All around Farwell there were trails to follow the lush midland hills, and they did just that through several hours of darkness before finding a rundown place to turn in. The abandoned lakeside cottage was filled the next morning with violent hues of dawn, and Peter, with his stolen boots and his sleepless eyes, was sitting in the open doorway, staring out at a blanket of fog. He'd likely been there the whole night through. Ethos expected him to lead with a string of questions, but he didn't, despite the obvious weigh on his mind. He said nothing, in fact, until Ethos returned from his morning business.
And it was a simple request. "Come spar with me."
No questions asked, no blame thrown— Ethos accepted the invitation, if only to delay what would surely lead to both. The fog was a thick and invasive thing, swallowing treetops, rolling. They warmed up lakeside, a shout or so's distance from the cottage, and spoke very little. Peter would occasionally stop to impart some advice. Ethos was happy to let him.
Una stirred a while later. She was rubbing her eyes when she emerged, disheveled and weary and somehow even more beautiful for it. She waved, as did they: a hollow façade of normality.
Peter watched on while she saw to a fire for breakfast. He smiled, but his features were as clouded as ever. "She's a fine half," he said. "Too bad she's got a thing for you."
"You make me sound much luckier than I am."
Peter abruptly threw a fist. Ethos parried, deflected his wrist, and backed off while Peter shook out the sting. "You let that guy wail on you last night," he knew, blue eyes rising, annoyed. "You should've at least tried to defend yourself."
"I wanted him to feel assertive."
"Assertive? Why?"
"It seemed like his comfort zone."
Some of Peter's frustration faded. "But why would you want that?"
"So I could see how he operates at what he considers peak performance. He obviously thinks we're similar." Ethos tried a ruse that cost him his footing, and Peter was quick to take advantage. His back hit the grass with a painful thud. Glimpses of crow passed through the fog.
Peter dutifully appeared over him. "And are you?"
Ethos blinked. "Am I what?"
"Similar to him."
"It's too soon to tell."
Peter helped him up and asked, "How's the head?"
"My body's worse off." Ethos rubbed his shoulder and retrieved the waterskin. The serenity of the midland countryside was calming. Fog ghosted over the unmoving pond. "I think I could live in a place like this," he said, with a sigh. "If the circumstances were different, I would."
"It's too humid. The summers here are probably brutal."
"I'd like that, I think, like coal in a cookstove." At the thought of the storm season, Ethos smiled over at Peter. "Skellvik sees grass in summerdead," he said. "Grandine told me so."
But Peter wasn't smiling with him. He seemed angry about something again. "Still talking like that soldier," he said. "Who the fuck is Grandine?"
Ethos didn't understand at first. He dimmed. "Sorry."
Peter wiped the sweat from his brow, checked his hand, and then dried his face with his shirt. He headed back to the shelter. "It's fine," he said. "Clean yourself up. I'll help Una with the fire."
"When you called me out here I sort of expected a talking to."
Peter stopped and wryly sent him a grin. "I can yell, if it's what you want," he said. "A part of me would love that. I spent the night thinking about it."
"Yeah? Then why don't you?"
"Because I'd have to be a complete muckshit to expect anything less than a vague explanation and a new run of questions." Peter shook his head, exhausted. "Talking to you never makes me feel better, Ethos," he said. "I'll just curse all. It's what I'm good at."
Ethos forced himself quiet. When Peter's footsteps had faded, he parked himself on a granite rise and waited for the inevitable. Isolation was perhaps the cruelest form of punishment; it was a hateful amplifier, a heartless magnifier. Every subtle sound became a baying reminder of what he wasn't. Ethos leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His head sank.
Crows. Distant things. Screaming, scrambling rump roasts.
Isolation: the cruelest punishment. How he loathed to be with himself.
Ethos opened his eyes. A fluffy young pine marten was by his feet, head cocked, staring. "Cute," he said to it. "I was just thinking about you."
Its ears piqued. "And I, you."
"I'm very sore today. It wouldn't have killed you to avoid my face."
The benefactor split into a grin. It was a very doglike expression: curious, interested. "How deeply disturbing," he said, delighted. "I sense no resentment from you whatsoever."
"Maybe I need the distraction." Ethos threw down the waterskin. Toubin was restless in the back of his throat, warning him. "Last night did something to me," he said. "I haven't come up with a good explanation for it yet."
"Does it have anything to do with those diseased-looking things you call hands?"
Ethos defaulted to a sheepish smile. "You should see the other guy."
"I have." The benefactor was deliberately silent until he'd ceased his indecorous smiling. "Toubin Ozwell can't recover until you return what you took."
"I didn't take anything from him."
"Oh, you are a born liar. It was perfectly terrifying."
Ethos sank farther forward. He clasped his fingers behind his neck. His mind reeled.
He was only allowed a moment to muse. The marten pushed his head up like one would a wall, pudging his face with little brown paws. "Come join me in Oldden," he said. "Calaster's already up to speed, but the others think you're dead. I'll happily give them to you regardless of their involvement in the fire. Misplaced revenge is rewarding in its own right."
Ethos frowned at him, eyes moving. "You'd betray your own?"
"Councilmen are always trying to kill one another. It's almost like tradition."
The frown deepened. A gear shifted and clicked into place. "So you're a councilman."
Without a word, the benefactor dropped him and clambered up to his shoulder, claws clinging and catching on shirt. "Stand up," he instructed. "Quickly, now. I haven't got all day."
Ethos stared in confusion at the ground. "Where are we going?"
"I assume you're aware that you're being watched."
Ethos could hear his own pulse in his face. The distant things grew faint. "The others will wonder where I've gone," he said. "They'll come after me."
"Does it look like they're paying attention?"
No. It didn't. Peter was kneeling at the muddy embankment, hands in the water while Una laughed at the dirt on his butt. He retaliated with a playful splash, but the scowl it earned him was offset by a gleam of genuine fondness. The sputtering fire had more to protest.
Ethos watched on. "It's good that they get along."
The marten's tail softly curled around his throat. "Distancing yourself like this is a very sad way of testing their love for you."
"I don't want to be loved."
"Perhaps, but here you are, alone and presumably lonely, clinging so desperately to your disguise that you all but burst an eye in the process. And for what? For them? Please. She's a duplicitous self-seeking brat and he's an insipid prairie bumpkin. You can do better."
"I'm not disguising myself as anything."
The benefactor just laughed at him. "A word of advice," he said. "Never get attached to anything you can't easily abandon. It's not worth the headache or the subsequent years of heavy drinking."
Ethos stood to silence him. "Where are we going?"
"Good boy. Head for the woods there."
Fog swirled around his ankles. Peter's boots were much too large; his feet slid around on leather insoles, clammy and stifled. Ethos scanned the undergrowth and said, "I'm going to be annoyed if this turns into an ambush or something."
"You're not dissuading me, you realize."
They'd have to avoid felled trees. The hazy arboreal shade was damp from the muggy night, and dead bark was risky when saturated through, too easily turned on its trunk to trust. But the soil there was fragrant and rich, alive with earthworms and springtails. It would work in his favor if he ran into trouble.
Ethos deliberated at the boundary. He turned his face toward the marten. "Before I do this, I'd like to know what you need from me," he said. "The truth, or I walk. It's as simple as that."
"How curious," the marten replied. "Here's my counteroffer. Do as I say or I'll pay a visit to that hateful old witch I've heard so much about. I've been dying for an excuse."
Kacha. Ethos felt something stir in the pit of his stomach. Calmly, he shook off his boots and hiked up his pants. "Kacha's mine," he said. "Harm her at your own risk."
"Oh, how thrilling. A nemesis." The benefactor laughed again, a flash of pointed teeth. "I tease, of course," he said. "Besides, I already have a nemesis. She'd burn me alive if she ever found out that I'd two-timed with some orphan godling or whatever you are."
Ethos started in, keeping mostly to rocks. "Please be quiet."
"I thoroughly enjoy your manners," he replied. "I have a foul-mouthed little heathen at home who can't be bothered. She gets it from her whore mother."
Ethos grunted. "Your daughter?"
"Something like that."
"I can't picture it."
"She aims to kill me."
Ethos hushed him, ear to the wind. He could hear someone breathing. The air had a musky, acrid scent. Smoke. Nightshade. Tobacco. And something else— something familiar. He couldn't place it. He continued on low among the understory plants and lifted a branch from the sodden ground.
A crooked lean-to was visible between the trees, walled of logs and leafy boughs and things found oft in the farthest of reaches. An empty wicker basket was toppled to the right of it, adjacent from a pile of unfinished arrows. Two sandaled feet were akimbo between them.
Ethos found their owner against the trunk of a healthy beech tree. He was dead asleep and lean as a rake, dressed in untold layers of hide. His skin, like Kacha's, was dark as any, bronzed by birth or by sun, likely both, and his shoulder-length hair was black, gummed here and there with sap and dirt. A wooden pipe was in his hand, loosely caged by part-curled fingers.
Ethos had been staring down at him for a while before the benefactor decided to speak. "You're disappointed," he noticed. "Not what you were expecting?"
Another quick sniff at the air. Rawhide: that's what it was. "No," Ethos replied. "This isn't the one I have a problem with. This is someone else." Twigs snapped. "Quiet."
A crow was perched on the crooked lean-to. It hadn't been there a moment before. In the second it took for Ethos to process, a viscous legion of the beady-eyed things bled from the shadows and took to branches on every which side.
All at once, they croaked, "Leave."
Ethos quickly became aware of a presence beyond his periphery. A second man. He was breathing through his nose, presumably to keep something steady. A weapon of some kind. "Stay where you are," the stranger warned. "We don't want trouble."
Tightly-strung rawhide creaked, from the front— the man asleep with the pipe had stirred. He'd notched an arrow and bent his bow, still foggy from slumber. "Drop the stick," he said. "Do it."
Ethos stared him down and said, "Tell me your name."
He bristled. As if cursing, he spat, "Sei."
The other one was quiet. A subtle glance yielded a taller man of similar qualities; dark-skinned, willowy, sights trained and in no mood to argue. His rigid bearing was more than vaguely familiar. "You too," Ethos said, going sideways between them. "Your name."
He was inexpressive. "Baroona."
"Where's Pathos?"
"Not here."
"Tell me where."
"He was called back to Wyndemere."
"Don't lie to me. Wyndemere doesn't exist. It's a hole."
Baroona's aim climbed several inches. And they were deadly, those inches. Release would mean death. "You need to leave," he said. "Don't speak. I'll shoot if you do. Just go."
"Oi, Baroo," Sei ventured. "What's up with his hands?"
Baroona didn't answer. There were quiet storms at work in his eyes, gusting and spitting out rainy uncertainty. "Just go," he repeated. "Turn around and go."
Faintly, Ethos realized, "You know me."
Baroona advanced, forcing him back. "Go!"
The crows went silent. Claws dug into his shoulder. He understood then that this man would shoot, that he'd cast his reservations aside to do what he felt was necessary. His inexpressiveness had gone, exposing a well of history. Ethos tossed the stick aside and asked, "Were we friends somehow?"
Baroona's eyes darted to Sei and back. "Whatever you do, avoid Oldden at any cost," he said. "Be hidden. Be silent. We'll find you when we're sure it's safe."
"Then at least tell me why."
He made a hard line of his mouth. "Oldden belongs to the witness now," he said. "He'll recognize what you are and he'll use you. He'll kill us to the last."
"The witness," Ethos echoed. "I heard Kacha mention him. Who is he?"
Sei appeared; he came between them to intervene. "You need to leave," he said. "We've asked you to go. So go. No more questions."
Baroona lowered his bow and hissed, "Sei."
"No," Sei said. "You don't get a vote. Just look at his face."
Ethos studied them both in confusion. "What's wrong with my face?"
They quieted, and the stillness breathed for a moment too long. Just like Baroona had, Sei elevated his aim. The arrowhead shone in the sunlight. "Go," he repeated. "We won't ask again."
Ethos finally turned out a glare. "You want to kill me? Shoot."
The bow loosed so violently then that the rawhide tore through its string grooves. It happened too suddenly for Ethos to react, but Sei's open horror left little to interpret. The gooseshaft hit its mark, quivering, in the tree directly next to Ethos. Bits of yewbone littered the ground.
Baroona broke the silence first. "Go back," he murmured. "Please."
It was the plea that did it. Ethos didn't like the sound of it, like he was being begged to, so he sank back into the muggy darkness without further comment. A puddle swallowed one of his feet, cold and bellied by coatings of slime. Branches raked through his hair.
Distantly, Sei swore at length. "Pathos is going to skin us."
The distant buzzing returned to annoy him. Ethos resurfaced from his thoughts while gazing out at the pond, feeling tired, bewildered, and a little empty. His head was in shreds. His throat was dry. He wondered how long he'd been standing there. He couldn't remember the whole walk back.
A light weight on his shoulder said, "You're sure full of surprises."
The benefactor. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Forgive me. This is the part where you pretend that it's normal."
"Everything's normal when nothing is." Ethos sat down by Peter's boots and flung a pebble out at the water. "The witness," he muttered. "They make it sound like he outranks Gladius."
The benefactor heaved a small, happy sigh. "Ah, yes, the witness," he sang. "Alive since the days of Redbeard. Some believe he was cursed by a dying tono warrior, and that he's fated to haunt the face of the earth until he suffers a death deserving of his sins."
Ethos glanced. "Have you met him?"
"Of course. He's me."
"You?"
"Me." The benefactor sprang from his shoulder and turned about in the grass. When he'd found a comfortable spot and looked back at Ethos, his furred little brow went flat. "I was expecting more of a reaction on your part," he grumbled. "I'm dissatisfied."
"They said you'd know what I am."
"They also said I'd use you."
"But I already knew that part."
The nameless little creature stared. "Aren't you afraid?"
An irrepressible smile crept up. "Maybe," Ethos said. "But you're fluffy right now, so it's hard."
The benefactor blinked and then let out a bark of laughter. It was an unexpected sort of sound, like he didn't do it often. With a broad, toothy smile, he said, "Funny."
"I'm glad you think so. What am I?"
"Impatient, clearly," he countered. "And I'm afraid you'll have to sweeten the pot in exchange for that particular morsel of information. A mutual rubbing of backs, so to speak."
Ethos had anticipated as much. "What do you want to know?"
"I want to know what you did back there."
"I didn't do anything."
"Those boys were terrified, Ethos. I want you to tell me why." The benefactor waited for Ethos to answer. Met by silence, he rolled his eyes. "Speed it up," he pressed. "I have a midday appointment with an impetuous manchild. And I don't mean you."
Baroona's plea blistered and popped. Ethos looked elsewhere. "I had a similar experience about a week ago," he admitted. "It seems they have to do as I say."
The marten's ears went up. "Fascinating. I'm eager to test the parameters."
Ethos could hardly see Peter and Una anymore; the fog had thickened in the time he'd been gone, slow-rolling. "I haven't told Peter yet," he said. "I'm not sure why."
"Yes, you do," the benefactor scoffed. "You just don't want to say it."
"I dislike how you think you're an expert on me."
"Knowledge is power, Ethos," he said. "Knowledge and truth. By acquiring both and brandishing them as a soldier would his axe and shield, one can even rule the world." A yawn split his jaw apart as he stretched. All the fine fur on his back stood on end. "As fun as this is, I'd better be off."
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
"Unlikely. I only forget the inconsequential."
"Fine." Ethos went to his feet with Peter's boots, too tired of the game to press on. "Don't bother with me anymore," he said. "You can keep your name and your lonesome knowledge. There's no point in working with someone who can't be trusted to keep his word."
"Stop." The benefactor looked irritated. "Stay."
Ethos paused, disillusioned. "You're all rotted out," he said. "I can feel it when I look at you, even like this. Give me a reason not to walk off."
"You don't need me to give you a reason. You see the world from a logical standpoint and weigh the value of something by how well it can benefit you. And as bad as I am, you know perfectly well that we can be of use to one another." He'd obviously meant it as praise, but Ethos couldn't help but feel slighted by it. The benefactor was steady and unsmiling. "Those boys weren't implying that I'd be able to identify what sort of creature you are. They were afraid, and rightly so, that I'd come to the obvious conclusion that their people still exist somewhere. Use your head."
Ethos studied him. "Am I not the same as them?"
"Don't ask questions that you already know the answers to," the benefactor said. "You deliberately used a command that would expose just how much influence you had over them without completely compromising your cover of ignorance. It was ingenious."
"It wasn't ingenious. His hand slipped."
"I'm not judging you." And the look in his eyes said he truly didn't. "I would have done the same thing," he said. "It was a chance to test the waters."
"That doesn't make it right."
"Sometimes we have to make hard decisions, but we make them regardless to yield results." The benefactor smiled, very subtly. "They're tono, Ethos, and I think you know that," he said. "All the signs are there, after all. They're survivors of the Old War."
The Old War, centuries in the dust. "What does this mean, going forward?"
"Go to Calaster," he said. "It should only take four or five days to reach him, but I'll be lenient and round it to six. Founders Day. You're welcome." He circled, tail swishing. "Which means you have exactly six days to decide your future. I'm an excellent enemy, so please choose wisely."
"It sounds so appealing when you put it like that."
He was already strolling away through the tall grass. "Six days," he called back. "If you try to be clever, I'll have to take measures. You've been warned."
Ethos resisted a very strong urge to retort. A crow did it for him, somewhere in the mist. He was unmoving there for a time, left to contemplate truths and unknowns, no wiser than he'd been before. Did logic drive him? Yes.
But it's not like he wanted it to. In the pass, he'd had to learn the hard way how risky it was to let emotion take over. It was too easy, too simple, too readily violent and primal and honest to be allowed any sort of freedom. So he'd locked it up. He didn't need the complications.
Boots in hand, he walked lakeside until the image of Peter and Una grew sharp. Peter had salvaged a bowl from the shelter, and was smiling while Una leaned in to inspect its contents. The fog held the firelight, giving the scene an ochre glow.
"They're awful small," Una was saying. "You're not suggesting we eat them, are you?"
"Nah, these guys aren't for us." Peter set the bowl in his lap. There were four little crawfish within, scratching at the sides. His hand chased one in circles. "We use them for tackle, see," he explained, and jerked his chin at something beside her. "Toss me one of those hooks there. Watch the barb."
She quickly complied, ever curious. "I didn't know we could use them as bait."
Peter flipped the crawfish over. He shook out its tail and used the hook to indicate a spot on its segmented underside. It was a mass of writhing, panicked legs. "We pierce it here," he said, and he did just that. "And then we twist off its pincers to prevent it from cutting the line."
Again, he did just that. Una gasped in horror. "Peter, no!"
He frowned at her, puzzled. "What's wrong?"
"You can't just rip them off like that!"
"Oh, but impaling it was fine?"
Thunder rolled. Ethos stood by, plagued by what he'd seen of the future. He'd be hated, he knew, but the road ahead wasn't hopeless. There were open skies, snowy drifts, and warm smiles amid all the darkness. He couldn't possibly aspire to untangle the depths of whatever fate had in store.
Were those glimpses of happiness worth the price? He had no answer for that. Toubin drowsily stirred and agreed and then instantly sighed at the state of himself.
"Ethos." Peter was staring at him. "Can you hear me?"
"Of course I can. I'm standing right here."
"Aye, but your ears are bleeding."
As if saying it had made it true, Ethos felt something dribble along his jaw, sickeningly slow. He touched it and looked at the blood on his fingers. "Oh."
Una took his free hand. She persuaded him to the ground, hushing protest. "Let's have a look," she murmured. "Tilt your head to the side— that's it. Be still."
Her gossamer power breathed over his skin. She was making an effort to calm him, he realized, and whatever her reason for doing so, be it his unresponsiveness or the severity of the discharge, the sensation had a desirable impact. Eased, he said, "That feels nice."
Her knees bumped into him. "You have cute ears."
"Thanks. I made them myself."
"Oh, you."
"Oh, me."
She asked, "Does it hurt?"
He tried to glance. "Why, is it bad?"
"Be still, I said." She turned his face the other way, lingering lest he move again. It forced him to look at Peter, who, mildly concerned and annoyed all at once, sat watching, crawfish asquirm in the vice of his grip. "The bleeding's stopped," Una said, blowing his hair aside. "I know a woman in Oldden who can take a closer look if it becomes a problem."
Ethos didn't answer. He was suddenly very aware of her. The scent of her hair. The brush of her touch. So fiercely was he compelled to kiss her that he knew it had to have been her doing. "The three of us need to have that talk," he said. "Now, please."
Una's hands stilled. "Now?"
"The way we've been acting is counterproductive." Ethos met her round, troubled eyes. "Answer me honestly," he said. "Do you know what he wants?"
He didn't need to say who. She examined him, grave. It was a good face. A strong face. Answering would be an admission of guilt, and Peter had yet to hear it. "He's obsessed with that thing in the sky," she explained. "His voice changes when I bring it up."
"What can you tell me about it?"
"Nothing, really. Just that he wants it dead."
And Ethos could lead him to it, in theory. Somehow it fit too perfectly. "Then let's talk about the witness," he said. "You grew up in Oldden. You must know who he is."
"Everyone does." She neatly folded her hands in her lap. She seemed uncomfortable. "The witness holds first seat in the council," she said. "He calls himself Eadric Haraldson. They say he's quite old."
Ethos committed the name to memory. "You've never met him, then."
"I've seen him around. He's got north in him."
"But you've never approached him."
"No. Few dare."
"I'll bet he just loves that."
She frowned. "What's this about?"
Her hair was hiding part of her face. Ethos curled it back behind her ear. "It's easy to get into," he recited, another admission. "A two-parter. Do you remember?"
Surprise parted her lips. "Do you?"
"No more secrets, Una," he said. "As fun as it is, we need to be able to trust one another. It's too real now." Ethos held her eyes. "Eadric Haraldson is the benefactor."
"How do you know that?" The last had been Peter. He was concentrated upon his task, head bent forward to tie off a knot. Gruffly, he shrugged and added, "It's not like I don't believe you."
A poor attempt at subtlety. "I need you to not be angry right now."
Peter leveled a glare. "I'm not angry, Ethos."
"You'd better remind your face, then."
"Ever had a crawdad shoved down your throat?"
Una appeared like a pale benediction; she placed her hand on Peter's shoulder, dimming the fire in his eyes. The touch. "Let's all act our age, shall we?" she graciously suggested, and then turned, fingers reaching, to offer Ethos a considerably less effective treatment. "This doesn't need to turn into one of your arguments, darling. Take it easy."
"I dislike this side of you. Nobody asked you to interfere."
Her smile dissolved. "I'm hungry and tired and in need of a bath. Give me your hand."
This woman had been born to possess the country. Beautiful. Supportive. Duplicitous. She was the allure. The dark intent. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm calm."
"It's okay to want things occasionally."
"Yes, but you're a risk factor. I'm eliminating risks."
"How cruel, pretending as if I'm capable of overpowering you."
Ethos was taken by her poise. No muscle twitched without her say. He asked, "Are you ever afraid of the things you can do?"
Her hand fell back to her side. "No, of course not."
"What about when you were younger? Before you understood it."
Una imparted sharp recognition. Ethos sometimes envied Peter the simple playfulness she reserved for him. "Don't be afraid of what you are," she cautioned. "Accept your nature and learn how to master it. That's what the rest of us do."
Ethos looked down at his unfeeling hands. "I wonder if that's wise."
When Una spoke again, there was something close to sympathy in her voice. "I'm not Peter, you know," she said. "I don't judge you. You shouldn't feel obligated to explain yourself."
"I appreciate that, but Peter is who he is. He worries."
"Then let me compel him to stop."
It was with jarring discomfort that Ethos realized just how easily she could destroy everything. The irony, of course, wasn't lost on him. Una's beguiling touch was a glaring reminder of what he could do to the tono. Her indifference to it only further convinced him of just how wrong it truly was.
Ethos smiled for her. "Fate must be bored to have thrown us together."
"I'll take that as a compliment." She really shouldn't have. And she must have misread the change in his expression. "Please, Ethos," she said. "Let me help."
"Eadric might kill me on Founders Day."
She paused. "But I thought he wanted you to join him."
"He does. It's a standard threat." Ethos kneaded at his insufferable forehead, fed up. "I'll have to locate his real body somehow," he muttered. "He fights dirty."
"Have you considered meeting his demands?"
"I'd much rather make a few of my own."
"You could," she teased, sounding sly. "He's a king maker, after all. The first of his kind. Rumor has it he's looking to refill the chair."
Ethos smirked. "Still hoping I'll kill your father?"
"I could always arrange for Peter to do it. He's not squeamish."
Beautiful. Supportive. Duplicitous. "I don't like you messing with his head."
"I'll never touch him again if you do what I want." Una's smile suddenly faded. Her eyes moved over his face. "May I ask you something?"
Ethos sighed. "Sure."
"I tried very seriously to compel you."
"That's not a question," he said. "But yes, I'm aware."
"I thought so. I singlehandedly exposed who I was, what I could do, and how far I'd go to get what I wanted." With a ghost of suspicion, Una posed, "Which begs the question."
"You want to know why I let it slide."
She nodded, just once.
He answered after a quiet moment. "I knew I'd find a use for you," he said. "The king's only heir, and eager to be used against him. You're also strong, intelligent, and so unafraid that it makes me sort of nervous sometimes." He smiled. "Plus, you're pleasant to look at."
He'd startled her. Una scowled behind a blush, flattered. "You're one to talk."
Ethos could tell that she wanted him to laugh, but he didn't. He patted her knee. "Peter needs to be part of this discussion," he said. "Let him go."
Her quiet joy was quick to fade. "You're sure it was him?"
"I'm sure. But it won't be a healthy partnership if you turn this into a habit. Understand?"
She scowled. "He's nothing like you, Ethos. He'll hate who I am. What I do."
Ethos glanced at their hapless third, and then instantly wished he'd done so sooner. Peter was alert somehow, staring back. "He might," Ethos said. "He certainly looks like he might."
Una quickly followed his gaze. The touch required skin contact, yet she'd taken hold of his clothes unbeknownst, scarcely a breath from the tattered hem. Peter's glare slid to her a moment before his face did. "You just jumped to the top of my shit list," he told her. "Back up."
She didn't move. She was in shock, Ethos thought, stunned by her carelessness. He said her name until she looked at him. "Let go, Una," he said, and he waited for her to comply, which she did, albeit with great resistance. He forced a small smile. "You might want to take a walk."
Peter eyed her as she reluctantly split from the group. "Aye, thanks," he spat after her, deliberately fixing his shirt. "Real generous of you. Real noble like. Top drawer and keech on a stick."
Ethos watched her enter the cottage. "We'd all be alone if it weren't for second chances," he said, and then jumped when Peter's glare swung wide. "Be sensible, is all I meant. Some of what you heard was out of context."
"Aye, which part's that?" Peter demanded. "The part about my head? About how I'm too much of a jackass to know when I'm being toyed with?"
The breeze shifted, woodsmoke with it. "How much did you hear?"
Peter glared into the crawfish bowl. He set it down, dispirited. "The two of you started talking as if I'd wandered off somewhere," he said. "I just kept my mouth shut."
"Good. Then I won't need to repeat myself." Ethos could sense his dejection, born of lies told in false necessity. The blame was clear, as were the culprits. Peter deserved better treatment than the sort he'd been receiving. "I know it must be difficult to concentrate, but please try."
Peter didn't look at him. "Just let him kill you," he mumbled. "Your roundabout suicide. At least if you're dead I won't have to feel so guilty about going home."
"You have every right to be angry."
But saying so had the opposite effect. Resigned, Peter stood and gazed out at the water. He raked his nails through his flaxen hair. "First seat of the council, huh," he mused, faced away. "I'd do what he says if I were you."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"There's more."
Peter turned. "I'm listening."
Ethos studied the fire, thoughts dark. "There's a chance that my cooperation will result in the extermination of my people, Kacha included. I'd be a race traitor." Silence. He glanced up to find Peter staring at him in startled confusion. "The tono," he reiterated. "The ones who've been watching us."
Peter's notable lack of reaction might have meant that, on some level, he'd already considered the possibility. Maybe he'd known all along somehow, same as Ethos. He didn't press for details, nor did he make a scathing remark. The foggy, muted sunlight made his hair seem white.
Ethos rubbed at his brow. "Say something."
"That's my line."
"Then do something. Don't just stand there."
So Peter squatted, hands clasped. "Right," he said. "What's the plan?"
"Calaster Goforth." Ethos carefully met Peter's eyes. "I need answers," he said. "Calaster Goforth is as relevant now as he was fourteen years ago when I met him. Una can take me to him."
Peter searched his face. "We could turn back. Go home."
"That's not an option anymore."
"Because of Eadric?"
"He came to me again. He's unpredictable." The headache was steadily worsening. Ethos laughed, and it sounded strange, even to him. "He's actually not unpleasant to talk to."
"He said he'd break your legs."
Ethos winced. "Peak performance Eadric is definitely my least favorite."
Peter just heaved a sigh. But then, as if he'd forgotten, he glanced back at the cottage. Uncertainty bent his brow. "I just told Princess Una that she was at the top of my shit list."
Ethos fought a smile. "She made her own bed."
"I've heard of her kind. Descended from the Auron clan."
"I don't know anything about that. I just know what she's capable of."
"She didn't make me do anything weird, did she?"
"No," he said. "It's not like that. She uses it to get her way."
Peter was obviously trying to read him. "And it doesn't work on you?"
"Not like it's supposed to. It makes me sick." This was true. If Peter hadn't been worse off, he'd surely have noticed that something was wrong. "I'm lucky I gave her a scare, is all," Ethos said. "She hasn't come at me seriously since the day we met."
"You should've told me."
"Maybe." Ethos was rewarded with a dirty look, but, surprisingly, that was all. His smile returned and prevailed as a thought occurred to him. "So this shit list," he began. "Am I on it?"
"Aye, you're on it. I ought to name the damn thing after you."
Ethos gasped, feigning hurt. "What'd I ever do?"
"What you always do. Like now. You're trying to lighten the mood before I confront that soulless two-faced siren in there. You think I'm off keel." Peter watched Ethos snigger. He didn't look away, but something in his bearing shifted to a darker place. The humor had all but gone from his voice by the time he spoke again. "What did you mean about a healthy partnership?"
Peter wasn't stupid. Ethos poked at the dirt and said, "You know how I see stuff."
"Aye, forebodings and suchlike."
"Yeah. The night she joined us— I saw you together." Ethos subtly glanced back up. Peter looked uncertain, like he didn't know how to take it. "It's not that shocking."
Peter made a ridiculous gesture. "Together together?"
"Not literally, Peter. You're disgusting."
"Then how could you tell?"
"I just could."
"And you told her?"
"Eventually. I had my reasons." Una's unadorned shell was lying on a blanket near the fire. Ethos knew the voice on the other end of it now. He feared it as much as he wanted to hear it. "Don't let her touch you," he said, to Peter. "Tell her I'll know if she tries anything."
"Is that your way of asking for privacy?"
"I'm asking you to forgive her. She's not going anywhere."
Peter nodded. His eyes were on the cottage for a time before his feet carried him toward it, leaving his bait in the grass to struggle. Ethos studied the disarmed latter and wondered if it felt any pain, if it welcomed death or cared at all about anything in particular.
Eadric's laughter was in his ear again, but he didn't remember lifting the shell. The message was from the night before and clearly intended for Una, but Ethos found it likely that Eadric had known he'd get to it first. It was an accusation of sorts, and yet, at the same time— an exultation.
Emptily, Ethos replied, "Takes one to know one, Eadric Haraldson."
Crows were circling the area where Sei and Baroona had camped for the night. Ethos briefly considered returning to them and taking what knowledge they had for himself. But then he remembered the looks in their eyes, the fear he'd instilled just by being there. If Baroona had been alone, then perhaps he'd have considered it longer, but Sei was different. Sei didn't look at him like they'd been friends, nor did he seem like the sharing sort. Ethos wasn't out to make more enemies.
But Wyndemere still existed somewhere. This, he was sure of. And if he was patient for just long enough, chances were high they would lead him to it.
A quiet sound, from behind, interrupted his thoughts.
Ethos registered a blow to the face. Rocked by the sheer intense force of it, and the unexpectedness of it, he caught himself in the grass and turned just in time to see someone coming. He scrambled to rise, ears ringing, but his rattled center of gravity pulled his entire body sideways. The assailant tackled him down by the fire, delivering another blow, and revealed himself in so doing.
Peter. But he was noticeably lacking in expression, as if he were handling one of his sheep. Ethos tried to shove him off, but Peter seized him and held him down.
"That's enough, Peter." Una's face appeared inverted over Ethos, a ghost of the earlier lakeside sparring. Her dangling hair looked red in the firelight, amber eyes intent on his. "Just let me explain," she said. "I'll call him off once you've heard me out."
So it had been her doing. Of course it had. Ethos glared up at her. "We were on the same page," he growled. "He understood. He would've forgiven you."
"You're wrong this time, Ethos."
She was watching him, unsmiling. It was good face. A strong face. No muscle twitched without her say. But it was forced. "You're afraid," he realized. "Why?"
"I need him," she said. "I need him just as he is. It's important to me."
Ethos glanced at Peter and back. "Are you in love with him?"
She suddenly laughed and stopped very quickly, hand at her lips. She crouched further down and hugged her knees. "No," she replied. "I don't think so."
"Then what?"
"I love that he's weak."
The dark intent. "Peter's not weak, Una."
"To me, I mean," she reiterated. "He trusts me. He's kind."
"Taking advantage of those qualities is an excellent way of destroying them."
"True." She looked at Peter and absently plucked a twig from his hair. He neither seemed to notice nor care. After a long, unsettling moment, her gaze returned to Ethos. "I was joking before, but I mean it now," she said. "Get rid of my father. I'll never touch Peter again if you do."
Ethos stared. "I need you to take me to Calaster Goforth."
"Where did you think we were going? You'll get your answers."
"And Eadric? He'll never let me go after Gladius is dead unless I agree to cooperate."
"So cooperate." But her callousness faded, like maybe his expression had slipped. "Or don't," she said, simply. "I'm highest of highborn. You're safe with me."
Without heart, he scoffed, "Yeah, right."
"You don't think I can stop him?"
"I think you're underestimating the enemy."
"You've seen what I can do firsthand. It's no underestimation."
Ethos smirked, charmed and exhausted and aching in places. "No offense, but I can't exactly make an accurate assessment of your abilities on the basis of you enchantressing a gullible farmhand."
"Gullible farmhand. And I'm the one with no heart."
"I'm just saying. It's not two for two."
"Oh, please. You're hardly in the control group." She didn't seem to feel any need to expand on that. She just quietly examined his face. "If Peter and I are in for it, fine," she settled. "I can make peace with that. He's a fine man. But I'll have it on my terms, not yours."
"I've never had a say in the terms."
"Wrong again." Her bearing was eerily calm. "You'll get rid of Gladius," she said. "We can do this as many times as we need to."
"You won't catch me off-guard again."
"It doesn't matter if you're ready for it. Peter is protected."
Ethos hesitated, once more glancing between them. "Yeah?" he asked. "By who?"
"By you, darling. It makes him an ideal enforcer." She smiled a little at the look on his face. "You won't hurt him," she knew. "Not for something that isn't his fault."
"What's to stop me from going after you?"
"Nothing." Her smile spread. "Think you can take me?"
As she said it, the air went alive with raw energy, standing every hair on end. It felt like it would stop his heart, should it escalate, should it explode. Ethos could hear it crackling in his ears.
But it ended quickly. Just seconds, if that. Her calm, eerie bearing returned, and the smile lingered, as if to comfort him. "We have an understanding, then," she presumed. "Unless I'm misinterpreting the look in your eyes."
A threat of violence. Another standard. "It's low, Una."
She touched his face, gently. "We're in this together," she whispered, like she hadn't just lost her mind somewhere. "When everything's said and done, you'll thank me."