Chapter 10 - Reap and Sow

Eda had no idea how long they rode for. All she knew for certain was the numbness in her hands and face, the endless stream of shocked faces as they galloped through the streets.

Her thighs burned; Kit hurtled around corners and weaved between obstructions in an unstoppable fury. She was glad of the pain. It was enough to distract her for a time. She hunkered down over the stallion’s back, blocking out the dark rush of the city. She didn’t know where they were going. She didn’t ask.

Eventually and all at once, Eda realized that the sky had opened up around them—the damp stench of the canals blown away. Kit slowed to a canter.

Fields. Flat farmland, stretching on for miles. They rode down the traveler’s road and followed the line of the River Embel, a tributary of the Saint’s Waterway that twined northeast. On rare summer days, the Shaws used to take a horse cart to its southern banks, as many commonfolk did when the city heat became too much. Lawrie would leap like a dog into the river, stark naked and laughing, while Ben patiently held Eda aloft as she learned to swim. Those days slowly dwindled along with their childhood, but Eda remembered: the hazy, sun-drenched light; the prickly grass under bare feet. Ben’s smile.

She glanced over her shoulder at Blackbridge. It was a wall of dark spires filling the horizon. One particular building loomed over the rest with its single pointed bell tower and arched buttresses, like the spine of some mammoth beast. The Great Templehouse. Behind it was Fell Keep, bastion of the Blades.

Somewhere in the dungeons beneath, her brothers waited to be put to death.

When last they’d properly spoken, they’d argued. Eda declared that she couldn’t wait to leave. Then the Blades arrived, and everything became a living nightmare. Was it really only the night before?

She looked away.

Kit took them through villages and farmsteads and orchards. He left the traveler’s road and cut toward the river itself, coming to an easy trot along its bank. He stopped in the shadow of a huge oak tree, sides swelling and deflating rapidly against her legs. He turned his head to glare at her.

“Do I get off here?”

Eda took his continued glare as confirmation.

Her hands had been locked around his mane long enough that releasing him actually hurt. Her joints were stiff with cold without the protection of her cloak, her palm a stinging, bloody mess. She’d barely found her feet before Kit was transforming in a whirl of black smoke.

He adopted his mortal guise, to her relief, but his eyes remained their unnerving fiery hue. His forearm was red and blistered where it peeked beneath his sleeve. Eda considered him as he stumbled drunkenly toward the oak tree, leaning against it for support. Demons tire, too, apparently.

“Are you…unwell?”

His eyes slid toward her. “Certain shapes take more effort to maintain. I haven’t used that one in a long time.”

Her head spun with unanswered questions. Right now, there was only one worth asking. “When can we free my brothers?”

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you?”

“We have a Pact. You promised—”

“I know the terms.”

“Well, I don’t. I didn’t even get the chance to read it.”

“Yet you signed. A monumental error in judgment, I’d say, but hardly my fault.” He looked down his nose at her like a lord to his chambermaid. “Worry not. You asked for my help in rescuing your kin, and I shall give it. But first…” He gestured sharply at his feet. “Let it be noted that I am fucking barefoot.”

Eda blinked. He was.

“Barefoot! Like a common animal!” He stepped gingerly over the wet grass. It had rained recently, and the ground was muddy beneath. “Bad enough that those sanctimonious bellends ruined my apartment. Now they ruin my trousers too. These are a tailored Forisian wool blend!”

Eda could only follow him as he marched down the riverbank, dumbfounded. “I didn’t think demons cared about human fashion.”

“Don’t tar us all with your brush, darling. Some of us have taste.” He glanced her up and down.

What an arsehole. Only residual fear of him held back a sharper retort. She could still see his bloodstained grin, the captain’s open throat. “Kindly answer my first question. When can we get my brothers?”

“That depends. Do you have a plan?”

Eda faltered. “Well…no. Not yet. I thought—”

“You thought I would magically teleport into their cell and pop back out, job done?”

Maybe. “Not exactly.”

“I cannot materialize wherever I wish, more’s the pity. Even if I could, the Blades will be keeping them beneath the Great Templehouse. That place is warded more tightly than a Sacred Sister’s knickers. I would know.” Whether he alluded to personal knowledge of the prison or a holy woman’s underthings, Eda did not wish to guess. “This heroic rescue will take proper planning…what’s your name again?”

“Eda Shaw! I told you already.”

“Yes, well. I’ve a poor memory for boring people.”

Eda gritted her teeth. Perhaps she shouldn’t expect propriety from a demon who’d ripped out a man’s throat an hour prior. If the worst he threw her way were barbed words, she should consider herself lucky. The Pact alone protected her.

“Is that where we’re going?” she pressed. “To plan?”

“That, and thanks to you, Eda, I’m homeless. My hope is that she’ll let us stay a while.”

“Who?”

Kit did not see fit to answer. Instead, he approached a wide-beamed canal boat moored farther down the bank, painted a charming blue. Eda hadn’t paid it much mind; there were plenty of river dwellers along this stretch of water. It was a twin-hulled barge, wider than the narrowboats favored by the riverfolk. A central cabin dominated the length of it, with a narrow walkway around the edge. A large paddle wheel was set beneath the deck, hand-powered by the tall crank sticking out the stern. Oriana was painted on its side in swirling white.

She hung back as Kit deftly hopped onto the deck as if he owned it. He stepped around clusters of planting pots and knocked on the cabin doors, a tad too forcefully. Movement stirred beyond one of the portholes.

“Who is this person, exactly?” Eda asked. “Can they be trusted?”

“I trust her.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

Kit’s response was lost as the cabin doors swung open, nearly whacking him in the chin. He jerked with a hiss. “Watch yourself, hag!”

“Why?” A tall, aging woman stepped onto the deck. “Have you grown so feeble that you’d bruise like old fruit?”

“Not the point. Robin, I need—”

“I don’t give a fig what you need.” Her eyes fell upon Eda, still standing on the grassy bank. “And bringing some pretty little vagrant won’t sweeten the deal. She’s far too young for me.”

“I’m not a vagrant,” Eda snapped.

“What are you, then?”

“She’s mine,” Kit said. “For now.”

Eda sucked in a breath. The woman noticed her hand.

“You made a Pact.” She shot Kit a look. “You.”

“Quite the enthralling tale. Won’t you at least invite us in so I might regale you with all the gory bits? Your favorite.”

Robin scowled. “I haven’t suffered a visit from you in years, you selfish bastard. Now that you want something, you suddenly reappear?”

Eda’s head whirled. Who was this woman, to banter with a demon so casually?

“Don’t embarrass yourself by pretending you’re not delighted. I’m shocked you haven’t simply expired from boredom in my absence.” His voice turned sly and sweet. “I humbly beg an audience, fair maiden. A chance to talk and a cup of your delicious peppermint tea is all I ask.”

“Fair maiden? Thought I was a hag.”

“That’s no way to talk about yourself.”

Robin assessed them both and released a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, come aboard. But it better be a damn good story.”

* * *

It was sundown by the time Robin was all caught up, partly because Kit spent the first half hour being told off for sticking his nose in her cupboards and tormenting her cat.

“What’s his name?” Eda asked, endeavoring to make small talk. She held out her hand to the huge hairy tabby and earned a scornful glare in return.

“Bastard,” Robin said.

“Sorry?”

“His name. Old Bastard, technically. He’s a bit long in the tooth nowadays.”

Old Bastard stationed himself at the end of Robin’s padded bench in a disgruntled huff, his rear pressed to the cabin wall. Kit claimed the bench opposite. This clearly perturbed Old Bastard, for every time the demon’s eyes drifted his way, the cat made a low, angry sound.

Very sensible of him.

The interior of the Oriana was surprisingly cozy. Walls clad in cheerful pine gave the place a woodsy aroma. A tiny log burner dormant in the corner by the entrance. Two padded benches lining each side of the cabin, replete with hand-knit cushions and a folding table for dining. At the other end, a kitchenette boasted various herbs hanging in bushels. Racks of unidentifiable ingredients cluttered the walls, full of colorful pots and jars. Steps led down from the kitchenette; Robin’s quarters below deck, Eda assumed.

None of it was so interesting as the woman herself. Robin was willowy and elegant, somehow, despite her untamed waterfall of gray hair and kohl-lined eyes. She wore a simple russet dress and headband. Golden hoops adorned her ears and wrists, with a matching oval pendant upon her bronzed breast. Riverfolk traded in gold, Eda knew. They usually traveled in convoys, some hundreds of boats strong. But Robin was alone.

There was a strange familiarity about her—something both formidable and reassuring. An intensity. Eda sensed no malevolence, yet Robin’s presence inside this quaint cabin felt like a storm in a teacup.

Robin listened and poured tea while Eda regaled her with only the most pertinent details—careful to leave out any mention of Mr. Night.

“So,” the old woman said finally, “you’ve cocked up and now you want to rope me into your nonsense.”

“I have not cocked up,” Eda snapped, gripping her cup. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Fifty years, lamb.”

“You don’t need to remind me. And I’m not a fucking lamb.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up. For the first time, she smiled. “My mistake. Those pretty eyes and golden curls are a convincing distraction. But a woman with a crass mouth is one after my own heart.”

“I grew up with two brothers,” Eda explained tersely. “And that’s why I’m doing this. For them. They would die for me, they will die for me, if I can’t—” She swallowed.

I’ve spent my life watching others sign away their so-called souls, she wanted to say. No one understands better than me.

Pacts could not be made if they would interfere with another, and the bargain she’d made today didn’t directly affect her father’s. But Eda would rather avoid the topic altogether. Kit didn’t know that she was tied to another Pact, and she was in no hurry to tell him. Once Ben and Lawrie were free, and the mirror found, they could go their separate ways. He needn’t ever know she had dealings with the very demon that hunted him.

Dying light shone through the portholes, limning Robin’s wrinkled face in gold. She glanced at Eda’s hand. “You’re a brute,” she reprimanded Kit, gathering pots from her shelves. “You didn’t have to make such a large cut.”

The demon in question lounged across the other bench, unfazed. “I was in a hurry.”

Robin set about cleaning Eda’s wound. She let her, bemused but willing to take the kindness for what it was. She hissed as dried blood was wiped away and a thick, sharp-smelling ointment patted into the cut by calloused fingers.

Eda felt unmoored. She’d sought Kit out for his power—if a shape-shifter could not liberate her brothers, no one could—but her hopes of a quick rescue were rapidly dwindling. Kit was, by his own admission, limited in his abilities. Was this the case for other demons? For Mr. Night? He’d raised Emmeline from the grave. It seemed unthinkable that he could not remake the nature of the world with a mere gesture, that he might be anything less than omnipotent. And yet, for all the miraculous ways he fulfilled his Pacts, she had never witnessed them herself. Could any of it be the mundane simply masquerading as the magical? Theatrics and parlor tricks? If Mr. Night had any limitations at all, he certainly wouldn’t want them known.

Perhaps Eda had overestimated demons. Regardless, she hadn’t really asked Kit for his power—she’d asked for his help. Now she might have a safe place to lay her head at night. That, she conceded, was a helpful start indeed.

“How do you know one another?” Eda asked.

Kit made an amused sound.

“I was in the city when Kit’rath first arrived here,” Robin said. “He was badly injured, and we made a deal in return for my help. Not a Pact, you understand, though he offered one. A simple trade. Some shavings from his horn—a rare and powerful ingredient. He’s been bothering me ever since.”

Understanding dawned. “You’re a witch!”

Robin’s hand twitched around her own. “I’m a student of the alchemical arts, the same as all those poncy magic users in the Faithhood. Only difference is that when you’re sanctioned by the Faith, you’re called an alchemist, and when you’re not, you’re a dissident hex-peddler.” She wrapped bandages around the meat of Eda’s hand. “I may have no formal training, but I never needed it. Useful way to make coin on the river. Basic charms and enchantments are valuable.”

Magical practice was not strictly outlawed in Wesland, but it was certainly taboo if you weren’t invited into the Alchemists’ Cloister. Such rare gifts were to be used in service of the Faith or not at all. Eda supposed there was some merit in that, for within the Cloister one’s magic might be properly trained and put to noble use. Whatever the Faithhood deemed noble, at least.

Kit said, “I’m willing to part with more of my horn in return for room and board, Robin. The woman and I need somewhere safe beyond the city gates until this Pact is done. I won’t even ask for any of your witchy magicks. I can retrieve the brothers on my own.”

“It will take more than brute force.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you? Fell Keep is well guarded. The very walls repel the demonic. You will need to plan accordingly.”

Eda said to Kit, “Let me help. They’re my brothers.”

“This whole thing will be done faster if you stay out of the way and let me work.”

“Not strictly true,” Robin said. “You may be powerful, Kit’rath Ansellis, but your very nature will be hard to hide from the Blades. Use the girl. She is human. Together, you might resemble something like a well-balanced team.”

Kit sneered.

Eda brightened. “Does that mean you’ll let us stay?”

“Hm. I have run out of demon’s horn…Very well. But if any Blades come sniffing, you shall be out on your arses and I’ll be halfway down the Embel before their boots touch the ground.”

“Perfectly fair of you,” Kit said. “Go on, then. Get the cheese grater.”

Eda couldn’t help but ask, “Is that what happened to your broken horn? You gave it to Robin?”

The demon’s expression fell. “No.”

A hundred more questions balanced on the tip of her tongue, but the memory of his violence mired his apparent geniality. Eda held back her queries, and an uncomfortable silence descended.

Kit suddenly rose to his feet. He snatched an apple from Robin’s basket before slipping out the cabin door without a word to either of them.

“Don’t bother,” Robin said. “He might have been playing human these last twenty years, but the facade only goes so deep. Don’t expect much by way of illuminating chitchat.”

Twenty years. Kit had been hiding from Mr. Night as long as she’d been alive.

As long as the Shaws had kept the mirror.

Eda fiddled with her bandaged hand as the weight of the day finally crashed over her. She closed her eyes, seeing nothing but blood and claws and dark, fathomless mirrors. “I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”

A whisper, spilled forth without conscious thought. She’d bartered away so much for this one chance at saving Ben and Lawrie. An entire life—one that had seemed so abstract it hardly felt real. But to look now at the crow’s feet around Robin’s eyes, something inside Eda withered and died. That future had been real: a wizened, white-haired version of herself who would have lived and loved and lost. And she’d given it up.

Robin sipped loudly from her cup. “None of us know what we’re doing, lamb, no matter how old we grow. You just get better at pretending.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“It’s no insult. You’re a lamb in appearance only.” Robin’s smile turned sharp. Oddly, it reminded Eda of Mr. Night. “You sought out a deal with a demon, after all. You don’t flinch when he looks at you. That tells me there’s something of the wolf beneath your sheep’s clothing.”

By the time night descended, Kit had still not returned.

And bone-tired as she was, Eda could not sleep.

She was given a hearty stew for supper and a thick blanket for bed, but despite the full belly and acceptable sleeping arrangements, Eda’s mind whirred like a spoke on a wheel. She tossed and turned on Robin’s bench for an hour after the old woman retired below deck.

Her calf throbbed where the net had clipped her. Her bandaged hand itched. Even her inside lip—thank you, Gregory—was a constant distraction. Eda thought of the Pact she’d made and dread choked her like bile. She thought of Lich’s dark, shrewd eyes, and that made it worse. How the ever-living saints was she going to get him that mirror? How would she find Mr. Night his remaining years before autumn harvest?

Then there were Ben and Lawrie.

Images played behind her eyes, fragmented by the long years. The way Lawrie used to read to her when she woke crying from bad dreams, a mere child himself, tired and soft-voiced. How Ben taught himself to braid her hair, though it was always sloppy and ill-formed, because Eda had no mother to show her how. Lawrie was the tactile one. He would hug her, chase her squealing around the stacks, tickle her when she needed cheer. Ben was the one to cook her food and tie her shoes, to make sure she always had clothes that fit. He worked his young body hard so that Eda and Lawrie could keep the shop. It must have been crushing, the weight of that burden. Lonely.

She missed them terribly. What she wouldn’t give now to hear Ben berate her or Lawrie ramble on about some obscure antique.

Eda furiously wiped the tears trailing into her hair. If she could not save them, they would die with the memory of an ungrateful, wretched sister who scorned them when they’d only ever tried to protect her. She had long blamed her father for their circumstances, but this failure was entirely hers.

Does this surprise you? that butter-smooth voice crooned. As always, it sounded just like Mr. Night. You’re the reason all of this began. If you hadn’t killed your mother, none of this would have come about. All this suffering…it began with you. You deserve to have those fifty years taken.

Eda pulled the scratchy blanket up to her nose. She’d gone begging a demon for help, sunk to depths she’d sworn far beneath her. The shame of it was devastating. What separated her now from all those marks she’d so reviled?

It’s not the same. I am not my father.

Perhaps she had an ill fate upon her back. Perhaps the shadows she felt imprisoned by were, in truth, her natural home, a nocturnal creature foolishly yearning for the sun. If so, then the hazy, glimmering future she’d imagined for herself beyond Blackbridge was never meant to bear fruit. The best Eda might do now was accept her fate and make amends. While she still could.

Above her, Old Bastard had sequestered himself on an overflowing shelf. Eda watched his dangling tail flick back and forth. Her mind turned to another cat—one black as night and sleek as oil, with eyes the color of fire.

As if she’d conjured him, a low thud sounded from without the cabin. The water sloshed against the boat’s hull. Eda tensed.

She debated for only a moment.

Old Bastard blinked at her lazily, moonlight gleaming in his slitted eyes as she threw off the blanket. Eda crept through the kitchenette and peered out a porthole.

Kit was a dark shape upon the Oriana’s bow. Silhouetted by the silvery, rippling river, he appeared unnaturally still by contrast. No mortal could sit so inert while still drawing breath.

Eda narrowed her eyes.

If she could not have sleep, she would have answers.