Page 15 of A Legacy of Poison and Lies

She looked up to meet Holt’s gaze.

“I’ll need to burn that,” he began. “Unless you’re particularly fond of the likeness.”

Zylah forced a smile. “Go ahead.” She watched him throw it into the fire, thinking about how the young woman on the poster wasn’t who she was anymore. How for a while in Virian it felt as if the layers of her old life had peeled away, leaving something new. Something filled with hope.

She didn’t know what she felt now. Only that the person she had become deserved whatever fate the vanquicite in her back had in store for her.

She gathered the rest of her things—the bow and quiver she’d taken from a corpse in the Kerthen forest, the sword Holt had gifted to her during the Festival of Imala. She fixed the sword to her belt, fastened her bracers and cloak and took one last look at the cabin. She couldn’t say she’d miss it.

Kopi flew down to her shoulder as Holt whistled and a horse trotted out from amongst the trees.

“No saddle?” she asked.

“I borrowed this horse.”

Zylah didn’t question him. She’d done her fair share of stealing when she’d made it out of the Kerthen forest. Gods, even inside the forest she’d stolen. But she doubted the dead missed their possessions.

“We’ll have to pick up supplies in the next town.” Because it would raise too many questions in Varda, Zylah presumed. “Anything you can’t carry will have to wait in Virian until then.” He patted the horse’s neck, checking it over.

Zylah didn’t mind. She’d gotten used to living with little in Kerthen. She handed Holt the quiver and bow along with the bundle she usually wore on her back, his mouth twitching in amusement as he watched her slip some supplies into the pocket of her apron. The contents of her apron had kept her out of trouble on more than one occasion.

“After you, Kopi.” Holt gestured to the owl, and Kopi flew up onto the horse’s head, waiting.

Zylah took one last look back at the cabin, something telling her she was leaving another version of herself behind. With Holt’s help, she pulled up onto the horse’s back, and he swung up behind her, urging the horse on into the forest.

They rode until the pain in her back had stars dancing in front of her eyes. Not nearly long enough. When the horse traversed a stream, Zylah swallowed the pained sound that threatened to escape her.

As the sun began to dip in the sky the thick forest fell away, and the road became more defined, lined with the occasional shrine to the gods.The not-gods, Zylah told herself. It was a hard fact for her to swallow, that the gods she’d grown up praying to were not gods at all.

Carts and riders passed them, none paying them any heed. In the cold weather, most wanted nothing but the warmth of a fire or a body pressed against them, and Zylah was grateful for Holt’s warmth despite her layers. They’d need warmer clothes for the days ahead.

This was farther south than Zylah had ever ventured. What remained of the Amestra Range was passing by them: lush foothills and thick forest, and a handful of small towns and villages dotted amongst them.

Kopi remained on the horse’s head as they approached tall wooden gates, and Zylah instinctively tugged at her hood as they passed the guards stationed on either side, but none looked their way.

The town’s newness meant it was not as poor as Varda, the streets busier with trade and shops still open despite the late hour.

They stabled the horse at a tavern, and Zylah waited outside as Holt arranged accommodation for later.

“Let me guess,” she said as Holt returned. “Better to appear as husband and wife?” She tried to make the question sound light but failed to will the humour into her voice, and instead, it came out as an accusation.

Holt frowned. “It won’t raise as many questions. Marcus has eyes everywhere.” He gestured down the street, and Zylah followed. Questions about Marcus tumbled over themselves in her thoughts. But louder than that was the warning Raif had once given her.We try not to speak about our father, for fear that it summons him.

They passed a florist, baskets of cloud violas hanging on either side of the door just like the Bloom florist back in Virian. Zylah had shared a kiss with Raif just outside it. She pressed a hand to her stomach, focusing on Kopi’s tiny weight on her shoulder to ground herself.

“Zylah?” Holt asked beside her.

“I’m fine.” The lie was the easiest option, though she knew he’d assume it was the vanquicite, and there was truth to that part. She’d need to better school her reactions around him, to keep her face neutral. Zylah had lived with the pain long enough, and she had a few vials of her tonic should she wound herself again. Whatever it took to keep herself alive until she could get to either Jesper or Marcus. She brushed her fingers over the back of her hand where her wound had been, remembering it wouldn’t have been her tonic that fully healed it, but Holt’s magic.

Getting close to Marcus and Jesper would be next to impossible but… she held on to the shred of hope that an opportunity would present itself.

They purchased their supplies without incident, Holt leaving her in the market to browse while he went to make some enquiries. Zylah was assessing a table of herbs when she overheard a priestess uttering their usual speech about sinners and turned to find an engrossed crowd watching her.

Two members of the crowd broke into a fight, and just like back in Varda, the priestess broke it up. But this time, the gathered crowd applauded and cheered, the two men who had fought hugging as if they were nothing more than squabbling brothers.

The acolytes handed out pieces of parchment, and the townsfolk took them with warm smiles and handshakes. Zylah wasn’t convinced. It looked like the recruitment days she’d often witnessed back in Dalstead, and something about the sight unsettled her.

She felt Holt’s presence behind her, and his eyes found hers the moment she spotted him in the crowd.

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