Page 56 of Mother of Death and Dawn

There were too many words to say. Too many questions to ask. Any normal person would have asked them. We were stranded on a boat with nothing else to talk about.

But no. That was a renowned Farlione trait, after all: ignoring the things that dangled right in front of our faces. And honestly? I was grateful for it, right now.

“So.” I cleared my throat. “Now what?”

“We go to Besrith.”

“Is that home? For you?”

“Home?” He gave me an odd look. “It’s… where I’ve been living for the last few years. It’s quiet there, and remote. They don’t have diplomatic relationships with Ara. It will be hard for Nura to get to you there.”

It still was fucking incredible that I was listening to Brayan outline the best way to evade the Aran government.

I glanced down at the boat carrying us—barely more than a rowboat. “I hate to shatter your hopes and dreams, Brayan, but there’s no way this boat is making it to—”

“Not in this,” he grumbled—in a tone that added an unspokenobviously. “We’re going to Sarilla first. Then catch a charter ship to Threll and travel north from there. You can help us move faster then, can’t you? With… magic and such.”

His voice always took on an odd tone when referencing my magic. Like the entire concept made him slightly uncomfortable.

I shook my head.

“I can’t. She… they took away as much of it as they could.” The sleeves of my dirty white shirt were bunched up around my elbows, and my gaze trailed up my forearms—at all the Stratagrams now tattooed all over my skin. I was struck all over again by exactly how many of them there were, and a surge of anger overwhelmed me.

Up until this moment, I’d had to pour so much of my energy into keeping my life and my sanity. There had been nothing left for anger, so I’d locked it away. Now it hit me all at once, one pent-up wave powerful enough to break my ramshackle barriers.

Brayan made a noncommittal noise and turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me for too long. Fair. I hadn’t had access to a mirror in months. I probably wouldn’t want to look at me for too long, either.

“No matter,” he said. “We’ll still make it to Besrith.”

I took him in, warily. He looked so different than the version of him that I remembered. I suppose that made sense. He had been—I racked my half-broken brain—what, in his mid-twenties, in those final fragmented shards of my memory? I remembered thinking of him as so powerful that he was ageless, the gulf separating us so much wider than a mere seven years. Now, he seemed… older.

I took in his clothing. A dark jacket with gold buttons across a double breast. An Aran military uniform. New.

“What about the uniform?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“Ara is at war.”

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “So I’ve seen. And?”

“So why are you here with me instead of fighting it?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Isn’t that your great love? Winning wars?”

Ascended above, did Brayan actually lookoffendedby that? The last I remembered, he would have agreed with the assessment wholeheartedly. He had shaped his entire life around warfare, crafted himself into a tool to be wielded for a single purpose. He was, of course, exquisite at it. That’s why military leaders spoke of Brayan with the same breathless admiration that one spoke of a rare, expensive sword. A kind of admiration laced with greed.

“I don’t know what happened to Nura in the last ten years,” he said, “but I know one thing beyond a doubt—what you did in Sarlazai made you a hero. The Ryvenai War ended because of you. You never should have been imprisoned for that.”

A sour taste filled my mouth. I didn’t know why.

But Brayan no longer seemed interested in talking. He turned, looking out at the horizon. “We should reach Sarilla in a few hours,” he said, in the sort of tone that conveyed that he didn’t expect to say another word until then. I didn’t especially feel like arguing.

* * *

There were far toomany eyes in Sarilla for my liking.

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