Hope dawned in desperate, swollen eyes. “You are truly a marcusi?” she asked with disbelief. “And that is a vore? I have heard such stories.”
“Only half are true,” he said softly as he pressed her elbow, urging her to her feet. “If you can keep up.”
“Yes, but promise me,” she said, rising. “You will kill us, if—”
“If I can, without risk to my charge.”
Dust huffed. She would deal with it, if necessary.
“Quickly,” he continued. “Grab what you can and let us be off. How long will they sleep?”
The woman was already reaching for a sling and tying her babe to her chest. “The birth was less than an hour ago. The Queen nursed her; my own just fed. A few hours, perhaps more.” She fumbled for an extra sling and handed it to him, then frantically gathered supplies, stuffing them into a sack.
“Good.” He took the sling and bound Xylara to his chest, then covered her with his cloak. “We will try to avoid being seen, but we must move fast. They will search for her, once they know—” he cut that thought off, not willing to ill-wish the Queen.
But Amari nodded, painful reality in her eyes. “Where?” she asked as she swept up a dark cloak and settled it over her shoulders before drawing up the hood. “There is no safety hereabouts. All those that were loyal to Kara are in the field with her.”
He paused, considering. The options were limited but…
Dust whined, rising to her feet, her hackles up. From outside came the tramp of boots and the clash of swords.
Vren drew his dagger and slit the tent wall along one of the seams. “Where they would not think to look.” He pushed through the canvas and reached back for her.
“Come.”
Chapter Two
Amari lost track of the hours as they fled through the rain, the dark, and the cold. With her babe strapped to her chest, she was free to focus on staying close to the marcus. She didn’t question when he led her out of the camp, squelching through mud, the drizzle falling on her oiled cloak. She didn’t question when they hid in trees as he scouted the way; her thoughts were constantly on the babes, hoping they would stay warm and dry and quiet. Thanks be to the Hearth that they slept.
Time blurred as she followed and obeyed. Stopping and hiding at the man’s merest gesture, moving on when the vore nudged at her with its snout.
Ancestors, that creature was huge. It moved silently in and out of the darkness, but she did not fear it.
She was too numb for fear.
She didn’t question when the vore left them, or how the marcus somehow managed to get them into the city, didn’t question when he led her through dark and winding alleyways. She simply kept putting one foot in front of the other and didn’t let herself think on what she had seen, what had happened in a scant few days.
She didn’t question when he led her up three flights of a wooden staircase, pausing for a moment while he picked the lock of a simple wooden door.
It wasn’t until Amari found herself standing in the warmth of a strange kitchen, lit by a small night lantern, that questions even occurred to her, that fear began to creep into her very breath. She almost couldn’t move when the marcus urged her to a seat by the stone hearth. Every muscle in her body sang with the urge to flee; they weren’t ready to accept the idea of safety.
“Take him,” the marcus whispered as he handed her Dalan. Amari let him tuck Dalan under her cloak, eased her boy into the crook of her arm. Lara was swaddled close to her already—she and the marcus had switched off, letting her take Lara’s smaller weight—and the marcus pulled Amari’s cloak closed over all three of them.
“I’ll return in a moment,” the marcus whispered, and then he was gone, leaving her in the dark, her heart still racing.
Dullness and weariness washed over her. Her damp shoes felt cold against her feet and every bone ached. Amari welcomed the exhaustion. The fog muted her fear and made it hard to think, hard to understand all that had happened in a few short hours.
Dimly they tugged at her heart, the grief and sorrow, waiting for her to see, to feel. But she couldn’t let herself think on that. Not yet. For now, she would sit in the quiet shadows, huddle within the shelter of her cloak and hood, and wait.
What pierced her fog was the gurgle of a fussing babe. Dalan was rooting, turning his cheek toward her, eyes closed and mouth moving.
Alive. Her son was alive and warm, and they were safe, and relief started to creep under her skin, but she dare not trust it. She stared down at his sweet face and took in his heat, his scent. Alive, blessedly alive. Tears welled, but she couldn’t let herself feel joy.
Not yet.
Her gaze was drawn to the smaller bundle, where she could see Xylara’s tiny, sleeping face, so innocent, so small, so very precious.
Amari leaned back in the chair, looking around. She couldn’t see much. There was a high, small window, rain pelting against the leaded glass. The place smelled musty, of dust and old paper. There was warmth, but no proper hearth, just an oven with metal doors set in the stones. A wooden table, chairs, and were those dishes stacked about?
