It was sunset of the next day when she found a bit of fur snagged on a branch. The last dregs of light showed her a footprint and a faint paw print.
She looked up to orient herself. She’d knew from the Bonded’s maps that they were roughly half-way to Swift’s Port. But the signs were pointing north.
What was to the north?
Frustration welled up, but with the last of the day gone there was nothing she could do.
Iris made a rough, cold camp then and crawled under her blankets, impatient for daylight. With her armor loosened she could tuck her hand within and rub the ridges of her scar, trying to relax enough to sleep.
She closed her eyes and pictured the Bonded’s maps. Swift’s Port, with its deep harbor, the great river delta beside it, the swamp between Old Soccia and the area known as…Athelbryght.
Athelbryght. One of the oldest ancient Baronies, right up there with the Black Hills. Known for its farming, its wine, and its old trade routes, not much more than goat paths into the mountains. Trade routes that once had led to the fabled Kingdom of Xy but now ran only to the borders of the Wastes.
The Wastes, where none but the marcusi dared tread.
Iris pressed her lips together and glared into the darkness. It made sense for her quarry to flee to Athelbryght. From there, they could take the mountain pass to the Wastes, the perfect place for the marcusi to hide a child of the Blood.
Athelbryght was also the home of the vore pack, ruled by the Chosen, who bore the birthmark of the Dagger-Star.
Iris shifted in her blankets and bared her teeth to the night sky. The Bonded was wary, more than wary, of the vore. Iris wasn’t sure if the Chosen would aid the marcusi, but the vore would.
The trail was growing cold and she dreaded failure. She pressed her fingers to the ridges of her scar, feeling her heart beat below. The ache returned, a longing for the others, a painful desire tugging her back.
But the Bond pulsed with the urge, the need, the mission, until her focus narrowed to her goal.
She could do this. It would be hard. Athelbryght was a settled area, of roads and towns and farms untouched by the battles that had raged. Come the morning, she could pick the trail back up. They’d make mistakes, and she could push herself to move faster. Once the marcus reached Athelbryght, she could find a way to send a message back.
She could do this.
She would do this.
A yawn caught her by surprise, making her jaw crack. She puffed out a breath and shifted in her bedding, getting as comfortable as she could. Dawn would come, and she would track, and find them, and kill them.
But first sleep.
“Do we haveto do this now?” Avice demanded as she walked beside Mira on the crowded streets of the Stews. “We should not be leaving her side.” Even with the Palace guards before and behind them, it was rough going, dodging people and refuse in the streets.
“We need to do it now, while she is agreeable,” Mira said. “Who knows how long this mood will last or when another tantrum will come upon her?”
Avice had no answer for that.
They moved on. One of the leading guards kept peering at the buildings to the left and right. The street grew narrower and the road rougher until he finally stopped. “Here, lady. City Watch said she was here.”
Mira stepped up smartly and rapped on the door.
It was opened by a man who looked a bit worse for wear, his hair all ruffled. He stared at Mira. From behind him, Avice heard the wail of a woman in pain.
“The midwife, Plumestra. Where is she?”
The man blinked and opened the door wider to show a family gathered by a hearth, every chair and bench filled. “She’s in with me wife,” he said, gesturing to a door, and before anyone could say anymore, Mira sailed past them all and into that room.
Avice ordered their guards to remain outside before she followed.
There were women only here, one at each side of the bed, one in the bed, laboring in pain, and another at the end of the bed, her hands deep in the woman’s body.
“Plumestra?” Mira asked.
“Aye,” the midwife grunted, clearly intent on her work. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, was plastered to her forehead. She gave the newcomers a look, then rolled her eyes. “I can already tell you are from some arrogant noblewoman, thinks she’s the only pregnant woman for miles.”
