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“Instead?” She could barely hear beyond the blood pounding in her ears.

“That’s how I’m supposed to do it, aren’t I? Torture you and rape you and drag you behind me?” She was probably imagining the sorrow in his voice, but she clung to it. He could have done all those things—could still do them, if he really wanted. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”

His muscles twitched with control, and Revni’s chest twanged. She had envisioned herself a hero worthy of poems. She had thought perhaps her story would someday be told around fires on cold Faenish nights, like Hetra the Brave, or Liew the Untested. Or her grandfather—Gon of the Golden Scar. He’d battled on this very land, fought the jurlssons of Eaborik, won his name and his title and territory.

And who was she? Revni of the Scared Belly.

Acceptance settled heavily into her bones, like a dog sighing into its bed. I hear you, she finally resigned. They were two sides of the same coin, she and Eavus. Both cowards, lashing out.

“You could have just said. I would have understood.”

“Understood what?”

“Plans are fine, until you enter battle.”

Eavus quirked a smile, but it faded quickly to the frown that had become familiar.

“Listen,” he began. He pulled a hand over his hair. “If we come upon soldiers on the road⁠—”

“They need to believe you,” she interrupted.

“What?” He blinked.

They didn’t have passage, papers, money. All Eavus had to mark his station was an unsheathed sword and hobnailed boots; all she had was her braided hair. They were as likely to get shot by an overeager sentry as they were to get an audience.

The gods never tested you with what you were already brave enough to give. What would be the use? Fighting, killing, even risking her own life—this was already sworn, at her Soti Faes, every time she picked up a weapon. This was not a thing they would ask.

Revni’s heart hammered. Eavus had kind eyes. Eavus hadn’t done what other captors would do. The last time Eavus had tied her—when the deserter had made him do it—he had used a slip knot, and pressed the tail of the rope meaningfully into her hand. Its rough edge throbbed a phantom burn in the cove of her palm that wouldn’t go away. She pushed on.

“I’m your evidence, that you are not a traitor. Is that right? So they need to believe you when they see you, or we’re dead before we even get inside.”

That’s what the gods had been trying to tell her, over and over with every battle and trade, like the way the gods had steered their ships, skirting them in and out of danger:

If she wanted to survive, she would have to trust the soldier.

“You need to tie my hands.” Her throat tried to fight her, closing up, but she forced the words out. “If it is Aleterians that man the walls, and Aleterian spoken at the door, I need to look like a prisoner so we can get inside. Then, you take me to who is in charge. I will give them the Dinaeii message. You will let me speak, like you promised.”

Eavus’ face had gone so blank she didn’t know what to think. She squeezed her fist, digging her nails into that fleshy itch, shutting out all the voices shouting in her ears. The ring’s knobby edges bit unexpectedly into her skin.

“But first⁠—”

She had never prayed to the god of foresight before. It wasn’t forbidden, but it wasn’t done. To turn your eyes to Dall was to pull back the curtain that divided worlds—to see the cracks before they happened.

Eavus had kept a weapon in her hand. If that wasn’t a shield sibling, what was?

Revni’s tongue stuck in her throat. She floated a prayer somewhere within Dall’s hearing—See me safely—and held out her mother’s ring.

EIGHTEEN

Eavus didn’t know what he was looking at. It was a ring, of course, but where had she gotten it?

“You should keep this for me. Until I am released.”

Eavus hesitated. Was that his conscience screaming in his ear, or his cursed sense of honor? Either way, he needed it to shut up.

“I can’t risk losing it.” She kept holding it out, pinching it between her fingers like she was proposing marriage.

Eavus swallowed and took it.