Bastion of Sun

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

An Old Friend

Odaren kicked his feet up, watching Faye in the corner like a rabid lion waiting to bite. Her arm was still cradled in her makeshift bandage, but she hadn't made a single moan or wince of pain since it happened. He could hardly believe it. He'd seen bone sticking out, and yet she treated it like a sprain or a bad bruise. Even now, the Mistress of Shadows limply gripped a hunk of wood with her bad hand, cutting with the other.

She made smooth strokes, whittling something he couldn't see. It reminded him of that strange boy in the shadows of Narim who'd eaten the rat. He watched her the same way—like a creature he didn't understand, and one without a leash. He liked to think he was that leash. He imagined that she wouldn't kill him because he was guiding her to her sister, but he knew that was a foolish notion and it was the reason he slept with his eyes open.

He remembered her ruthlessly killing the innkeeper and his hired muscle, dispatching them with the ease of a practiced butcher chopping up a fresh carcass. The image of Goram fountaining blood from his chin and the innkeeper's terror before he died kept replaying in Odaren's mind. No, Odaren didn't feel so safe. Worst yet, he'd seen true evil, but Faye was different. Her moods flickered, changing constantly. It was like she was a hundred different people, impossible to predict from one moment to the next. In one breath, Faye seemed absolutely apathetic, then in another she was dark and violent, and then every mood in between. In their brief journey thus far, occasionally, he thought he spotted something more lurking behind her eyes—a rare glimmer. Something like humanity or kindness. No. He snorted to himself. Not kindness. He was being hopeful again. This was a woman who would quirk a brow at that word and question its meaning. Still, she hadn't killed him yet. That was something, wasn't it?

Odaren took an uneven breath, feeling his damp palms. He consoled himself with the notion that if Faye wanted him dead, she would have done it by now. But instead of sounding truthful, Odaren knew he was being profoundly optimistic. He growled, but she didn't look up from her whittling. He wanted to ask her, to shout at her, 'Are you going to kill me? Do it already if so, because this waiting grates on me.' But Odaren was too much a coward to say those things. After all, he liked living. Well, not so much that he liked living, but that death scared him. Terrified him even. And so he licked his lips and continued to watch her—a black cat in the corner of the room, haughtily ignoring a cornered, plump rat.

"Where is my sister being held?" she asked abruptly from the shadows.

It was the question he'd been waiting for. He clutched his pant legs, fingers gripping his thigh in fear, but forced himself to look out the window as if apathetic—as if the answer didn't matter and as though his usefulness extended beyond his next words. He watched the slow rattle of carts on the well-paved streets, the orange glow of street lanterns and the steady stream of well-dressed people, a surprising majority of them wearing the black garb of the guard with the orange flame upon their leather chest.

It was the second day of their journey. They were in a town just north of Farbs called Abernathy's Crossing, but all called the middling port town simply Aberton, or in fearful whispers, Deathville—its title bestowed by thieves.

Because it was the only outlying town and fief of Farbs, Aberton received a small but steady stream of revenue from the Great Kingdom of Fire. And it put its coin to use. The town was well known for its strict laws and stricter folk. Unlike Farbs, a caught thief didn't lose his hand in Aberton—he lost his life. Worse yet, the small size of the town made it easy for the horde of guards to patrol all the shadowy corners. It was a thief's nightmare and it made Odaren's skin crawl, imagining over and over the door to their small room bursting open and guards carting him off to a dark cellar or a short rope. He rubbed his bandaged throat, feeling the coarse twinge already.