”
“Girl? Thank you.” Katia started to shiver.
“Get these on, quick, then we can get you back in front of the fire,” Ailsa said.
As quick as she could, Katia stripped off her damp clothing. She hesitated at the camisole which had given her away, but as it was as wet as the rest, she replaced it with a dry vest that might once have been white but was now grey.
“You want to take the pouch off too? Must be sopping,” Ailsa said.
She saw that, too?
There was already a damp patch on the borrowed vest. It would be more comfortable if the pouch was dry, but there was no way Katia was going to let it—and its contents—out of her sight for even a moment.
Aware of Ailsa’s eyes watching her, she forced a smile. “It’s not too bad. It’ll soon dry next to my skin.”
“Suit yerself.” Ailsa shook out a shirt and held it against Katia to check the size. “You’ve gone to some trouble to make them think yer a boy. Nearly ’ad me fooled. Must be a good reason for it. What’s your name?”
Katia didn’t answer.
Ailsa handed the shirt over. “I can keep a secret, y’know. That’s our reason for being here. The Senior and me, we’re in the ministry of confession. We write down folks’ secrets and throw ’em off the cliff, into the sea. You’d be amazed what folks tell us that they won’t tell no one else. S’why we’re so far away from anywhere . . . no one’ll be overheard.”
Katia pulled the shirt on while Ailsa talked. It was patched and thin in places, but it would do. “How far through your training are you?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from the subject of secrets as she did up the buttons.
“I’m in me last year of training. I’m here cos I’ve got a bit of the healin’ trainin’ too, and some of the folks what come ’ere have a secret that needs healing, if you know what I mean?”
Katia didn’t, but she nodded anyway.
“Right, let me ’ave a look at yer leg.”
The burn circling Katia’s calf was an angry red, the skin in one section broken and weeping.
“Nasty.” Ailsa pursed her lips, then grinned. “But I can sort that out for yer, no problem. Why don’t you finish getting’ yoursel’ dressed an’ I’ll ’ave something ready in a couple o’ minutes.” She started pulling leaves from the dried vegetation and threw them into a bowl. Something wet and creamy coloured was slopped on top, then she pounded everything together.
Katia pulled the dry trousers on, wincing as the coarser fabric caught the burn, and Ailsa brought the bowlful of sticky mess over. As soon as she slapped the paste onto the burn, the heat in it subsided to a bearable warmth.
“Oh, that feels good. Thank you.” Katia rolled her trouser leg down over the pad of muslin that Ailsa had bound over the injury.
“I’ll stick the rest of the paste in a pot for yer. Use it once a day for the next five days and it should heal. Without a scar.” Ailsa busied herself at the workbench, but shot a sly look at Katia. “Are you sure you don’t want to let them out there know you’re not a boy? Might help.”
Katia shook her head. “I’ve got to keep pretending. Until I get to Eraton.”
“Fair enough. It’ll be our secret.” Ailsa handed over a small screw-topped jar of ointment, which Katia slipped into her pocket. “What do I call you then? While you’re here?”
“Troy.”
Ailsa grinned. “So . . . Troy . . . you ready for summat to eat now?”
She was. In fact, Katia was starving. It seemed a long time since her stomach had been full. Limping slightly, she followed Ailsa back into the kitchen.
Mynott was sitting at the table, head resting on folded arms. Was he asleep? Katia pulled a chair up beside him.
With a snort, Mynott jerked awake, bleary-eyed. “Wha . . . oh . . . s’you . . .” He yawned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked a lot better without the seaweed in his hair, but the bruise was spreading, dark across his cheek. He yawned again. “Only closed my eyes for a second—”
The outside door banged open.
“And here they are, Senior Martik. Two more miracles, thank the gods,” Brunyan exclaimed.
For a second or two, Katia could only stare at the sandy-haired man who ducked through the doorway and followed Brunyan into the kitchen. Without his distinctive jacket, wearing a plain shirt, patched trousers, and a jacket that had seen better days, he could have passed for one of the sailors. But the sight of his beard, still braided and with the god beads twisted in the end of it, made Katia’s hands flutter.
Senior Martik’s gaze travelled slowly over Mynott and came to rest on Katia. “Master Thorn’s errand boy?” he said, with a frown.
So he did see you on the ship.
Katia nodded. “Troy Nasalter, Senior.” Then, before she could think whether she really wanted to hear his reply, she asked, “Master Thorn—is he . . . ? Did he . . . ?”
Martik looked solemn. “I tried to help him.”
An image of a sandy-haired giant snatching the barrel from the doctor flashed into Katia’s brain.
That’s a lie!
“We became separated, and I am sorry to say I have not seen him since.” Martik made a show of composing himself before continuing. “Senior Brunyan informs me that he has found no survivors other than ourselves.”
“And we must thank the gods for their protection of you after such a terrible, terrible night,” Brunyan said. “Perhaps you would like to offer the prayers yourself, Senior? At the mid-day service?”
A strange expression flashed across Martik’s face. “I would not dream of it,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “This is your temple, and after recent events I fear I would be too overcome with emotion to speak clearly.”
Brunyan visibly swelled with importance. “Then I would be honoured to offer them on your behalf.” He turned towards the stove. “Ailsa, is the soup ready?”
As though she’d read his mind, Ailsa placed two steaming bowls on the table, one in front of Mynott and one in front of Katia. “Ready and hot. Will you have some yourself, Senior Brunyan?”
“No. I’m away to fetch help, for the recovery of the . . . er . . .” Brunyan flapped his hands as though trying to waft away his next words. “The . . . er . . . bodies.” He grimaced, then rearranged his face into something more pleasant. “I’ll be back in time for mid-day prayers, I hope. And the confessions. It’s market day today, so there are bound to be some.”
“Get that down you, then,” Ailsa said, placing a loaf of bread and a third bowl in front of Martik. “Enjoy. I’ll be away to wash the seawater out o’ yer things and set ’em to dry. Back in a while.” She followed Brunyan out of the kitchen.
Martik tore a chunk off the loaf and dipped it into his soup.
“No grace before eating, Senior?” Mynott asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Oh, of course.” Martik’s cheeks coloured as he held the dripping bread over his bowl. “I’m afraid after what we have been through, I put bodily need before spiritual teachings. May the triple gods forgive me.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
Even Seniors get it wrong-sometimes. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.
Katia hid her smile by bending her head over her bowl. But the smile slipped away as she wondered whether she would be allowed to go back to being a novice after all of this? Would any temple take her, knowing she’d stolen the Kingstone?
Best face that when you come to it.
“May the triple gods sustain us as we fill our bellies and ease our hunger,” Martik muttered. “Sun, moon, and mountain, we give you our thanks.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “Let’s eat.”
The soup was wonderful: hot, thick, and full of potato and chicken. To Katia, it truly seemed like a gift from the gods. For several minutes there was no sound in the kitchen except for the crackle of flames in the hearth, the chink of spoons on bowls, and satisfied slurping.
Martik had nearly cleaned his bowl before he spoke again. “Have we met before?” he asked Mynott. “You look familiar.”
“I’ve just got one of those faces,” Mynott replied. “Perhaps you saw me on the docks.”
Martik’s eyes narrowed. “No, it’s from somewhere else, I’m certain . . .” He tore another chunk of bread from what was left of the loaf and chewed it thoughtfully. “No matter. It will come to light eventually. But tell me,” he said, his gaze sharpening, “how is it that you were aboard The Mermaid? I thought Master Thorn and myself were the only passengers, yet now I find two more?”
It was more a question than a statement. Katia went cold. She couldn’t tell him the truth. There was something that didn’t feel . . . right . . . about Senior Martik.
“When I sail, I sleep with the crew.” Mynott shrugged. “Cheaper ticket.”
“Huh. And you?” Martik turned on Katia.
“Oh, um . . . same as him,” she lied. “Master Thorn wouldn’t pay for a cabin for his errand boy, would he?”
Mynott paused in the act of wiping his bowl clean with a chunk of bread and threw Katia a puzzled glance. Dammit—at their midnight feast she’d let him assume she’d been in the cabin too. He was going to ask awkward questions now, she could feel it. As he opened his mouth, Ailsa bustled back into the kitchen.
“All done,” she said cheerfully. “Any more soup for anyone? There’s plenty left.”
“I will,” Mynott said.
“Not for me.” Martik pushed his bowl away and patted his stomach. “It was good soup, Ailsa. Worth getting shipwrecked for.”
Katia’s jaw dropped. What a terrible thing to say. When dozens of men had probably perished . . . Even Mynott was scowling at the Senior’s thoughtlessness.
Martik didn’t appear to notice their reactions. “I need to get to Eraton as soon as I can. An appointment at the palace. Do you have a horse I can borrow?”
Something tightened in Katia’s stomach. The palace? Could he be . . . ?
Don’t be ridiculous—he’s a Senior, a priest.
Ailsa set Mynott’s second helping in front of him and sucked at her bottom lip. “Well, Senior Brunyan’s got our best ’orse at the moment, so you’ll have to wait fer him to get back. There’s Flower I suppose, but you could probably walk to Eraton faster than that old plodder. Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “There’s a couple of horse traders who always turn up for confession after market. You’d be amazed what they do to those ’orses to make a deal, an’ they often ’ave different ones with ’em on the way back. We could head over to the temple, see if they’ve arrived and if they can do anything for yer?”
Martik pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “That sounds like an admirable idea. Why don’t you show me to the temple, and I’ll have a word with these . . . gentlemen, see whether they can loan a mount to a man in the service of the gods.”
As soon as the door shut behind them, Mynott started counting under his breath. When he reached ten, he leapt to his feet and went to the window. Whatever he saw outside seemed to please him, because without a word, he began to empty the kitchen cupboards, pulling out bread, ham, cheese . . .
Katia stared. “What are you doing? You asked for extra soup. You don’t need that. Put it back.”
“I’m getting out of here.” Mynott had unearthed an old flour sack and was shoving the food into it as fast as he could. “The Senior’s not the only one with a need to get to Eraton, Troy. We were all on that ship with the sole purpose of getting there.” He grabbed a bottle and uncorked it. A quick sniff of the contents and he recorked it and added it to the sack. “I reckon Flower won’t be as bad as Ailsa made out. I’ve no desire to sit around longer than I have to and I definitely don’t want to travel with Senior Martik.”
Neither did Katia. Senior Martik didn’t seem like a proper priest—she couldn’t imagine Sevanya, or even Harolt doing what he’d done. Well, Harolt she could; she was still undecided about Sevanya. Either way, if Mynott was going to Eraton . . .
“Take me with you, Mynott. Please?”
“Can’t.” Mynott stuffed a few more things into the sack. “I travel faster alone. Best you wait here, Troy. Til a caravan heads back up the coast and you can get a ship back to Indigon.”
“No! I . . . I can’t. I can’t go back there.”
He stopped filling the sack and looked at her. “Why not?”
Mynott’s stare made Katia fidget. She really wasn’t cut out for all these lies. Perhaps if she told him half the truth? “Because . . . because I’m running away.”
“Is that so?” Mynott crossed his arms. “Why?”
Because Lord Arolf has murdered his own brother and now I have to get to Eraton to hand the Kingstone to the prince before the assassin kills him too and we end up with a king who doesn’t deserve to hold the stone.
Except those words stayed firmly inside Katia’s head. She clenched her lips tight, determined not to tell Mynott anything else.
He grabbed her arm and gave her a shake. “Tell me why you’re running away. The truth.”
“Ow! Get off me.”
Mynott’s grip tightened even more, hurting, until . . .
“I stole something.” Katia slapped her hand over her mouth.
Mynott let go. “So. Little Troy’s not just a stowaway. He’s a thief as well, is he?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Shame heated Katia’s cheeks and she rubbed Mynott’s fingerprints from her arm. He was right. She was a thief, really. She’d tried to tell herself she wasn’t, it was the will of the gods, she was helping the prince. But right now, she wasn’t so sure. She was a thief, pure and simple.
“What did you take?” Mynott asked quietly.
She wouldn’t answer this time, wouldn’t let him force it out of her, no matter what he said or did. The Kingstone was her secret and she was going to keep it if it killed her.
“You won’t tell? Fair enough.” Mynott grabbed Katia’s shirt front and pulled her so close, she could feel his breath on her face. His eyes were the colour of the sea on a clear day, but the rest of his face was stormy. “You take anything from me while we’re together on the road, and you’ll never reach the city. I’ll dump you and ride on, understand?”
“I won’t, I swear.” Katia almost fell off her chair as he thrust her away. She’d won. Mynott was going to take her with him.
“What’ll you do when we get to Eraton?” he asked, tying the neck of the sack closed.
“I have family there . . . an aunt.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Antie Madeley was probably still alive, though she’d be even more ancient than when Katia last saw her. The fact that she couldn’t remember the old lady’s address didn’t matter one jot—there was only one place Katia needed to get to in Eraton, and she knew perfectly well how to find the palace.
“Right.” Mynott threw the sack over his shoulder. “Grab yourself a jacket and let’s go.”