Ethos woke with an ache in his neck, feeling like he'd forgotten something. There was brown hair strewn in his field of vision, some of it rolling around with his breath. Dazed, he peeled his cheek from the wooden table he was sitting at.
"It was Anouk."
Ethos blinked toward the voice.
Someone was across from him, long fingers greased by a chicken leg. Peter, the farmer. The one who'd found him. Peter indicated the tabletop tumbleweeds when Ethos met his eyes. "Your hair," he reiterated. "She cut it while you slept."
Ethos stared blankly at him. "Does it look okay?"
Instead of making a joke, Peter shrugged. "It does, actually."
Song. Laughter. The clinking of dishware. Ethos groggily surveyed Battlefrost Hall, noting with a ghost of amusement that Kacha, still clutching tight to an unfinished ale, had fallen asleep on the bench beside him, face buried deeply into her elbow. There were countless others in similar states, vestiges of the night's festivities, beached here and there between games of dice.
Aloud, just barely, Ethos managed, "What time is it?"
"About midnight. How's the hand?"
Ethos found it in his lap. He flexed it. "Better."
Chewing, Peter held out his plate between them. "I found potatoes."
The thought of food was nauseating. "I'm not hungry."
"I can't remember the last time I saw you eat."
Ethos ignored him. He instead eased the cup out of Kacha's hand and helped himself to its meager contents. All too soon he was turning about in search of a pitcher to fill it back up.
"Oi," Peter ventured. "What'd the letters tell you?"
"It was a grammatical nightmare."
"On whose part?"
"Daggeir's. Obviously."
"This coming from a guy who couldn't read a month ago."
Peter was making an annoying face. As usual. His feelings were mashed together there for all the world and the next to see. Ethos covered his eyes and grumbled, "My ears are cold."
Silence, at first. Then: "I have something to show you."
"If it's a rash, I'm not interested."
Ethos could hear him sucking the chicken grease from his fingers. The nausea intensified, twisting snakelike beneath a fragile surface. "It's a surprise," Peter replied, and it sounded like he was struggling up from the bench. "Can you stand?"
"I've got the spins."
"That's fine."
"It's not fine."
"It is, I'll help. Get up."
Peter's voice had circled the table. "I dislike surprises," Ethos warned, and a slanted scowl found him near at hand. "Just tell me where we're going."
"Not far— the building over." Peter laughed when he was answered by a soft groan of protest. He guided Ethos up by his arm. "On your feet now, brother," he teased. "Lively."
Ethos surrendered, rubbing the stubborn sleep from his eyes. "Just take it easy, Peter."
It took longer than usual for Ethos to notice that he was being led toward the spicery; but rather than enter, they passed it by. The corridor was wider beyond, illumined on either side by vertical staves of viridium. Ethos wondered if anyone else could hear the metal buzzing throughout the building.
The passage ended at a set of old double doors. Peter shrugged out of his winter coat. "This lets out to the inner commons," he explained, and he threw the heavy coat around Ethos. "It's highborn territory, understand. Let's be discreet."
Ethos rubbed at his eyes again. "Did you find Tritan?"
But Peter had pushed the doors open. Harsh northern wind snarled into the corridor. Ethos drew the coat tight and followed, borrowed boots sliding through dark, muddied snow. The boxed-off square was appropriately desolate, given the hour. Gray.
But the sky was unclouded. Ethos had never seen the stars look so bright. They revolved overhead like so many comets, staggering him and his hopelessly unsound center of gravity. It felt like ages had passed since he'd been out from under a ceiling of some sort.
"This way." Peter. He was waiting several paces ahead, holding open an east-facing door. "The stars aren't going anywhere," he said, and he waved Ethos on. "Just a little farther."
Pushy. Ethos entered at his insistence. "It's dark in here."
Peter lit a nearby lantern. Too close, too sudden— Ethos had to shield his eyes from it. "Oi," Peter said, noticing. "What's wrong?"
"You surprised me. Lower the light, please."
Peter complied. It looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. He just cleared his throat and proceeded into the next room. "This is an old pothery wing," he said. "Private like. Everyone ought to be sleeping by now, but try to keep your voice down."
Ethos followed along, keeping to the wall. "Are we visiting someone?"
"Aye, an envoy sent by Eadric himself. I reckon you already knew he was here."
"Quit being cryptic and just tell me." But distance had grown between them; Peter's lantern turned a corner. In vain and in darkness, Ethos called, "Slow down."
But the small bit of light was gone. He couldn't keep up the pace, let alone hear anything over the sound of his own inexcusable scuffling. He knew enough to feel his way, to reach through the vast, empty space all around him, but without something to anchor his eyes to—
His equilibrium took a turn. Ethos spilled forward.
Dust. Darkness. Scrapes on his knees. He thought he could hear laughter from the shadows. The cold floor was an unexpected alleviator, slowing the spinning, reeling abyss, but the resulting window of lucidity disgusted him. He needed no ugly reminders, no clarity.
There was someone crouched beside him, head tilted to see him straight. "You okay?" Peter asked, lantern slung from his chicken-greased fingers. "I thought you were behind me."
Ethos pushed the light away, breath misting, caught in the glow. "Out of my face."
"It's not in your face," Peter retorted, brow deepening. "What's with your eyes, man?"
The stark contrast was too intense. Ethos needed time to adjust after spending so many days in the darkness. But rather than muster an explanation, he made a clumsy attempt to stand, hands lost in too-long coat sleeves. "I slipped, is all," he said. "Your stride is ridiculous."
"Oi, stay down for a second." Peter squeezed his shoulder, concerned. "You can talk to me about what happened, you know," he said. "It's no big deal."
"It was just dark, Peter. Don't baby me."
"But I'm worried about you."
"Yes, I can see that." Ethos rebelled and rose from the floor, employing the wall for support. "Lead the way," he said. "I'll turn around and go back if you don't."
"You're not exactly helping your case by actively avoiding the subject." Peter calmly returned to his feet. He stared down at Ethos, composed for once. "Whatever, I guess," he said. "I can wait."
Ethos irritably pointed ahead. "Lead the way or I'm leaving."
So they pressed forward, air thick with newfound tension. It was an older building, the pothery; the passages reeked of sickness and age. Ethos knew without looking that there were occupants all about in their beds, trying to breathe, trying to sleep, broken and tangled in sweaty sheets. Candles were lit here and there within rooms, a grotesque relief from the widespread darkness.
At one such room, its door drawn ajar, Peter finally came to a stop. He took Ethos by the arm and entered without a word of warning.
Ethos lost a few seconds while he tried to identify the patient within. The man's body was swathed in dressings, save for an arm and a square bit of flesh exposing the uninjured side of his face. He was jotting something down as they entered, and he tilted his head overfar to see them, spectacles clipped to the tip of his nose. Stunned silence prevailed.
He said, "As I live and breathe."
"Ben," Ethos greeted, in surprise. "Did you fall down a ravine?"
Peter closed the door behind them. "Bagley here came to negotiate for a quarter portion of Tritan's army," he said. "Tritan challenged him for it. Earned him two broken legs and a milky eye."
"The pothers here are completely useless," Bagley said. "They're not pothers at all, really. They're thugs in scrubs, forcing their snake oil on unsuspecting outsiders."
Ethos felt dizzy. Peter helped him into a chair and crouched at his feet, eyes sharp. "You good?" he asked, voice low. "Speak up if you need to puke."
"I'm perfectly fine, Peter."
"Not according to your track record."
Bagley glanced between them. "What is he, drunk?"
"This could've waited until morning," Ethos whispered to Peter, sparing a private glower. "We're on the same side. You get that, right?"
Bagley made an impatient sound. "Have Eadric bring me Rhysa," he said, as if he had jurisdiction in Flint. "She'll have me right as rain by morning."
Ethos looked up from Peter and said, "Eadric's dead."
Bagley's expression failed to register the announcement. Ethos could understand why. "Eadric can't die," he responded, with certainty. "You don't understand what he really is."
"Hans Redbeard. Yes, I know. He's dead."
"No. It's not possible."
Ethos blinked his vision clear. "It was his policy to tell the truth to new councilmen," he guessed, sinking back. "Why didn't you stand against him?"
Bagley was quiet. He studied Ethos at a distance, weighing the sincerity in his eyes. "Eadric's run this country for centuries," he said. "Without him, the system would fall apart. There wasn't any need to revolt." His gaze fell and then leapt to Peter. "The others," he said. "Where are they?"
Peter glanced over at him. There was dirt in the crease of his neck. "Calaster's overseeing the army in the Rift," he replied. "As far as I know, you and he are the last."
"Norita's gone?" Bagley asked. "How?"
"I killed her," Ethos said. "I ran her through with a fire iron. She deserved it."
Bagley stared for another long, unsettling moment. This time, he smiled. "He put you in a session with her, didn't he," he leered. "What'd he have her do to you?"
"It doesn't matter. They're dead."
His repulsive smile spread all the wider. "Two kings and two councilmen," he said, and he gave a soft whistle of admiration. "Impressive. What's next?"
The dizziness was abating, and so was the high. Ethos rubbed his aching forehead. "Tell me about your altercation with Tritan," he said, vying for focus. "What were the circumstances?"
"You sound just like him, you know. Did he tell you why?"
"Does Tritan have a stance on the war?"
"What was he like in the end? Were you there with him? Did he beg?"
Ethos turned out a glare. "You still have a good eye left. I'm not above taking it from you."
Bagley's smile faltered. Eventually, resignedly, he removed his glasses. "Tritan couldn't care less about our political affairs," he said. "Ronen's death might've had a hand in it."
Peter inserted, "Eadric killed her."
Ethos looked down at him. "Who told you that?"
"My mom." Peter's expression came as a mild surprise. There was a calculating quality to it, like he'd said it just to see how Ethos would react. "Anouk and I haven't formalized our agreement yet," he went on. "But take some advice and seriously keep your head down this time. You're likely to get worse treatment than Bagley if Tritan knows who you are."
With some effort, Ethos managed a lopsided grin. "If I'd inherited Eadric's every sin, the entire island would want me dead."
"Yeah," Peter agreed, unsmiling. "Probably."
Harsh. Stared down and annoyed, Ethos let his untrue amusement bleed out. "You've made your point," he said. "Tritan's yours. Quit staring at me like I've hidden your candy."
Peter smirked. "Deal," he said. "Want to get out of here?"
"You know I do."
"Wait." Bagley was trying to hoist himself up, good hand gripping the squeaky bedframe. It didn't take long at all for him to give up and slump back into the pillows. "I was useful to him," he said. "I can be useful to you, too. Don't leave me here."
Peter returned to his feet. "We don't need someone like you."
"Ethos, please," Bagley pressed. "Please. It'll take months to heal naturally."
Ethos resisted when Peter tried to lead him away. He ignored the irritated sigh that it earned him and turned back to Bagley. "I'll have my pother fix you up in the morning," he said. "Just enough to get you on your feet. If you say a single thing to her you'll never see Oldden again."
Taken aback, Bagley blinked. "Of course."
"Was Flint the only territory you were sent to bargain with?"
"I was on a circuit. Before Flint I'd been to Arneth, Grudson, and Elsewhere." Bagley sneered as if he'd forgotten, jowls doubling. "No one wants to get their feet wet," he grumbled. "All I rallied were a thousand of Elsewhere's border guardisans."
"And where are they now?"
"In transit to Calaster's redoubt. They may already be there."
A thousand men was nothing to scoff at. And Ethos would have told him so, but Peter's incessant tugging won out. "Get some rest," he said, instead. "We won't be here much longer."
Bagley seemed content with that. The gloomy corridor swallowed them up, Ethos being dragged more than led, borrowed boots sweaty and blistering heels. The swinging lantern threw light back and forth, turning out shadows that leapt up and scrambled in every direction.
Peter's heart rate was spiking again. Small surprise there. Ethos wished he wouldn't get so riled up all the time. He was moving stiffly, spun head to toe by a spring of tension that translated into a vicelike grip. But Ethos knew better than to guess at the source of his anxiety. Peter was the sort of person who'd spit it out one way or another.
They made it as far as the gray inner commons.
Faced forward, Peter said, "I thought you didn't share Kacha."
Ethos sighed. "Is that what you're angry about?"
"Who said I was angry?"
"I was expecting it to be about Ben."
Peter held the second door open, but prevented Ethos from going inside. "Bagley," he said, self-control already slipping a little. "You've always called him Bagley."
Ethos blithely ducked under his arm. "Kacha is as exceptional as Ben is in his respective field," he explained. "So I compromised."
"Even though you threatened to have out his eye?"
"Even though." Ethos absently felt through his coat pockets. There was junk stowed away in every pouch; keys and jerky, a few candle stubs. He raised a spoon against the light. "Do you keep all of your stuff in this thing?" he asked. "What happened to your bag?"
Peter fell into step with him. "Put that back where you found it."
"You stole this spoon from Oldden Stronghold."
"It's a souvenir for Lena. Put it back."
Ethos evaded a swipe at it, freewheeling from his own momentum. "Relax," he said, chin tucked to see down his front. "I'm putting it back, see."
"That's not where it goes. It goes in the other one."
"You've got too much crap. It's borderline hoarding. I can hardly walk." In his struggle to make it all fit like it should, Ethos dropped a small leather notebook. He stooped to retrieve it. "You still have this thing?" he laughed. "I was sure you'd have filled it up by now."
Peter held out his hand for it. "I draw in the margins."
Ethos looked at his hand, then at him. "Why'd Eadric tell you to burn it?"
"Hell if I know. Give it here."
"He wouldn't have given it back if it'd been a danger to him. He'd have set it on fire himself and then bragged about it." Peter advanced unexpectedly, so Ethos took a quick step back, blindly thumbing the pages apart. "Do you keep your thoughts in here?"
Peter smacked it out of his hand. Immediately they were diving after it, kicking it clumsily through the darkness in warring efforts to snatch it first. Ethos caught Peter's foot as he lunged ahead, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. Peter kindly returned the favor.
Briefly they abandoned the hunt to tussle with each other. Ethos lost a boot somehow. Peter seized the back of his coat to stop him from getting a lead.
"Quit it!" he snapped. "Ethos, stop!"
Ethos struggled out of the coat and belly-flopped onto the floor. He scooped up the notebook and spun around, scooting backward to distance himself. Holding it high, he barked, "Ha!"
Peter was catching his breath, discarded coat in hand. "Give it here."
Ethos didn't get any protest from the notebook's old spine, but his smile slipped as he turned the pages. For instead of Peter's unrefined scrawl, there were perfectly rendered drawings within. Boats and trees. Streetside children. Wild dogs. People they'd met. "Amazing," he said. "You drew all this?"
Peter's voice was filled with venom. "Give it back."
And he would have, but a sketch of Una made him pause. She was stitching something— a tattered shirt, from the look of it. Low-gazed and smiling gently, she almost came across as motherly. Peter had probably drawn it before she'd died, before he'd realized what she was, because the lines were honest and laced with certainty.
Further pages yielded Alyce, nose crinkled, hands on her hips. She was wearing a headdress of leaves and flowers, so it had to have been when they'd visited Kacha. Ethos had crafted the blossoms himself, stooped to help her while feeding the birds.
On the opposite page was a dark-skinned boy; he was glancing up from some clumsy knife work, a little surprised, a little roguish, smiling as if at a private joke. The clever spark in his eyes had a teasing quality to it, imparting a wry sort of fondness.
Eadric, Ethos thought at first. Fingers numb, he asked, "Is this me?"
Peter tore the notebook out of his hands. Closer now, he sat on his heels, disheveled. "Aye, have a laugh," he muttered. "Get it over with."
"Let me see it again."
"Fuck you."
"You're upset."
"Don't say it like that."
A door opened directly beside them. Una was standing at the entrance, frowning a bit and dressed in borrowed Battlefrost blues. Seeing them there on the floor, she ventured, "Evening."
Blankly, they returned the greeting in unison. "Evening."
"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Peter cleared his throat. "What are you doing alone in the spicery?"
"I was changing into some clean clothes." Una looked down the corridor, hugging herself against the cold. "Did anyone see you two fighting?"
"We weren't fighting," Peter replied, and he climbed to his feet with his mussed belongings. "How did your meeting with Tanis go?"
Smiling now, she reached up to smooth a tuft of his hair. "It went well, I think."
He dodged her attempt at upkeep. "You played fair?"
"I did. Oldden is mine by right, after all." Her eyes slid low— to Ethos and back. "Would now be an okay time to steal him from you?"
"I'm not his keeper."
Sourly, Ethos cut in, "I'm right here."
Una crouched with a bubbly laugh, arms folded atop her knees. She playfully tilted her head to the side and flashed him smile. Her teeth seemed sharper. "Have you got a moment, darling?"
Ethos pulled his boot back on. "That color looks nice on you."
"Oh, you."
"Oh, me."
Peter split from the group. He turned as he donned his coat, walking backward. "I'll be in the Hall if you need me," he said. "Don't be long."
Una said something back, but Ethos didn't catch it; he was struggling with Una's stench, willing himself to withstand it. She helped him back to his feet, none the wiser. "He may not say it, but he's happy to have you back," she said. "You gave us a scare."
Ethos followed her gentle guidance. "I get the love-hate thing in theory."
They reentered the spicery, which was just as overwhelmingly fragrant as before. It actually helped a little. He checked the tabletop pitcher for ale while Una saw to the door. "You've cut your hair," she noticed. "I like it. You look older."
"Anouk's handiwork."
Una hugged him from behind. She buried her face in his back and inhaled. "I was afraid I'd lost you," she said. "It was awful."
"How has Peter been handling himself?"
She groaned, arms constricting around his torso. "Better than he thinks," she admitted. "He lacks confidence, but he's reliable when the need arises."
Ethos poured a drink. "And you're not compelling him?"
"No," she swore, voice rising a few decibels. "You told me not to."
"There was a time when you didn't listen to me." He downed the entire cup in one go, ever thirsty, feeling a bit too human for comfort. He sighed and said, "Tell me about your condition."
She fell silent, justifiably. He allowed her a generous moment to think before he turned around in her arms. Stubbornly, like a child, she hid her face against his chest. "I forget myself from time to time," she mumbled. "And I think I'm losing my hair."
"How has your appetite been?" Again, she was quiet, so he patted her back. "Okay," he said. "It's okay. We don't have to talk about it."
She hazarded a glance. "So what's the plan?"
"I have a lead," he replied. "It might be our only shot at a cure."
Her slender eyebrows furrowed, like she didn't get it. "That's not what I meant."
It was his turn to look confused. "Then what did you mean?"
"I meant us. I meant our plan." Una distractedly played with the front of his shirt. "We could introduce a new Bloodless Age, like the Thundershields did in their time. We could end famine." She tried to convey the appeal through her eyes. "The people would love you. They'd sing about you."
Ethos stared at her. "I'm not Hans Redbeard."
"I never said you were."
"And you agreed to partner up with Peter."
"I know. I know all that." She stopped, looking frustrated. The bite in her voice had gone when she continued. "You're wrong this time, Ethos," she told him. "Everyone sees it but you."
"You called him reliable. You said he could handle himself."
"He can. And he is. But it's too late to hide what kind of a man you are. Everyone sees it— even him. Especially him." Una took a small step back. To give him space, he thought. "Peter doesn't have your charisma, Ethos. He doesn't have your composure. People will never listen to him the way they listen to you, and I think you've known that all along."
"I'm not someone to look up to, Una. I'm not a leader."
The color of her eyes had paled. "You can't really believe that."
"You say he lacks confidence." Into his cup, Ethos said, "Let's say I lack interest."
"You're making excuses. You wouldn't try to cure me if you cared so little."
Ethos polished off the ale. He was silent after, and eventually shrugged. "It's something to do, if I'm honest," he said. "I take issue with inaction these days."
Una studied his face, empty hands mindlessly wringing themselves. He could tell that she wanted to say something more. "I poked my head in when you were meeting with Baroona," she said. "It looked like a serious discussion."
"It was."
"What were you talking about?"
Ethos needed to be vague, just as he'd been with Baroona. The name Syan Battlefrost meant too much to too many people, especially in a city like Flint. "There's something very old in Mount Savage," he went with. "I've asked Baroona to guide me to it."
"He can sense it, then?"
"That's right."
"But you can't."
"No." She was going to ask why. "Imagine we're fish," he told her. "Predation drives little fish to adapt, to survive the larger fish in the pond. And if you think about it, there's really no better defense in the world than a constant, accurate awareness of where your enemy is."
Thinly, she smiled. "Are you calling yourself a predator?"
"We're all predators, Una. It just comes down to who the bigger fish is."
"Then what about Alma?" she challenged. "Which one of you is the bigger fish?"
Ethos blandly gave the pitcher a swirl. It didn't feel like much was left. "She designed me to be her counterpart," he said. "So yeah, I can find her if I concentrate. But she sees me back."
"What about now, while she's in between hosts?"
Perhaps she'd heard them. Ethos shook off another spell of dizziness. "It's worse, I think," he said, quietly. "Like she's under my nose, but undetectable. I've been on edge."
The door opened, inviting their eyes. Aria Battlefrost appeared at the threshold, near to one side as if to see them out. She gruffly jerked her chin at Una, throwing pale flaxen hair in her eyes. "Leave," she instructed. "I need a word with the boy."
Una's eyebrows jumped. "I beg your pardon?"
"Go," Ethos said, and he nodded once to encourage her. "We'll continue this later."
She seemed to read his urgency. Una swallowed and nodded back, curling hair behind her ear. But she paused by the entrance. "I'm telling Peter," she said. "Expect him to come in here."
When she'd gone, Aria calmly shut the door. She was much taller than she'd seemed from afar, nearly his height— taller, perhaps. It was this that set her apart from Anouk, with whom she shared a striking resemblance. Her steely eyes flashed like a fine set of knives.
"You're his mother, they tell me," he greeted. "It's nice to finally meet you."
She promptly responded by punching him in the face. It hurt far less than it should have, but then, he'd been drinking. He collided with the table and fell, taking a chair and a cup of ale with him. The floor welcomed him back. Slowed by his own surprise, it took him a moment to notice the blood, which was streaming rapidly down his chin and staining the front of his new borrowed shirt.
Aria threw a cloth at him. "Here," she said. "Clean yourself up."
Ethos held the cloth to his nose, chuckling at himself and wincing. "I'd anticipated a certain level of hostility," he told her. "Still, I'm surprised."
"We've bones, you and I."
"Then talk."
"It's about Gladius."
"What do you want to know?"
"You killed him?"
"Technically."
"Why?"
He'd never been asked outright like that. Not even by Una. She'd wanted him to explain himself, sure, to justify what he'd done to her father, but she'd never stood her ground and demanded a proper account of the incident. So Ethos conceded a rare loss for words, sitting there covered in ale and blood, towered by Peter's mother of all people.
Aria squatted to search his eyes. Firmly, she repeated, "Why?"
"It was an accident," he answered. "I'd intended to die at his hands, I think."
Silence, briefly. "What instigated the fight?"
Ethos glanced at the cloth. "It was a turn of events," he said. "He was going to kill me, so I reacted and killed him first. It's as simple as that."
"A turn of events, was it."
"That's right."
"You're saying you killed the strongest man in creation by accident."
Ethos couldn't read her peculiar expression; it was much too straightforward, conveying multiple things at once. Her heartbeat was steady, as were her hands. She wasn't afraid of him. "I'm assuming you already know all about me," he guessed. "What do you want?"
She watched him, unsmiling. "Eadric Haraldson deserved what he got," she said. "I'd have done it myself years ago if Jonah hadn't talked me down. Hans Redbeard, so called. For the greater good, he'd say it was, forcing our hands all the while regardless. Could've convinced the sea it was dry." The skin tightened around her eyes. "Your father," she thought she knew. "I see him in you, in what you do. Even the way you carry yourself. And I'll be damned if I let my idiot son be led around like we were."
The bleeding had stopped, so Ethos let his hand drop. "As far as Peter's concerned, I'm only here to facilitate his transition to leadership," he said. "I won't argue the rest."
"Aye, he'll lead. And he'll take all the heat while you lead from the shadows."
"Peter and I aren't Eadric and Gladius. Eadric and Gladius are dead." It was easy enough to let her glare. There were very old storms behind her eyes, brewing there like they'd never calmed. He could've stared at them for hours. "You and Gladius almost married," he remembered. "Did you love him?"
He'd startled her. Aria bristled. "Watch your tongue."
"I honestly didn't mean to kill him."
She looked like she wanted to strike him again, but she didn't.
Ethos smiled for her. "Try not to worry about Peter so much," he advised. "Come spring he'll be perfectly self-sufficient, running the system and rebuilding Oldden. Your only complaint will be how rarely you get to see him."
"And you?" she pressed. "What about you?"
He felt his smile fade, just a little. "I'll be long gone, I think."