Page 28 of Artemysia
“The most dangerous position for me is also the most vulnerable position for her.” - Delphine
Arestless, dreamless night later, Throg and I scarf down breakfast in the Academy dining hall before packing our favorite weapons, leather braces, and metal armor. We head to the stables by eight o’clock to tack our elk and wait for Riev and Ivy. Riev’s fierce rejection of my involvement in this mission weighs heavy on my mind.
A team of cadets delivers the rest of our supplies and wishes us luck. One of the younger men lingers to congratulate Throg on his promotion, goading him into a grappling session that lasts until Throg chucks him deep into a nearby haystack. They laugh as Throg clasps the cadet’s forearm to help him up.
The packs appear standard for a longer mission. Provisions, makeshift shelter, extra layers, first aid, instruments for navigation, and weapons. I double-check the first-aid kit and tighten the main buckle of my pack.
My attention goes to a small side pouch that hangs open, and when I move to secure it, a corner of thick ivory stationery peeks out. Narrowing my eyes, I slip a hand into the canvas and draw out a folded notecard.
A single line of flowing script in green ink reads:
Stay out of Artemysia.
Apprehension surges in my chest as I scan my surroundings. Ears perked, I search the shadows of the stable stalls in case someone is spying to see if I’d received the note. The green ink itself is unusual, the paper textured and thick—the kind I’ve seen only from the desk of a wealthy individual, like a baron or king.
Is it a warning, or is it a threat?
Baffled, I debate showing Throg, but he’s happily strapping his pack onto his elk. Do I want him to worry just as we’re about to embark on this dangerous mission? He’d suspect Riev of working against us, given that he didn’t want us along in the first place. There’s no need to drum up suspicion within our squad. I decide to keep it to myself for now. I’ll bring it up later if I need his insight, but I need to think on this alone.
Who else would oppose this mission? Syf can’t read or write.
With one more glance, I shove the note back into my bag.
There’s no sign of Riev or Ivy yet, but the Academy stables house over three hundred elk, and theirs could be at the far end. It leaves me time to wonder what kind of company Riev would insist on in a life-or-death situation. Will Ivy feel the need to murder me, like she did her previous commander? Cold sweat beads on my palms. It’s only pre-mission jitters, I lie to myself.
Riev’s tall, lean silhouette appears at the far end of the stalls, turning the corner mounted on an enormous copper elk. He makes his way toward me, unhurried and polished.
His hips rock in time with each deliberate strut of his steed.
Holy hell.
My traitorous eyes can’t look away.
Up high on his mount and backlit by the angled morning sunlight, he’s regal, in a dark and icy and cruel way.
His fingers, exposed in half-gloves, grip the reins casually. A simple white long-sleeve thermal displays the contours of his muscledarms, drawing my attention to his hefty forearms that bear new leather braces. They match his leather chest armor, embossed with a moonflower. Same as mine. His dark hair is still pulled back in a knot, except for a soft tendril that falls over his brow. I don’t allow myself to linger on the thought of what the whole thing might look like freed and unraveled.
I shouldn’t be thinking of him like that.
Except for the first night in the alleyway, he’s been nothing but tidy and stylish despite his streak of violence. I’m left wondering if that’s how he always is, and I’d just caught him in a rare moment of vulnerability.
This is no good, this inexplicable attraction. Throg is tidy and stylish, and I’m not attracted to him. What is it about Riev, then?
I pry my gaze away and steer it to the small companion following behind him.
A younger woman on foot leads a spotted beige bull elk.
Auburn hair. Daring smile. A bandolier of knives across her ample chest.
Ivy Morrigan.
“Oy, have you got packs for us, too?” Ivy asks, her voice hoarse as if she lost it yelling recently. She jabs a finger in my direction. “Cock-a-doodle-doo doo!” Grinning, she holds up her outstretched palm on top of her head like a bird with a crest.
Rooster? Ah. My hair. Shaved sides with a reverse braid. Like a crest. Oh, she’s funny.
Ivy pauses in thought with her head cocked, studying me from afar. “No wait, a cockatoo. I saw a huge white one at Winter Carnival that could talk. It cursed at me!”
Her hair is braided with an embroidered blue ribbon and wrapped neatly in a crown. If I didn’t know she was a murderer, I’d say it was cute.
