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“I have to find my cohort.”

“You’re going to fall over if you don’t get something to eat. Please.”

The man wasn’t wrong. Sweat was dripping from places that didn’t seem possible. He was clammy, hot, parched. Get some water in him, and then he could think. Some food. And then—retrace steps. If his cohort never made it here, that must mean that they turned back after the skirmish. The little battle couldn’t have taken place too far away—they were supposed to meet up with the other divisions before sunset. Or, the other division found Eavus’ cohort and rerouted them for whatever reason. Dammit.

“You said a group of Aleterians was here. Did this.” Eavus indicated the wreckage. “Do you know where they went after?”

“No. I don’t.”

Eavus mulled it over. He’d rather find his own group—with Costae to vouch for his explanation, he might even avoid punishment altogether, though honestly that was wishful thinking—but finding any division was better than a division finding him. If he brought Revni into a camp, tied and captive, there’d be enough curiosity to earn him a conversation. If someone simply stumbled on Eavus accidentally, they’d immediately presume desertion. He might get disemboweled before he even got the chance to explain.

By Viduus, he wished he knew what anybody’s orders were. It felt like such a simple misunderstanding, but the longer it sat the more it swelled. Either way, any cohort or division or regiment would leave a swath of destruction wherever they made camp. He simply had to…find it. And then follow the trail from there.

The word simply hung in the air beside him, like a noose.

Eavus tugged Revni up by the rope, earning a suck of disapproval from the monk, but the man said nothing until they reached one of those small huts. Eavus once again could have cried with yearning. A well. All that cool shade, all that clean water.

“Her hands?” The monk’s tone had an edge.

But pulling Revni close gave Eavus another moment of vertigo. He began picking apart the ropes at her wrists.

“Do not run.” The Northern growl and clipped consonants gave the threat more weight, and Eavus emphasized it. “I won’t warn you again. I can bring in your body dead as easily as alive.”

“More easily, I’d think by now,” Revni said casually. Eavus held back his surprise. What kind of person made jokes when her life was in his hands? She dipped her chin to the large building in the center. “Is that the monastery?”

It was an odd word—not Aleterian, not local—but Eavus remembered he’d heard it before.

“That’s the main temple.”

She looked thoughtful, and he couldn’t imagine why. Until he remembered the stories he’d heard about the Isfolj.

“Stop casing the place,” he growled. “We’re not here to rob it.”

“I wasn’t casing. I was looking.”

“Is she interested in the church?” The monk’s question took a moment for Eavus’ brain to shift back to Aleterian. The poor man looked so hopeful. “My god’s doors are open to all.”

“He might regret that.” He turned back to Revni. Her eyes were too bright. “Behave.”

She shrugged, but he couldn’t worry about it right now. His vision sparkled. He had to catch himself against the cistern when he went to wash. He was too hot, that was it. The cool water down his throat was ecstasy. Food first. Then a plan.

All the little huts looked alike—too gray, too small. The next one they entered had a fire in the corner—not a corner, not with round walls. Eavus was so distracted by what to call it that he didn’t think before downing the swimmy bowl of soup that appeared in front of him. It burned his tongue, but the gnaw in his stomach finally eased. A bread oven. That’s what the hut’s shape reminded him of. The heat radiating off the walls didn’t help. He was starting to feel like an overproofed loaf, like he’d developed a dry, squidgy skin. The soup was making him sweat. But he let the monk dole out a second portion, and forced his jaw to chew the blackish bread. Food was food. Revni must be as famished as he was, but she also seemed to be enjoying it, a possibility that seemed irreconcilable with what Eavus had just consumed. Besides a few scraggly carrots and wilted bits of glassy onion, the only substance was a mushroom that had the exact consistency of human flesh. The watery mess cried out for salt. But Revni made little groans of approval, messily sponging the sides of the bowl.

He’d never eaten at the same table with a woman before. His thoughts drifted in and out. He’d assumed they all ate like Caeada, the mistress of his house. Caeada was so well-mannered it was almost comical—she barely moved when she ate, elbows pinned to her waist, mouth never opening more than a delicate O. But she was riconoi—high-ranking riconoi at that—and they lived by different rules. Nenea, the nanny assigned to the slave boys, would have delivered a sharp slap if she knew Eavus had drunk straight from his bowl. Anyone assigned to the House of Caea will have manners befitting their masters. Assigned, she always said. As if it were a posting. As if Nenea hadn’t been there when they’d been herded like geese, all the little bodies spilling to one side of the market and then the other, all those elbows and all that dust making his throat close in fear, that panicked scramble when Caea had pointed at him and Nenea had twisted his ear to bring him in line with the other purchases. Why was he suddenly thinking of her? The girl across from him was nothing like Nenea. Short, thin, old Nenea, with her wheezing cough whenever one of the feral cats snuck in. The blue veins on the backs of her papery hands, those sharp nails that dug into the flesh of his forearm.

Eavus realized he’d been staring, and his eyes shifted to the monk, standing servant against the wall. Eavus hadn’t thought of religion as a thing people truly believed in a long time. It was so hot in here. The air felt thick, like Caeas Septemius’ anteroom, no windows, no light, Eavus’ own tiny cot pushed against a wall, the little carved ancestors he’d kept hidden beneath it, not knowing why except that Nenea said good boys did. Say your prayers. House of Caea, watch over Caea. Feeding bits of barley to the little dolls’ mouths. Nenea had been quick with her tongue, or to smack you into line. Was that why Revni made him think of home? Her quick anger? Right now, she reminded him more of Sev, like there was nothing in this world but the bowl in front of her. She ate like a soldier. He didn’t mind. It made him feel more at ease.

Because the truth was, something was terribly wrong. He couldn’t keep his thoughts together. His injuries had taken on their own heartbeats. He needed to speak to this monk, in private, to see what medicine or provisions he had, if the monk could be trusted. Because if Revni discovered that Eavus was weakened, she’d run, and he needed her to stay. He forgot why. Something to do with his cohort. Eavus grimaced and shifted in his seat.

“You look terrible.” Revni reached across the table to rip a hunk off the bread.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve got sykhiti.” Her mouth was full, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard the word. He shook his head to clear it, but that only made his head lift off his neck and float away. He squeezed his eyes shut to catch it.

“I don’t —What?”

“Sykhiti,” she repeated. “Hot. Hot face. From your wound.”