Sunshield by Emily B. Martin

Author:Emily B. Martin [Martin, Emily B.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780062888563
Publisher: Harper Voyager
Published: 2020-05-25T23:00:00+00:00

Tamsin

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E

S

Veran

Iano proves to be a more stalwart travel companion than I would have thought. Our first twenty-four hours of travel are defined largely by being utterly, penetratingly soaked. The rain does not so much fall as simply envelop us, above, around, below, and soon inside as well. Despite my heavy felted cloak, within a half hour even my undergarments are soaked, making my seat squelch in the saddle with every rise of my horse’s shoulders.

The few times I steal a glance at Iano, his face is set and grim. He’s traded his jeweled hairpin for a kind of gallant horsetail under a black hood, festooned with a golden tassel. Between that, his expensively styled tack, and the graceful longbow and quiver slung over his back, we’re clearly marked as some flavor of nobility, but I’m hoping we can pass for merely well-to-do travelers and not two princes off on a highly inadvisable mission.

Our first night of camping finds us in a small clearing off the road, huddled under a questionably rigged tarpaulin. The rain streams through the canopy, collecting in the center of the tarp and making it sag until a steady trickle pours between us and puddles on the ground.

Iano doesn’t comment at our miserable shelter, but it’s eating away at me. Woodcraft has been a staple of my life since before my first breath, but I’m realizing too late it’s not exactly hereditary. I’ve heard enough of Mama’s tales to repeat them in my sleep, and I’ve read the collection of Woodwalker handbooks more than the average Woodwalker, but there can be no denying that I’m severely lacking in hands-on experience. Climbing trees and knowing birdcalls is one thing, but it’s another thing entirely to stand holding a rope, befuddled by cold and stiff fingers, trying to recall which knot is used to lash together a bivouac. Is it a slipknot, and if so, which one? Is it an eight on a bight? For that matter, how does one tie an eight on a bight without a manual?

As I’m gnawing on these intricacies, Iano gives a little start and slaps his neck. He pulls his hand away to reveal a crushed mosquito. When we first left the palace, he produced a jar of oily cream that smelled of lemon balm, but a few intrepid insects haven’t been deterred by it.

“How soon does rainshed fever develop after you’ve been bitten?” I ask.

Iano grimaces and wipes his palm on his cloak. “A few days, usually, but we’ve gotten a fair distance away from Tolukum—the danger of fever diminishes in the outer hamlets. Nobody really knows why.”

Perhaps it’s the recent series of events that does it—the dead birds on the ground, Eloise’s sickness, the mosquitoes in the window—but the answer strikes me like a lightning bolt. That same curiosity Eloise and I mused over not long ago now seems plain as day. I twist to face him.

“How long have those giant windows been up in the palace?”

“The atriums?” He scratches his new bug bite.

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