Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(41)
Ana shifted, reaching for something in front of her. With what seemed like tremendous effort, she lifted a large leather pouch for him to see. “I took this from the bartender,” she croaked. “Since I won you from the bounty hunters, I suppose it belongs to me now.”
Ramson stared at the bulging pouch of goldleaves in her hands, a laugh caught in his throat. For once, he had no interest in the gold. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, so many words at the tip of his tongue. Thank you for coming after me. Thank you for fighting for me. Thank you for saving my life.
But Ramson couldn’t bring himself to utter any of those. Instead, he gave a raspy chuckle, tapped the pouch, and said, “I’ve taught you well.”
Ana awoke slowly to the cool scent of a rain-soaked world and the crackling of a fire.
Everything hurt. She had the strange sensation that every part of her had turned to stone—heavy, cold stone—and she would never move an inch again.
Blearily, she opened her eyes. Just as reluctantly, the world came back into focus in a blur of light and shadows. She was lying on a hard stone floor. All around her, great pillars rose, curving into arched ceilings high above her head. The stone was embellished with ornate carvings, and she thought of the temples she’d frequented back in Salskoff. Men and women danced in a never-ending circle in a weaving interlude of the four seasons, from flowers to fall leaves to flakes of snow.
Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter.
She was in a Temple of Deities, in the middle of the Syvern Taiga, judging from the whispers of the trees outside. Moonlight dripped through the cracked glass of the long windows, casting the world in silhouettes and light. At the top of the dome, circular windows formed a ring around the center. The windows were split into quadrants, each with a carving inside: a flower, a sun, a leaf, and a snowflake. The Deities’ Circle—the Deys’krug.
Light filtered through the carvings and cast them in overlapping shadows on the white marble floor. A slight wind stirred, and as always, when she found herself in a temple, she thought of her aunt. Mamika Morganya had always devoutly worshipped the Deities, kneeling in the Palace temple with her dark hair twined in a braid, her beautiful doe eyes closed. If Ana closed her eyes now, she could almost hear the sigh of her mamika’s silk kechyan, the soft clinks of a silver Deys’krug around her neck.
Her heart ached as she thought of her mamika. It was her aunt who had taught her to interpret the legends of the Deities, to find a sliver of relief in a world that despised Ana and her kind.
Ana pushed herself up, drawing a deep breath and wincing as she felt a sharp pain in her midriff. One hand darted to her abdomen; the other reached out for May.
Her hand clasped empty air.
Details of the previous night came crashing back. The rain. The mercenaries. The blood. Bile rose in her throat; she rubbed her eyes to chase away Blackbeard’s image, his face contorting, crimson spilling from his mouth.
Literally bled dry.
The work of the deimhov.
But…there had also been something else. Someone lifting her onto a horse, holding her steady throughout the night as they rode through a dark, rain-beaten forest. She’d lost consciousness at some point…and yet…
Ana touched the roughspun linen of her undertunic and breeches, her hands automatically tugging for a hooded cloak that wasn’t there. It lay strewn out across a stone by the fire, drying. Her rucksack sat nearby.
“Finally,” came a familiar voice, startling her. In the shadows beneath a pillar with the carving of a leaping fish, a figure moved. Ramson Quicktongue leaned into the firelight, eyes glinting, mouth curved in that infuriating grin. “I was tired of checking whether you’d died.”
Unease coursed through her. How long had he been sitting there, watching her? Last night had been a mistake—she’d overspent her Affinity and left herself defenseless. He could easily have killed her.
But…he hadn’t.
Ana narrowed her eyes. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Her voice came out in a rasp, as though someone were rubbing sandpaper down her throat.
Ramson chuckled and stood, clutching a waterskin. As he drew closer, she realized that the dark patches on his face were not shadows, but blooming bruises that were turning a nasty shade of purple. “Thank you for saving my life, Ramson,” he recited, spreading his hands and sauntering over. “Thank you for keeping me warm and dry, Ramson. Thank you for feeding me water and making sure I stayed alive, Ramson.” He paused as he reached her, and sank into a bow. “You’re very welcome, meya dama.”
She glared at him, but softened as he passed her the waterskin. As she guzzled down the cool rainwater, she suddenly realized how thirsty and how hungry she was. “How long was I asleep?”
“One day.”
The words hit her like a punch. They had lost an entire day’s time doing nothing—nothing, when they should have been going after those Whitecloaks who had taken May.
May.
Panic seized her. The world tilted sharply when she scrambled to her feet. She slammed into the wall, pain bursting in her shoulder. “We need to go,” she gasped. “We’ve lost too much time, we—”
Ramson was talking over her, his voice raised. “Calm your sails. We can’t leave now—”