Fifteen years. The color. The heat. The abundance and concord. Ethos didn't remember ever living in Wyndemere, but his memories of Harken were still very much intact, and in all fifteen of those rich, simple years, the eastland snow had never crept past the treetops. Not even once. He'd often climbed recklessly high to watch the world beyond turn white.
How times had changed. Ethos was outside, looking in, weighed by his guilt and the snow in his hair. The forest was quiet. Empty. Cold. Six tono sentries were watching him from the boundary, spears in hand. It took a great force of will to approach them. Force of will: instinct's adversary. Fifteen years, and his every instinct wanted to run. This place, once home. The air was hostile.
The sentries didn't speak, but their eyes fell to the dusty tree line. Sei, unsmiling, appeared in the bracken and wearily waved him forward. "Follow me," he said. "It's a bit of a hike."
"You only need one lookout. The others should be with the group."
Sei stopped, half-turned. To the closest sentry, he said, "You heard him."
The sentry whistled. A signal. Five of the tono took to shadow. Ethos could hear them moving about as he trailed behind Sei, hands firmly jammed in his pockets. "No birds," he noticed, of the trees and the darkness. "Does anything live here anymore?"
"We do." Sei ducked beneath a branch. "You'll have to forgive the villagers," he said. "Some of them blame you for what happened out west."
Ethos cleared his throat. "How well have you adapted to the forest?"
Without looking back, Sei answered, "We're still trying to figure out what's safe to eat."
They came across a stretch of burn. Ethos couldn't tell if it was unrecovered from the fire or if the tono had done it themselves. They picked their way across the deadfall. Unintentionally, Ethos recalled the day he'd met Sei. The reality had seemed so untrue back then.
"Where did you set up camp?" Ethos asked, patience thinning at Sei's clumsy heels. "You can use the bayu clan's hollow for shelter. It's large enough to fit all of you."
Sei glanced over his shoulder. "Hollow?"
"You couldn't have missed it. The giant tree that thinks it's a cave."
"Ah, that." Sei returned forward, nearly tripping. "Our older members won't go near it."
So they were a superstitious bunch. Ethos should have guessed it. "Othos?"
"Othos is dead. He bought us time when the second wave hit." The trees weren't as thickly settled ahead; they walked abreast, and Ethos was staring off into space when Sei asked, "Has anyone told you how the elder system works? Pathos, maybe?"
"Pathos only tells me what he feels obligated to."
Sei suppressed a very small laugh. Maybe Pathos was like that with everyone. "Well, I won't do you the disservice of explaining every detail," he said, carefully evading a ditch. "But he's an elder now, in any case. If you care at all."
"I care a little."
"At least you're honest." Silence followed, and it was obvious that Sei wasn't done. "They say she spoke to you," he said, as expected. "Is it true?"
Ethos glanced and caught him looking. "You're talking about Alma."
Sei gently stopped him. "But she didn't harm you?"
"No," he replied. "Not on purpose."
"Not on purpose?"
Ethos felt around the side of his jaw. "She burns to the touch," he said. "I think it intensifies with her mood. I doubt she even noticed it hurt."
Sei glared at the mark. His eyes jumped away when Ethos let his hand fall. "She wasn't like that in the beginning," he said. "It was the murder. She came back different after what Hans did."
"So you knew them. Both of them."
"Of course I did."
"Did you know me?"
Another jump of eyes, a rebound. Put on the spot, Sei's heart rate doubled, but outwardly he gave a good show. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe."
Or maybe he agreed with Eadric and Kacha. "All of you look at me the same way."
"I said I don't know." Too quick, too terse. Sei made a deeply annoyed sort of sound and started off again. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just weird, is all. How it happened."
Ethos followed along. "Kacha told me."
"I know it's not your fault."
"That's big of you."
With finality, Sei paused and turned once more. "You're what we've got," he said, voice low, and some frustration was shining through. "You're here and you're helping, and that's what matters. I have no interest in where you came from. Okay?"
Ethos could make him talk. They both knew it. "Yeah. Okay."
They hiked the rest of the way without speaking. Sei never apologized or gave any sign that maybe he ought to. The frustration had made him bold. But when tumbledown tents began to appear on the higher ground farther in, a sigh eased what had bubbled up. "This is it," he said. "What's left of us."
Familiar faces peered out from their shelters. The frivolous interest had gone from their eyes. "I want them moved to the hollow," Ethos said, taking it in, aware of the deadline. "We can't form a stand with everyone scattered around like this. It's inefficient."
But Sei's gaze was dark and unwilling. "Take it up with Pathos."
"This is a grave," Ethos said. "My grave. You could make it yours, too, if you fight me on this."
Sei made a face. "This isn't your grave, Ethos."
"It's where the clans died."
"Yeah, so it's theirs. Not yours."
Credit was due for standing one's ground. Ethos let it show in his eyes. "This forest is mine, Sei," he said, regardless. "All of it. The dead, included."
Sei stared, just for a moment. "Better tell Harken, then."
"Harken's gone. I haven't sensed a thing even after landing here."
Sei smiled unexpectedly, and it was strange, like something frightening had amused him. Against his better judgement, perhaps, he stared even harder and asked, "Are you going deaf?"
Somewhere in the gathering darkness, a child wailed over the hushing of a mother. Ethos conceded a loss for words— the first in what felt a great while. "Deaf?"
"Do you know what that means?"
"Are you telling me Harken's still alive?"
Sei nodded, but he didn't expand on it. He indicated a larger, isolated tent. "Pathos," he repeated, and he turned to go before Ethos could protest. "Talk to him. I'll deal with things here."
Alone, Ethos felt exposed. More so at the prospect of Harken's survival. Everyone seemed to be glaring. A shivering woman in a nearby lean-to spat on the ground when their eyes met. A limping man stopped short with his boy and turned them around in the other direction.
Recognition peeled off in sheets, and Ethos in resignation greeted the slimy escapist, Hate. Such a worthless, distracting emotion; stealing priority when attention was clearly required elsewhere. He pitied those afflicted by it. Frowned on them, maybe. He didn't understand the purpose.
Pathos had a light on, blades of it visible here and there through slivered gaps of tent flap. Ethos was in front of it before he realized, toes in a puddle of muddy snowbroth, just standing there, haunting the shade, listening. The eyes on his back were multiplying.
"If you're going to come in, come in," Pathos muttered, not bothering to raise his voice. "You're going to cause another stir."
Ethos moved the flap aside and stooped beneath the entrance. Pathos was sitting on the ground within, knees tucked under a low, tired desk, upon which a half-melted candle was lit. Some damage had come to his face, mostly bruising. His left arm was gone, up to the torso; it looked like he'd suffered irreversible harm and someone had made the call to remove it.
His right arm seemed fine. Ethos asked, "What are you writing?"
Pathos didn't glance up. "History."
"History?"
"History is what it will be."
"The present, then. Are you in much pain?"
Pathos was quiet. His dark eyes rose. "You haven't been sleeping."
Ethos produced a small leather swatch from his pocket— oupir reserves. He removed a sprig and held it out. "Here," he said. "It'll help. You can't be healing well under the circumstances."
Pathos stared at it, and then at him. "You still misuse this?"
"No. This is for emergencies."
"I don't want it."
"Quit being prideful and take it."
An order. Pathos took it with a glare. "I'm supposed to eat it?"
Ethos joined him on the ground. "No, don't eat it," he said. "Just suck out the juices."
Pathos complied and gave a small nod when the flavor gradually hit. He adjusted his dirty shoulder bindings, running an expert thumb beneath fabric. "I have something for you," he suddenly said, and his eyes went low again, scanning belongings. "You might not want it."
Ethos smiled, wryly. "You shouldn't have."
Pathos tossed a parcel at him; it was soft, wrapped and tied. "Don't be fresh."
Ethos had never been given a present, and he didn't much want to open this one, but he snapped the twine and pulled the paper apart. A bit of folded cloth fell into his lap, stiff with age. "Oh," he said, in soft surprise, and carefully shook it out. "What is it?"
Pathos lit a pipe. "It's yours."
"Mine?" It was a child's shirt, torn in two places and bloodied throughout. Brittle. Ethos feared it would crumble in his hands like so many sickening chips of paint. "Why do you have this?"
Pathos purposefully met his eyes. He repeated, "It's yours, Ethos."
Ethos studied him back. "What happened to it?"
"I have no idea." He briefly smoked there in silence. "It took a little over a year to figure out where you'd fallen," he said. "The leaves had begun to turn when I broadened my search to Harken. I followed the sound of your laughter. You seemed happy." He looked at the shirt. "A clansman caught me at it— a female. She flung that at me and said three words in the common tongue."
Ethos offered, " 'Snooping is impolite?' "
" 'He's safe here.' "
"So you took it and ran."
"And I kept you a secret from the others. They would have come for your life if they'd known." A troubling look passed across his face. "Fifteen years."
Ethos cut in, "How evenly is power distributed between the three elders?"
A messy subject change; Pathos must have noticed, but he didn't say anything. "I see you've heard about my father," he replied. "And a lot of it has to do with who the village chooses to side with. The more support you have, the more pull you have."
"Whose decision was it to hide out here, in the forest?"
"It was unanimous." Pathos fished the oupir out of his mouth. He had to shake it off of his fingers, grimacing. "We basically rode out the collapse of Wyndemere," he muttered. "Pieces of it are scattered across the country. We found ourselves near Dayfield, which led to talk of going further south, but after that first attack…" He went quiet. "The highlands are too exposed," he went on. "The west is out of the question, as are the mountains. The forest provides nourishment, refuge, and room to grow."
"The mountains are advantageous for you. Strategically."
"They're out of the question. They're infested."
Ethos leaned forward. "Infested?"
"With howlings." Pathos laughed. A first. "You're a poor excuse for a tono," he said, but his smile was quick to fade, reminded. "Your mother… was she lucid when you spoke to her? Coherent?"
Feeling petty, Ethos teased, "Which one? Kooma or Alma?"
"Alma. She devoured Kooma ages ago."
"She's looking for Redbeard."
"Is she trying to bring him back?"
"I'm not sure he was ever dead, to be honest."
Pathos didn't react at first. His eyes became hooded with fresh dejection. "There's more than one reason we turned on her," he admitted. "We can't win against him and Sutter."
Ludo remembered how proud they'd been. Explorers. Invaders. Conquerors. Ethos let his vision drift. "By now he'll have turned the entire country against us, received formal authorization from Ellena to suppress the so-called tono threat," he murmured. "Michael's leading the charge. One twenty-two and a dog, or a bilge rat. With only one place to land, they'll rappel sooner than ambush the shore. We did the same out west last year; low and slow, one after another."
After a while, Pathos asked, "Are you okay?"
Ethos glanced at him. "Obviously."
The Look, it was, his dark tono eyes gently wide with distrust. Ethos had seen it in Sei, and in Kacha, and in countless others who claimed to know nothing. It meant he'd said or done something to validate some kind of suspicion, or given himself away unbeknownst.
"Pathos," he said. "I need to know how it started."
"We can't have you for an enemy."
The tent flap burst open. Ethos was suddenly dragged out into the forest, into the cold, snowbroth scraping his skin raw. People were shouting— men, mostly, goading one another to hit him. Ethos took a kick to the gut and easily caught a second blow; he twisted and brought his assailant down, mindful not to break the leg. There were crows in the trees, murders of them. Murders of murders.
Ethos scrambled to his feet, surrounded. He didn't recognize his attackers. "Stand down and back up," he instructed, loudly. "I'm not here to fight with you."
They stepped away, snarling, resentful. The one on the ground tried to crawl. Long-limbed Leemai pushed his way forward among them, filling more space than all combined. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Who brought you?"
A whistle pierced the darkness. The sentry.
"I know you've lost people," Ethos said, sensibly still, unsure of the danger. "Blame me if it makes you feel better, but we need to work together right now. There's no time to argue."
"Work together? We'd still have a home if it weren't for you."
Surin appeared beside him. He looked very short in comparison, sharp-featured and calm. "We've talked about this, Leemai," he said. "You're inciting a brawl."
Leemai sneered. "Othos would have my back."
"Othos is gone," he replied. "If he were alive, he'd do whatever was necessary to ensure the safety of our surviving brothers and sisters. It's our duty to protect them."
A sound parted the circled men. Pathos emerged from his tent. "Wyndemere's fallen," he reminded the crowd. "We're all afraid. We're all angry. But we cannot fight amongst ourselves like this."
Leemai thrust a finger at Ethos. "I want him out of here."
"I've doubled your numbers," Ethos returned, matching his glare. "Battlefrost reinforcements are on the way. I'm prepared to make a final stand here, but I need your cooperation if you want us to have a fighting chance." He waited. Leemai just glowered, darker and darker. "Make no mistake, Leemai," he continued. "This is it. We're at war. If you allow your reservations about me to cloud your judgement, it will mean the annihilation of everyone you care about."
Pathos entered the circle of discussion, flanked by Sei and Baroona. "He has connections with the humans that could prove invaluable," he said. "We can rebuild."
Pristine animosity transformed Leemai's face. "You saw him burn, Pathos," he seethed. "You saw what she did to him, same as the rest us. You gathered the ashes yourself."
Winter had darkened the sky early, but it wasn't so dark as to hide the shadow that fell over them in that horrible moment. The belly of the dreaded blackhound was passing overhead, lit from below by their firelight. The size of it was incomprehensible.
Enough was enough. Ethos addressed everyone directly. "We're about to be overrun," he shouted, hoping his voice carried. "Immediately evacuate this encampment. If you can walk, carry someone who can't and stick by them. Gather east of here at the old hollow tree and wait for instructions." After a pause, the tono scattered in all directions. "And someone put those fires out," he barked. "The harder it is for them to find us, the longer we'll have to prepare."
Leemai seized him. "Where are your reinforcements?"
"They'll be here." Ethos tore away. With a glare, he added, "We need to buy time."
The brig passed by again, lower. Ropes were thrown; they spiraled over bulwarks and snapped at the air below. Someone screamed. "Calm!" Leemai roared, over the tumult. "We are not savages! Leave your things and get to safety!" He turned to a giant among them— one of the men who'd dragged Ethos out. "Cyris," he said. "Gather the others and get our people moving."
The first soldier landed. He was black-clad and dressed for the cold, painted in shocks of Oldden red. He took a wild swing at Cyris, only to be parried by Sei. The agile huntsman dipped around him and drove a knife deep into his thigh. Baroona appeared on his other side and dealt a finishing blow.
More screaming, from another direction. Surin started after the sound, but Ethos was there to stop him short. "I need you to get everyone out of here," he said, selling it with his eyes. "They all need to be in the hollow for it to work."
Surin searched his face. "You've thought of something."
"Pair up wounded and able-bodied. They'll need to fly. Reinforcements will be here soon."
The gods must have heard him. An explosion erupted overhead— the fearsome blackhound, its midship hemorrhaging fire; it spread to the mainmast, chasing a barrelman from his nest. And as the vessel turned broadside to touch down in the Heed, the junk rig from Nahga sailed over the treetops, its topside crew hurling bottles of fuel. Ethos heard himself laugh in surprise.
His laughter paired with the nearby screams dampened his short-lived elation. He ran at once to the sound. The forest sucked him in. He didn't have to think about what lay ahead; he already knew. This was home turf, violent, vacated, very much different but somehow unchanged. Everything was where he remembered. He let his feet do most of the navigating while his mind focused elsewhere.
He came upon the scene abruptly. The soldier was dressed the same as the first, all black and red and geared for the cold, in mid-swing as Ethos emerged. He narrowly evaded and tripped over a fallen woman; she was bloodied and dragging herself away, staining snow as she went. A huntsman lay dead at an angle beside her. Ethos forced her up with him and staggered forward, into the brush.
The soldier followed, snorting steam. Ethos salvaged a branch and spun, but he might as well have set on a bear. His opponent's blows were heavy and rough, landing too rapidly to counter. Everything went into withstanding. His hands grew numb under the pressure.
And then came an opening; Ethos lunged. The tip of the branch caught the soldier's face, nearly dropping him, forcing him back. He could hear the woman running for camp, hear her frightened breath, how it trembled. He prepared to tackle the soldier down before he could continue pursuit.
But then, without warning, someone tore Ethos away from the fight, one beefy arm constricting his neck and jerking him still when he threw an elbow. An arduous glance yielded Cyris, and Leemai landed a moment later. Machine-like, the spidery elder kicked out the Oldden soldier's knee and knifed him in the chest as he fell. The nameless man spluttered and foamed and passed.
Panic set in when Leemai turned. Ethos kicked, toes barely grazing the ground. Cyris was nothing short of a beast; hitting him was like hitting a piece of furniture. A hand came hard against his mouth, preventing protest. A tree burst out of the snow nearby.
There wasn't any dialog. It seemed like there never was. Leemai simply caught his foot and sank the blade right into his side. Fast. Easy. Ethos didn't even feel it at first. He lashed out with his other leg and delivered a decent blow to the head, but Leemai— he just shook it off, annoyed. A twist of the knife worsened it tenfold and Ethos couldn't help it; a scream bubbled out, stifled and ragged. He desperately clawed at the hand, at the arm, at Leemai, at anything.
Leemai largely seemed unimpressed. "The fire here was supposed to end it," he said. "But I guess that's what I get for underestimating a monster." Another twist. "Third time's the charm."
A gloved hand suddenly yanked Leemai's head back, its knucklebones scaled in mounds of dark metal. Another put a blade to his throat. Fierce, familiar eyes appeared at his shoulder, and even though her face was hidden, Ethos could tell that Anouk was smiling. "Oi, seabird," she greeted, both drawling and droll. "In a bind?"
Leemai was livid, still clutching his knife. "I have every right to this."
"Let him talk," she commanded, this time to Cyris. "Do it now or I'll go ear to ear like."
Cyris didn't need any convincing; such devotion. His hand retracted, but his vicelike stranglehold didn't ease. And Ethos was tired of weighing consequences. Hoarse from the fight, just short of pathetic, he held Anouk's eyes and said, simply, "Kill him."
So she did. She did exactly what she'd threatened to do. The blade took Leemai ear to ear, scraping at bone. Sei had spoken of deafness, but Ethos heard everything. The spray of blood. The drowning. The bubbling. Anouk lunged for Cyris before he could retaliate, lance-like and deadly, targeting eyes.
Ethos fell so fast that his knees buckled. Anouk threw a foot in his chest— to get him out of the way, he reasoned. The impact knocked the air out of him. Vision blurred, he groped through the snow as he relearned to breathe, one hand on the wound in his side. He knew better than to look, but he did; the sight of the hilt was chilling. Nausea swelled in his throat.
Ethos rolled onto his back. The forest spun. Vibrant blue light seared the perfect darkness beyond his eyelids. Cyris screamed. Silence fell.
"Don't pass out." Anouk was squatting over him. He'd drifted. She dipped her head back and forth to follow his vagrant, unfocused eyes. "Oi, seabird," she said. "You hear me?"
Ethos felt slow. He concentrated on her face. "Pocket."
Surprisingly, she didn't need any clarification. She bit off her gloves and patted him down, quickly producing the swatch of oupir. She sniffed it and asked, "Is this for pain?"
"Yeah." He somehow managed to rise to an elbow. He reached for the sprig. "Thanks."
She deliberately dangled it away. He met her eyes. She said, "You know me."
It didn't look like she was joking. "No," he countered. "Really, I don't."
People were shouting, screaming. A smile spread to her lips. "Don't lie to me, seabird."
"Stop calling me that." His head wasn't quite right. The image of the knife sticking out of his side was haunting. He collapsed and felt for it, desperate to have it out of him. "Take it out," he said, an edge to his voice. "If I could just— "
Anouk stopped him. Her eyes were serious when he looked up again. "Removing it now could kill you," she told him. "I'm no witch. Understand?"
A laugh escaped him. "You're concerned for me. That's funny."
She stood over him and drew a sword; it glowed in the darkness, shot throughout with staggering shades of aquamarine. "Close your eyes, if you like," said she, and she drove the blade into the ground, letting it stand to lighten the clearing. She dropped; her knees sank into the bloody snow on either side of him. "I'll be fast," she continued, eyes low. "Take your pain medicine."
She'd left the swatch on his chest. Ethos smiled and opened it. "I'm a little disappointed."
"Aye, why's that?" she asked, glancing to see what he'd do with the oupir. "No bedside manner?"
He just shook his head. "It's nothing," he said, chewing. "Forget it."
"Keep talking," she instructed. "Try not to move."
"What's that sword?"
"Viridium. We own the quarry outside of Rorek." She removed her pelts and some layers beneath, breath misting. She was even smaller than he'd thought. "You've heard of howlings," she guessed. "The most important part of my job is defending the border between our territories, driving them back when they get bold, thinning them out when their numbers rise. Viridium's toxic to them."
Ethos let his head fall back. "They live in mountains, don't they?"
"Aye, in the caverns. They come from Mount Savage." Anouk cut his shirt open, meticulous, like a pother. Unlike a pother, she brandished her knife when she saw him staring. "Oi, I'll put another inch in you if you like it so much."
"I just wasn't expecting you to be so professional about this."
She scowled and finished cutting it through. "I've got to be careful," she conceded, a sharp eye on the protruding hilt. "I want you alive, seabird."
Ethos processed that. He cropped his head back up. "Why?"
One hand braced against his shoulder, Anouk removed the embedded knife and tossed it aside, into the snow. Mild agony chewed through his guts. "Steady," she said. "Steady, seabird."
He angrily squeezed his eyes shut. "Warn me next time."
"It's faster like this." Something splashed and dripped down his side— water, he guessed, to clean out the wound, until the sting intensified twofold. A glance on his part caught her alternating between sips and splashes, liquor flask winking viridian light. A glance on her part caught him glaring, so she shook it at him, as if to be nice. "Want a snort?"
He sighed. "Give it here."
"These are my duds I'm bloodying, by the way."
"I don't suppose you'll want compensation." Ethos drank while she continued to work. The sting was beginning to fade. "We need to hurry up here," he said. "Eadric's going to kill them all."
Anouk reappeared over him, hair dangling. "What's his beef?"
"He can't kill my mother until they're gone."
She frowned, comically. There was mud smeared over her cheek. "Come again?"
"I guess it's a strange sort of story." Ethos tried to rise. "Let's go."
Anouk just pushed him back and replied, "You're not going anywhere, seabird."
He stared up at her in confusion. "People are depending on me."
"Damn all, says I. You'll get yourself killed out there." She must have seen him forming a protest, because she leaned further forward, free hand buried in the snow by his head. "I could just as easily save your life as jam my thumb in this wound of yours," she said. "Behave."
"You have men out there, too. You have responsibilities."
"They're Battlefrosts. They've seen worse." Her eyes moved back and forth between his. She was a pitiless tempest. "Have I made myself clear?"
Ethos couldn't think of anything smart to say. He glared.
Her smile crept back, sly as it ever was. "That's a good look on you, seabird."
"Don't compliment me when I'm obviously angry at you."
The smile faded, but not entirely. She touched his face with the back of her hand; it was cold from the snow, reddened by blood. She leered when he seized it. "Mortal shame," she said, and her eyes were hooded, languid, wandering. "Are you taken?"
Feeling chilled, Ethos pushed her away. "Get off of me."
Anouk promptly returned the push, jaw set high and proud and unyielding. "Look at yourself," she advised. "Bones is all you'll be if you go."
"I have an obligation to help these people."
"Aye, but not to die for them." Ethos braved another push, still gripping hard at her wrist. Instantly she was close with a blade— a small one, lengthwise against his face. She must have recognized a losing battle. "Listen to me very carefully," she said, and she waited until she seemed sure that he was. "This wound is going to kill you. You need to let me stop the bleeding so I can fetch a pother."
She had good, honest eyes. "Get the knife out of my face."
"Give me your word that you'll do as I say."
"I'll give you my word when you get the knife out of my face."
Reluctantly, the edge scraped away from his cheek. "Your word, seabird."
Ethos launched himself at her, forfeiting his hold on her wrist, putting his weight in her wielding hand. Doing so left him open. She landed a blow to the side of his head, enough of a hit to mess with his vision, but it didn't stop him from pinning her down. The blade dipped back and forth between them, slick with sweat and water and blood. Ethos drove it into the snow.
He almost didn't see the punch coming. Anouk's fist flew by and rerouted into a vicious backhand; he wrestled it down alongside the other, arms shaking from all the effort. Her expression was deadly.
He was too weak to hold her for long. He knew that. At the thought, a sleepy old wisteria caught her like a nest of snakes, climbing, twisting, anchoring— a thousand moving parts in the snow. Ethos scooted back and took a moment to catch his breath; she struggled at the snarled treebine, swearing up and down at all and charging him with witchcraft. Only when she quieted did he go about the ugly task of packing his wound with good, fresh dirt. His entire right side was dark and tacky.
"Oi," she barked, after a time. "They'll have to clean that out of you."
Ethos cursed his unsteady hands and said, "I know."
Strange. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Shallow, soundless gasps for air were misting up in front of his eyes. "Breathe, seabird," she warned. "This is when the shock sets in."
Packing done, he crawled over and felt her down for anything that might be useful. There wasn't much, just some identification papers. Her discarded furs yielded even less; dried meat— fish, perhaps, but he couldn't be sure. He held it up where Anouk could see.
She craned her neck. "Haddock."
He ate a piece and returned the rest. "Thanks."
"Cut me loose. It's the least you can do after I saved your life."
Ethos glanced. There was hair in her eyes; he brushed it aside. "I'll leave a knife."
"Leave me here alone with a knife and I'll find you and twist your ears off."
He smiled. "But you'll attack me if I cut you loose."
"I won't. There's no point in it now that you've dirtied the wound."
Ethos weighed the sincerity in her eyes. She was good in a fight— he'd learned that much. But he didn't trust her, didn't understand what her purpose was. So he asked, "Why did you track me?"
She scowled, cutely, annoyed and confused. "You were in danger."
"I wasn't when you started tracking me."
She struggled again but quickly gave up, visibly foiled and bitter about it. "Cut me loose," she repeated, crossly. "I won't avenge the stolen haddock until your wound's been seen to."
Drained and dying, Ethos laughed. "Is that a fact?"
"A fact, aye. No bones about it. Let's go save your stupid people."