The Carnelian Way

7.1

"Bit late, isn't it, girl?" said one of the guards at the gatehouse, staring down his long, hooked nose at Rina. His hair was cut short and speckled with white, and his thick arms were crossed over his chest as he leaned against the red-brick archway. "There something we should know about?"

Rina trained her eyes on the ground, swallowing, and shook her head.

The other guard grunted. "Just let her through, Cedric. She's probably been sleeping in the field. That whisky they drink is strong, and you know the planting buggers them all."

The man named Cedric harumphed. "You're too soft on her kind, Marcus." His eyes trailed Rina up an down again, making her shiver, and his lip curled. "Don't make a habit of it, you hear me?"

Rina nodded again, this time with enthusiasm, and moved forward, as she did, she noted the way the guard called Marcus' lips pressed together, and his eyes softened.

The city walls ate the dying rays of the sun. Shafts of candlelight from behind curtains and the odd oil lamp were all that lit her way as she wound her way home, trying to think of anything but what she'd done. She'd betrayed Olav. Or had she? Hadn't she made it clear there was nothing—could never be anything—between them? He was Media's son. She was an Arkis-spawned Denese. Unworthy. Especially after tonight.

It didn't take long for the sense of being watched to come upon her, the feeling cool and strangely empty. Unlike Olav's reassuring presence. The first time Rina sensed it, she'd turned and assessed the street of frosted paving stones, arched windows, and garden beds.

Nothing.

An ice spider scuttled down her spine.

The second time, she was slower. Cautious.

The third time, she turned quickly, fighting her instincts to run as she twisted in a way that made her back twinge.

Nothing!

Up, up, up she went, now racing to get home.

A lie. You're a lie! her mind shouted to the slithering, crawling, invisible thing that tickled and taunted her, telling her she wasn't alone. Her heart went boom, boom, boom! and her vision tunnelled in on itself until she seemed to squint through the eye of a needle. At one point she tumbled over a bucket that had been left to roll in the road, her palms hot as fire as her skin shredded against salt and rock. Pushing up, hands grating against the ice-like surface, she took a moment to peer through a dark screen of her hair and into the dusk.

Nothing.

So why did everything inside her scream and shout that something was happening. That something was wrong.

Get a hold of yourself.

She stood, brushed her hands on her skirts, closed her eyes and breathed in slow and deep. Let her breath out a fraction at a time. She repeated the process, forcing herself to stay where she was, pushing her body to learn that no-one was going to hurt her. Until the hammering in her heart was no more than a pitter-patter.

Uma was upstairs when she returned home. Or so Rina assumed when she shoved the door open and faced a table of wide-eyed people. She didn't blame Uma. Such meetings were guilty-by-association affairs. Most of them were familiar. Two were new. A pock-faced male with olive skin, and—it was Rina's turn to stare wide-eyed—a blonde woman with ice-blue eyes. A Euran? Could the discontent have spread so deep?

Tallow candles illuminated the room, filling it with the fragrance of fat and ash. A log crackled in the hearth. Molten cracks stark against the blackened wood.

Pietro cleared his throat, forehead crinkled. "Rina, where were you?"

"Sorry, uncle."

Something wavered in his eyes as he stood.