50

It had been a mild day, mostly sunny, beleaguered by brief stretches of cloud. One such stretch had stubbornly persisted, smelling faintly of rain to come. Lena preferred it to snow. She was lounged in the flatbed of the wounded family wagon, breaking for lunch and throwing an occasional crumb to the chickens, when footsteps neared from the storehouse.

Her father, of course. He joined her with a groan, bucket in hand. "Did you shovel out the pens and the coops?" he asked. "It'll pile up if you haven't. We'll see more snow tonight."

"Shoveled, aye," she replied, chewing. "Smells like rain."

"It'll be snow. Did you rake out the beds?"

"Raked, aye. Dirty time of it."

Jonah was gazing out at the mountains, skin caked in dirt and ash. "The neighbor kids were in our oupir field again," he said. "The Abelson boys." 

Lena handed him a helping of bread. "Want me to tell Gracie?"

"Probably best. I thought they'd tire weeks ago."

"I'll bring a cobbler over tomorrow."

Jonah quickly glanced over. "You'll make two, right?"

She grinned and indicated the bucket. "What've you got there?"

"Oyster dust." He held her eyes, with meaning. "You'll make two, right?"

"Aye, I'll make two. Fatten you up." With a hearty sigh, she watched the chickens go about their business. "One of the girls has been eating her eggs," she muttered. "We ought to take her out of the A-frame before the others learn from it."

"That's Doris. I'll fix her for supper." Jonah's gaze slid back to the mountains. He gestured with the bucket and said, "Your brother's back again."

Lena turned on the wagon bed, letting a foot hang over the side. She could just make out Peter's hair by the river. "Third time in as many days," she grunted. "How do you figure he's doing it?"

"Beats me. I'm not talking to him again."

"Oi, that's your kid, Jonah. It's your job to see him through."

Jonah smirked over at her. "Aye, says the daughter who calls her pappy by name."

"You're no pappy of mine. You're a seadog come ashore." They shared a chuckle. Lena's smile faded as her eyes returned to Peter. "What'd he say?" she had to ask. "It's not his spirit, is it?"

"Not his spirit, no," he replied. "Doesn't quite seem like himself, though."

"Hell, I could've told you that, him brooding by the water."

Jonah shrugged again. "He's under pressure."

"From Aria, I bet."

"Dunno. He disappeared."

"Disappeared?" she echoed. "Like poof?"

"Aye, like poof. Terrible, the sound. Made me jump."

Lena finished the last of her bread, foot swinging, pensive. "Fine, I'll talk to him," she decided. "I reckon he's sulking and wanting a pester."

"Don't bully him too much."

"Oh, just a bit." She hopped down from the wagon bed and turned to her father. Chickens scattered and fussed at her toes. "It's sort of amazing, if you think about it," she confessed. "He'll be made king when he marries that princess, won't he?"

Jonah didn't seem enthused. "For better or worse."

"I can't see it. Wouldn't eat his greens 'til he hit twenty-something." She paused there on account of Jonah's troubled expression. She said, "You're worried about him."

"Sure, I'm worried. He can't even shear proper."

"Kings don't need to shear proper."

"And he has to be dragged out of bed at dayrise."

"Aye, he does, and he carps about when he mucks out the stalls, and he packs in the paddock but leaves out the feed." Lena buttoned her coat. "I know exactly who Peter is," she said. "And I'm worried, too. But he's a good egg and he'll figure it out."

"Takes after his mother, I wager."

 Lena headed out, picking her way through the sea of chickens. "I'll be back," she called. "Bring in a load of firewood if you're looking for something to do."

If he replied, she didn't hear it. She followed the path she'd made through the snow until it stopped at the sloppy roadway. Peter was sitting on a rocky rise overlooking the water, but his eyes were higher, moving over the flatlands. The changes in his face were visible even from a distance, the first, of course, being the beard, and the second being a part-healed gash bisecting one of his eyebrows. His overlarge coat was weathered hide. It suited him, oddly.

The crunch of snow underfoot gave her away. Peter glanced up, expression blank like he'd been in a trance. "Lena," he greeted, in surprise. "You look well."

"What's that you've done to your face?"

"My face?"

"The gash by your eye."

Lightly, he touched it. Maybe he'd forgotten it was there. "It was healing by the time I got around to a pother," he explained. "It'll scar. It's fine."

"How'd you come by it?"

"Howlings. They boarded us in the Dire."

Lena sat on the rock beside him, hugging her knees for warmth. "Howlings," she echoed. "That's a fret. Are they as nasty as the stories say?"

"Nasty, aye," he answered. "And fast like."

She'd expected him to brag. He didn't. "What are you doing here, brother?"

"I needed a moment to clear my head," he said. "I always liked this view from the porch."

"Then come up to the porch," she urged. "It's fierce cold and you'll lose your ears."

His gaze had fallen. He looked at her now— really looked at her. There was something in his eyes that she didn't recognize. "How's the farm?" he asked. "Are you getting by?"

"We're fine, keeping busy. The barn cats miss you."

That made him smile. "Do they?"

"They do. Told me so." But she didn't smile with him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think Ethos would do so much harm. He seemed like a fine boy."

Peter's expression sobered a bit. He studied her like she'd said something strange. "I don't regret going out there with him," he told her. "He's the one who made this all possible."

She frowned. "But they say he killed the king," she said. "And there's war because of it."

"War comes and goes." Peter flung something into the river. "My life would be about as thrilling as a bucket of water if it weren't for him," he said. "I have you to thank for pushing me."

"But you don't look very happy, Peter. Certainly not thankful."

Another glance, sidelong. "What do I look like?"

"You look like you've gone without sleep for a while. Have you?"

"I have, some. But it comes with the territory."

His hands were dark. Was it coal? Dirt? "Dad says you've gone Battlefrost," she said. "Are they going to help you make Oldden yours? Have you gotten a look at Tritan?"

"Aye, they'll help. Tritan's exactly like they say." He produced a strip of jerky from one of his pockets; some kind of fish, by the look of it. "Flint and its army belongs to me," he continued. "Oldden will follow. Ethos will return from the mountains and all will be as it was before."

"Does that mean you'll have a hand in what's happening in the Rift?"

"A flank maneuver is all it is," he said. "But we'll be cutting the Bonesteels off from their home, taking supply lines and biting at heels. Even if they see us coming, they'll be forced to fight two fronts at once. We're hoping they'll yield."

It sounded like he was reciting someone else's words. Maybe he'd explained the strategy a few too many times. Or maybe it hadn't been his idea. "It's Oldden at the southern front," she knew. "That's where the most danger will be. I'm glad you'll be in a safer position."

He nodded, chewing jerky. "I'm not sure how Oldden will react," he said. "Una will have to play her part just right to get a dialogue off the ground."

"They wouldn't be grateful to have your support?"

"I suspect they won't like me protecting a notorious king killer. We'll have to see." Peter inspected the fish meat, still chewing, and took a second bite. He caught her eye as he swallowed. "You probably haven't heard," he guessed. "Gladius had a replacement."

Lena stared at him. "What, already?"

"Wartime sometimes demands it. A councilman— Eadric."

"So where does that leave you and the princess?" she asked. "Job's taken, innit?"

"No. He's dead. Ethos killed him, too." Peter climbed to his feet, coat giving way to unveil an impressive blade at his hip. The scabbard's trim gleamed with a cold inner light. "But it's not like I'll turn him over to Oldden. I'd sooner use him to take what I want."

She stood with him, unable to imagine it. "You make him sound so dangerous."

Peter's eyes followed her, so serious and unfamiliar. "He is," he replied. "He's a monster, Lena. A real one. They're not all disgusting like howlings and swampers."

"And you're protecting him."

"Of course."

"Why's that?"

"Because it's Ethos."

"But you just called him a monster."

His serious eyes became gently confused. "He's no threat to me. I'm special."

Special. The boy who carped when he mucked out stalls, who packed in the paddock but left out the feed. Never once locked the gate behind him. "I can't say I know what you're going through," Lena said. "I only spent a day with Ethos. But if it's true what he's done, if it's true what he is, you'd be wise to keep the distance between you. Clearly he's not overfond of kings."

"You don't have to worry." Peter was smirking at her now, as if it were cute that she didn't know better. He held out his hand for her to take. "I can hold my own."

Lena didn't wonder about the hand; she'd held it often enough in the past for it to be second nature to take it. But the river was gone as soon as she did, and at once she was struck by a deafening sound and a dreadful rush of vertigo. There were suddenly scruffy men all about, shouting and laughing and pushing large carts, pointing at clouds and forecasting weather. Most were clad in oilskin foul, a mark of folk who braved the elements.

Beside her, Peter said, "Flint Harbor."

Harbor, indeed! Three dozen ships there must have been, moored and casting great black shadows, their topsides alive with busy deckhands. A cry rang out at a distant pier, and a cluster of linesmen took after a barrel, which promptly crashed through a flimsy bake stand. Wild dogs scattered.

Unfazed, Peter redirected her eyes to a pair of colossal warships. "Those two there are from Oldden," he said. "The Nautilus and Invictus. They'll be instrumental in coordinating with the Oldden redoubt. Transmissions should reach once we clear the mountains."

"They're blackhounds, aren't they?"

"They are."

"Did you steal them?"

Someone tersely called out his name— a man disembarking the Nautilus. He seemed menacing at a distance, but as he neared Lena saw that his eyes were kind. A smallish woman was with him, hair as red as a pickled beetroot, and in some ways she was more impressive than he; she was scribbling in a ledger-sized notebook, at ease with the natural flow of the wharf without so much as a glance around. 

The man shook Peter's hand. He was dark-featured and rather handsome. "I was wondering where you'd run off to," he said. "The ballast's full. We'll be ready within the hour."

"Good to hear," Peter replied. "How are the others?"

"Tanis was by earlier. She had ten ships or so that still needed some work." Those dark, kind eyes moved to Lena. He didn't say anything to her, but his brief appraisal was more than enough to remind her of how out-of-place she was, from her turd-caked boots to her hand-me-down overalls. But he just looked back at Peter and added, "You need to see the tono off."

"Isn't it enough that I sacrificed a ship for them?"

Again, he glanced at Lena. This time he guided Peter away. "Come here for a second."

Lena watched them stalk out of earshot. The unidentified man was whispering, gesturing urgently down the wharf. Peter didn't seem pleased about what he was saying. "You're his sister," the redheaded woman said, and her blue eyes finally rose from her ledger. "Lena, was it?"

Lena quickly nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry, I'm— I wasn't quite— "

The woman smiled. It was a pretty expression. "Relax a bit," she said. "I'm commanding pother of the Battlefrost fleet. Is there anything that I can get for you?"

"What? No. No, thank you, I mean."

She closed her book and extended her hand, a foul reenactment of Peter's spiriting. "You can call me Rhysa," she said. "The boys and I met back in Oldden."

Lena accepted the gesture, confused in part by the last. "The boys?"

"Peter and Ethos, of course." Lena must've been making a face, because Rhysa chuckled. "It's rare to speak of one, but not the other," she explained. "I suppose it's made them a unit of sorts."

Lena wanted to jerk her close and ask just what was going on. And while she managed somehow to resist the urge, she didn't let go of Rhysa's hand. "Everyone knows it was him who killed Gladius," she said. "Peter calls him a monster. Why protect him? Why run the risk?"

Rhysa's smile faded. "Don't you know who he is?"

Aye, a day was all she'd known him. But his smile had stuck with her, how he'd quickly glanced her way and laughed when he'd figured out how the fence went together. He'd been almost childlike. It was why she'd sent Peter after him in the first place. "He was a woodling," she answered. "Godling, maybe. He said he didn't know where he came from."

"Ah." Rhysa squeezed her hand and said, "Ask your brother."

"Ask me what?" Peter had returned with the kind-eyed man in tow. He was blindly pocketing a piece of paper, looking back and forth between them. He pressed, "What is it?"

"I was introducing myself," Rhysa said, and she subtly drew her hand out of Lena's to crack her heavy ledger open. "I'm off to take stock on the Ravager. Are you hungry, sunshine?"

It took Lena a second to gather that Rhysa was addressing the man she'd approached with. He was rubbing his belly like he'd missed lunch. "I could eat," he admitted. "Meet me back at a quarter part?"

Rhysa nodded and split from the group, head bent over her work. As she merged with the shipmen, Peter sent her counterpart an uppity grin of sorts. "Sunshine?" he teased. "That's cute."

Sunshine turned to go. "She can call me whatever she likes if there's food."

"A fine code to live by."

"I'll send out a runner when preparations are done."

Peter put an arm around Lena and steered her down the wharf. Curious, how the crowd seemed to part for him. "This way," he instructed. "I have one quick thing to take care of."

She craned her neck toward the Nautilus. "Who was that?"

He glanced down at her. "Michael Ozwell." 

"I've heard of him. He's commander of the Oldden blackhounds."

Peter snorted. "Aye, well, now he's commander of the Battlefrost blackhounds."

"The way he looked at me. He thinks I'm a muckshit."

"You are a muckshit."

"So are you. These were your pants."

Peter laughed and gave her a one-armed hug. "Michael's had a tough time of late," he said. "He's been down and out on account of his missing brother."

"He can be down and out and still think I'm a muckshit." They continued along the wharf for a while, straight through the effortless, parting tide. "Say, Peter," she eventually grumbled. "Why does it feel like everyone's forgiven Ethos for what he did?"

"Did Rhysa say something?"

"Not much, no."

Peter was quiet at first. He scratched at his unshaven jaw, put off. "It's a long story," he said. "I really don't want to get into it."

"Then put it in shorthand. Abridged like."

"Abridged," he echoed. "Aye, that. His pappy's Hans Redbeard."

Lena scowled at the ground, turd-boots kicking up snow. "Don't make fun of me."

"You think I'm joking." Peter's eyes were serious again when Lena glanced at him. It was a very mature expression— troublingly so. "Ethos is the son of Hans Redbeard," he repeated. "That's the truth of it. Word will spread soon enough."

"How is that possible?"

"I said I didn't want to get into it."

They stopped in front of a smaller vessel, this one broadside and scarcely moored. At the bulwark of the main, a tawny-skinned man flung a coil of roping down to another alongside the pier, who cupped a hand at his mouth and called, "Clear!"

But the first had spotted Peter among the faces down below. He turned from the edge and hurriedly barked at someone amidship.

Peter explained, "The tono survivors."

"Their skin," Lena said, softly. "They look just like Ethos."

"Aye, because his mother is one of them. She's to thank for the Oldden disaster."

A tono barrelman was watching them from the highest masthead. The distance to him was too far to be sure, and the deckhands were hoisting up the first canvas, but Lena could've sworn she'd seen two giant wings about where his arms were meant to be.

But she didn't have time to dwell on it; a little girl came sprinting down the vessel's gangway, nest of hair bouncing around her head. "Peter, you dillhole!" she raged. "Stop trashing our room!"

Peter stepped forward, hands on his hips. "Oh, so it's our room now?"

The girl planted herself in front of him. She thrust a finger up at his face. "You don't get to have a fit and jump back home while I clean up your crap," she spat. "There's plenty to do around here without you making messes for me. Infant."

Peter chuckled. He turned sideways to provide her with a view of Lena. "This is my sister," he said, and he sent Lena a deliberate look. "Lena, this is Alyce."

Alyce was already staring at her when their eyes met, and there was something vaguely disturbing about it. She was quick, this one; quicker than her years suggested. "You're twins, right?" the girl asked, sullenly jerking her thumb at Peter. "He says it's a Battlefrost thing."

"It is," he retorted. "Just look at Tanis and Tritan. Or Syan and Daggeir."

An older tono man was descending the ramp, dressed in untold furs and buckskins. He'd wellnigh joined their discussion before Lena noticed his missing arm. "Peter," he greeted. "We didn't think we'd see you after the gathering this morning."

Peter shook his hand. "I heard you were casting off."

The man glanced Lena's way. Daylight kicked off the white in his hair. "Your sister," he guessed, or maybe he'd heard them. "I can see the resemblance. You both have your father's eyes."

He was curiously lacking expression. Lena tried to smile. "Nice to meet you."

The man responded with the barest of nods. "Same to you."

"Pathos," Peter cut in, drawing his narrow, brown-as-black gaze. "You understand that I need this ship and its crew back as soon as you're safe in Harken."

"I understand," Pathos said. "And I appreciate your generosity despite the divide. It couldn't have been an easy task to support us under the circumstances. I'm in your debt."

"Yes, you are. Don't think I won't be by after the dirt and the dust has settled."

"We'll see." Pathos looked at Alyce. Surprisingly, he cracked a smile. "And you," he said. "You're always welcome to join us in the forest."

Alyce smiled back. "With the bugs and the mice?"

A private joke, it sounded like. Pathos nudged her chin and left it at that. To Peter, he asked, "Has there been any word from Ethos today?"

"Not yet," Peter replied. "He checks in late."

"He's in good hands. Sei and Baroona will see him through."

"Aye, they'd better."

"They will. He's a precious asset."

Peter scoffed. "Don't ever tell him that to his face. I'll never hear the end of it."

Pathos mustered another small smile, half-turned to go. "Focus on what's happening here in Flint," he said. "These people require your full attention."

While Peter clearly wanted to argue, he didn't. He just took a quiet breath and nodded. "The winds are running at us," he said. "You could be in for a bumpy flight."

"We'll make it." The man stepped in unexpectedly; it was a very casual, very natural movement, almost unassuming, but the hand that took Peter's arm was stiff. "Don't forget what we spoke about," he said, voice steady, deliberate. "There will be consequences if you leave her as is for much longer."

"After," Peter responded, curtly. "We'll deal with it after, once it's official."

"It could be too late by then. Just look at her."

Lena followed their eyes. A lone woman was standing amid the crowded wharf, head bent as she rummaged through a small wicker basket. She was dark-haired and slender, a proper fit to the fine blue dress she'd donned, but her gentle refinement was offset by a muddied hem and an old pair of boots, and offset further when finally she glanced from her rummaging.

It was a strange sort of beauty she possessed. Her skin was unbelievably fair, nearly translucent; even from afar, Lena could see very dark veins running from the back of her ears and down the length of her neck. And her lashed eyes, as pleasantly rounded as they were, could do no disservice worse than their color. They focused on Lena's face for a long, ghastly moment, such a disturbingly pale shade of yellow that it looked at first like she only had pupils. It was as if she were blind.

Pathos didn't stick around to speak with her. He said something inaudible to Peter and then calmly returned to his waiting ship. Someone on deck shouted a command.

Peter seized the hood of Alyce's coat when she tried to bolt. "Don't you dare," he said to her. "It's you she's after. Bear with it."

Alyce clawed at his hand. "Leggo!"

A horrific stench suddenly hit Lena. Like death, it was, an old felled swine left out in the summer, its lips cooked back in a gruesome grin. Disease, manifest. Deterioration. Try as she might, she couldn't stifle a sound of revulsion. It tasted like bile in the back of her throat.

The woman in the blue dress was approaching. It was her, Lena quickly realized. The source of the stench. The shrinking distance between them was torture.

Lena couldn't tell if it bothered Peter at all. Maybe he'd become an old hat at hiding it. Either way, he welcomed the woman with a tight-lipped smile. "Princess," he said. "You're up."

Princess Una, in the flesh. Those pale eyes of hers were almost colorless, fixed on Lena. "Who's this?" the eerie highborn asked, voice like velvet. "A friend?"

"A sister," Peter replied. "This is Lena."

Una extended a hand in greeting, an honor of sorts, albeit unwanted. Her long, dry, serrated nails were the color of straw. Lena swallowed and accepted the gesture. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," she managed. "You're all the talk in Nahga right now. A proper celebrity."

To this, Una said nothing. And when their hands mercifully parted, her unsettling gaze just drifted to Alyce. "Anything?" she asked. "Has he landed yet?"

Alyce was sulking; she kicked at a fallen dowel, eyes low. "They're anchored on a lake near the entrance. He's sleeping."

"What else?"

"Nothing. That's it."

Princess Una stepped in close. The atmosphere changed like a shift in the wind. "You're being dishonest," she said. "I can smell it on you."

Alyce forced a smile. "You wanna talk about smell?"

Peter intervened before the altercation could escalate. He came between them and looked squarely at Una, warning her off. "Don't," he said. "Take it out on me if you're going to take it out on anyone."

Una met his glare unflinching, veins sickly blue and curved with her throat. "God help you if he dies out there, Peter," she hissed. "God help you."

"Stopping him wasn't an option," he said. "You know that."

"Ethos doesn't hold grudges. He never has. He and Eadric were practically pals."

"You didn't see his eyes, Una. We would've had a whole new war on our hands if I'd stopped him by force." But she didn't let up, so he sighed. He gently turned her face to the side, gauging various degrees of sickness. "It's gotten worse," he muttered, softly concerned. "Have you eaten today?"

"Not yet." Una yawned. She leaned into his hand and then slumped against his chest. She matched his sigh when he hugged her there. "I'm so tired," she said. "Sleep is useless."

"I know," he answered. "I know. We'll figure it out." He patted her back and inadvertently caught Lena's eye. He seemed to read her thoughts. "I should see Lena back to the farm."

"I don't like you spending all of your time there, Peter," Una murmured. "You're a Battlefrost, not a farmhand. You're supposed to be here with me."

"It's my home, princess."

"Fine." Una withdrew, rubbing her eyes. "I think I'll look for Rhysa."

Peter didn't tell her that she'd find her on the Ravager. He just nodded, expression stormy, and watched her reenter the Flintman tide. But it didn't part like it had for him; it parted like it was afraid.

Alyce was flipping her off. Peter lowered her hand and sent her a tiredly stern sort of look. "Meet me in the warehouse," he instructed. "I won't be long." 

She raised her chin. "Promise?"

"Promise."

She stole a glance at the tono ship, another at Lena, and went off in the other direction. Peter stared after her and muttered, "I wish they'd get along."

Lena studied the side of his face. "You sound real different, Peter."

 crack 

Vibrant oupir furrows fell into place all around them. Lena had to catch herself on Peter, who laughed and held her steady. "Sorry," he said. "I need to be more considerate about this sort of thing."

"Aye, some common courtesy like."

"You get used to it." Peter squatted down by the nearest garden row; he tore up an oupir plant by its roots and shook the dirt from it as he straightened. "I'm going to need a bushel of this," he said, and he pointed out at the storehouse. "Fetch the good basket."

"This crop is pure gold to a pother, Peter."

He smirked at her. "You want gold? I can get you gold."

There was a strange, unhappy gleam in his eyes. "What do you need it for?"

"Could be nothing." Peter turned the plant in his hands. It looked like he was thinking hard about something. "It's dangerous," he eventually said. "It can be abused. I'll be sending someone out here to harvest the rest."

"I've already got buyers lined up."

"I'm not asking, Lena. And I'll double what they're offering."

Lena glared, but he didn't seem to care. He just pointed again at the derelict storehouse, as if she were dense for making him wait. 

"Fetch your own basket," she sneered. "Keep your money."

"What's got you angry all of a sudden?"

"I don't like this, Peter." Lena began to back up, toward the main house. "You might, but I don't," she said. "Take whatever and leave."

He started forward, but stopped. "What'd I do?"

Lena turned away from him. "Your dead-eyed princess had it right, brother," she said. "You're no farmhand. You're a Battlefrost. Go be one and leave us out of it."