Chapter Text
art by Nakji
They found another stream around dawn, sluggish and muddy but better than nothing, and collapsed on its bank. There was no sign of pursuers so far, and they needed rest at least as much as water.
"Didn't realize we were going west," Gideon murmured, eyeing the rising sun. "Toward the Seventh border—that won't do."
"Here I thought you were being clever for once." They were the first words Harrow had spoken to her since putting the knife away. "West is the last direction they'll expect us to go. But no, obviously it won't do long-term." She bent to whisper over her handfuls of water—definitely purification spells, this time. Gideon could smell it.
"What will do long-term? Where can we go?" Gideon scooped water carefully, trying to keep the dirt in it to a minimum. Harrow did not offer to purify hers.
"Our options," Harrow said impatiently, "are obviously limited. South to the Sixth, or east to the sea. At which point we would still have to turn south to the Sixth, but this time on a boat."
"The Sixth? I thought you hated Prince Palamedes."
Harrow huffed, annoyed. "I don't hate him. I just think he's arrogant, self-righteous, naïve, a mediocre mage, and not nearly as smart as he thinks he is."
"Right," Gideon said. "Practically best friends, then."
Harrow shot her a look, nostrils flaring. "It should already be quite clear to you, Griddle, that my liking someone is irrelevant to my seeking their help. Otherwise you would already be dead in a ditch. The important thing about Palamedes, since you're incapable of figuring this out on your own, is that he will help us. His overdeveloped sense of honor will obligate him to intervene."
"You sure you know which way he'll jump? The Sixth are close allies with the Seventh."
"Indeed," Harrow said. "So close that Prince Palamedes was betrothed to Lady Dulcinea."
"…Oh."
"Yes. I imagine he'll have no more love for Cytherea than we do, once he finds out."
"'Course, if the Sixth is our only real option, then it'll be no mystery to Cytherea where we're headed."
"None at all. But there's nothing to be done about that." Harrow pulled her knees to her chest, fiddling with her shoes—slippers, really, never intended for outdoor use, much less an all-night slog through the woods. They were coming apart at the seams. "The village of Umbra is not far from here."
Gideon shifted uneasily. "Not sure it's a good idea to go into a village—"
"I didn't ask your opinion," Harrow snapped. "We must have supplies, Nav, unless you think we can walk a hundred miles in occasional snow without food or warm clothing."
Gideon couldn't argue.
"We will make for Umbra," Harrow said. "Try to make yourself presentable before we arrive." She was looking, Gideon realized, at her reflection in the water. "I look like a wild animal. I must trim my hair," she murmured, gingerly touching the raggedly burned-off ends, "and re-apply mourning paint. Fortunately I carry some—"
"No," Gideon said.
Harrow looked at her sharply. "What did you say?"
"I said no. You've got to wash that paint off and leave it off."
Harrow opened her mouth to speak, sneering and furious, but Gideon interrupted.
"Yes, I know, I draw breath at your pleasure and exist only for your needs. You wanting me dead isn't anything new or intimidating, Harrow."
"Really? How's this for new and intimidating?" Harrow gestured with clawed hands, Gideon smelled earth, and suddenly her legs were heavy as stone. She dropped forcibly onto her knees.
"You do breathe at my pleasure, Griddle," Harrow said, looming over her, "and it is not remotely your place to give me orders or pass critique."
Gideon curled a lip, and slowly, gasping and heaving against the weight of her legs, forced herself upright. "No paint."
Harrow glared, open-mouthed, offended and—maybe—grudgingly impressed. "You dare to stand before me—before the Chief Mourner of the Lost Empress, whose parents' bodies are not yet cold—and try to deny me mourning paint?"
Gideon yanked Harrow by the arm, turning her to face the water, and jabbed a finger at her reflection. "See that? That's a Princess of the Ninth Kingdom, a Keeper of the Tomb. Cytherea happens to be looking for one of those. So you have to look like something else. Anything else."
Harrow slapped Gideon's hand off her arm, hard enough to sting. "You have no idea what you're asking."
"If you turn up at the nearest village to Drearburh other than Burh itself, wearing mourning paint and a fancy black gown, you'll be dead before nightfall." The spell had dissipated; she stepped closer. "If my only job is to keep you alive, Harrow, then let me do the job."
Harrow's gaze flicked to her reflection. "You would even take my clothing," she growled.
"If it keeps you alive, yeah! But it's your choice." Gideon threw her hands up. "Kindly Prince knows I can't make you do a bloody thing you don't want to." She stomped off.
"Where are you going, Griddle?" Harrow shouted.
"Looking for something to eat," Gideon snapped back.
She didn't go far, and she didn't find much, only a handful of nuts probably starting to rot on the inside. It was a lousy time of year for foraging—the dead dregs of winter, just before the first forays of spring. She headed back to the stream with the nuts in her pocket, just in case Harrow was actually hungry enough to eat them.
And stopped in her tracks, staring, when she was still just inside the trees. Harrow was on her knees beside the stream, haloed in sunrise, washing her face with the torn remains of her veil. The dripping water made it difficult to tell whether she was crying, but Gideon had suspicions. Crying or not, her voice was clear and quiet, singing the mourning hymn reserved for royal funerals.
Gideon stayed utterly still and silent until the hymn was over and the paint was gone, and the girl who remained, tiny and tattered and bare-faced in the full sunlight, looked almost nothing like Harrow at all.
The village of Umbra was no bigger than Burh, but looked more prosperous and less grim. The buildings were in decent repair, some even painted, and the large one on the corner was almost certainly a tavern. Gideon had only ever heard of taverns before. People hurried around the market square, carrying sacks and buckets of wares, selling rolls and candies on tall forked sticks, arguing with vendors in their stalls. Children and dogs ran wild, most of them looking moderately clean and healthy.
Gideon and Harrow did not look clean and healthy. They looked little better than beggars. Harrow's hair was inexpertly hacked off, shorter than her chin, and her multi-layered black gown had been stripped to its two plainest layers, with Gideon's red overtunic belted on tightly as a bodice. One outer layer, too singed and torn to wear, had been halved and wrapped around her limping feet. Another, in better shape, had been fashioned into a makeshift cloak for Gideon, covering her too-memorable hair.
On the whole, Gideon thought Harrow had probably gotten the better end of the deal, for all that she looked ready to die from the disgrace of wearing color.
They attracted looks, of course: not only strangers but dirty, ragged ones. The looks generally touched on Gideon's sword, and passed off again without giving them trouble.
They had a short but important list of needs—shoes for Harrow, cloaks for both of them, waterskins, and as much food as they could manage. What they didn't have was money. The only valuables to their names were Gideon's sword—which they would sell over Gideon's cold corpse—and what Harrow happened to have on her when the invasion began: a string of jet prayer beads and a couple of carved-bone amulets.
"They're worth a pretty penny," Harrow had assured her. "The problem is going to be finding a buyer in such a backwater place."
She led Gideon ruthlessly through the market, not letting her stop to stare wistfully at the food or in open-jawed fascination at the knickknacks, furniture, art, and colorful clothing. Harrow muttered once about the market being bigger than she expected, perhaps serving several smaller hamlets in the area, which made Gideon feel a bit less foolish for being overwhelmed by the noise and crowd. She'd never been anywhere so active.
At last they found a market stall where a stout, cheerful-faced man sold jewelry. Harrow gestured for Gideon to stay back while she approached.
Unsure whether to be offended, Gideon occupied herself at the next stall over, which had various leatherworks on display—pouches, purses, sheaths, shoes. A particularly fine pair of gloves caught Gideon's eye, and she picked them up to admire the stitching.
"Good morning, lovely," said a pleasant alto voice, and Gideon looked up to see the seller—a very pretty older lady with long black ringlets—smiling at her. "I could give you a very sweet deal on those, with a little persuasion."
Gideon's face felt hot. She smiled back, scratching at the back of her neck. "Oh, I—I don't know if—"
"Why don't you try them on? I'd love to see if they fit you."
Clumsy with self-consciousness, Gideon pulled on the gloves.
"It looks like they fit." The glove-seller leaned over the table—giving Gideon a generous view down her bodice—and pressed her fingers carefully all over Gideon's hand. Testing the fit of the glove, of course. "Everyone needs a good pair of gloves, wouldn't you say? You have to protect these lovely hands."
Gideon felt a little light-headed. She couldn't stop smiling. "Um. Sure, I guess. I don't have any money, though." She tugged the gloves off reluctantly.
The woman gave a fascinating little pout of disappointment. "Surely we could… work something out?"
A skinny arm looped through Gideon's and pulled her close, sharply enough to make her stagger.
"It's so kind of you," Harrow said, her voice high and brittle, "to offer me and my wife a discount, but we're not looking for gloves today. Darling?" She yanked Gideon over to the jewelry-seller's booth.
"What I mean, Miss," the jewelry-seller said, looking a bit bemused by Harrow's popping back and forth, "is that if I offered you what these prayer beads are actually worth, I'd have nothing left to feed my family. I just don't deal in anything this rich. No one in this little market does. So, it's not good business on your part, selling them to me."
"I appreciate your honesty, good sir," said Harrow, still holding Gideon's arm uncomfortably tight, "but if I don't sell them today, I'm the one who will have nothing to feed myself with. What can you offer me?"
The man scratched his whiskery cheek and grimaced. "Fifty crowns, Miss."
Harrow tensed indignantly. "They're worth at least twice that."
The man spread his hands. "As I said, Miss." As Harrow huffed and bit her lip consideringly, he added, "Fifty crowns is enough to get you and your wife a solid week at the inn. Hot meals and warm new clothes, too." He glanced back and forth between them, raising a curious eyebrow. "You look like you've had a tough time…?"
Gideon pulled her arm free of Harrow's grasp, nestled it around her skinny hips instead, and kissed the top of her head like a (nasty, feral) kitten. "I think we should take the offer, sweetheart."
A very satisfying tremor of rage went through Harrow's bony frame. She spoke between her teeth, keeping her expression pleasant. "I think we can do better, darling." She turned back to the jewelry-seller. "For half their worth, you get half the beads."
"Fair enough," the man said.
Harrow took a deep breath, looking down at the prayer beads. She tugged at it with ineffectual hands, trying for the snap of string that would transform an instrument of worship into a mere collection of little rocks, but couldn't manage it.
"Here," Gideon said impatiently, and broke the string without effort. Harrow gasped a little, as if had hurt, and glared at her. Gideon glared back without blinking.
Harrow counted off half the jet beads, and tied the remainder of the string into a loop. Beads and a purse of coins crossed paths on the jewelry man's table. Harrow ran some kind of earth spell through the purse, which seemed to satisfy her that all fifty golden crowns were there, and she inclined her head in haughty respect. "A pleasure doing business with you, sir."
"A pleasure indeed," Gideon said, leading Harrow away. She made sure the jewelry-seller could probably hear her when she nuzzled Harrow's temple and said, "I can't wait to get you into a nice, cozy inn room, beautiful. It's been ages since we had a proper bed."
As soon as they were out of sight of the jewelry stall, Harrow jerked away with a snarl. "What do you think you're—"
"You started it!"
"I made a reasoned decision—"
"Like hell!"
"You said—" Harrow lowered her voice and stepped closer. "You said we had to look like anything but what we are. The duch*ess is looking for a princess and a knight who hate each other, not a peasant couple in love." Her voice went poisonously sweet on the last two words.
"Oh, so this has nothing at all to do with how you can't stand for anyone—the leather-worker or Dulcinea—Cytherea—whatever, anyone—to actually like me? You have to keep me squashed miserably under your thumb at all times, but this has nothing to do with that—"
"It has to do only with keeping myself alive, Griddle," Harrow hissed. She dumped a handful of crowns into her own hand, and shoved the rest of the purse at Gideon. "Go engage us a room at the inn, and get us a meal. I'm not going another step without decent shoes and a cloak."
"A colorful cloak, my darling peasant wife."
"Go to hell, Nav."
Gideon whistled the whole way to the inn, tossing and catching the first money she'd held in years.
By the time Harrow caught up with her in the common room of the inn (which was also the tavern; it had taken Gideon a little while to figure that out), Gideon was on her second bowl of stew with extra bread on the side.
"There she is, the apple of my eye! Another helping of the same for my lovely bride," Gideon told the serving girl as Harrow approached.
"Congratulations, Miss," the girl said to Harrow, whose answering smile would have terrified young children. The girl bustled off while Harrow sat down across from Gideon.
Harrow hadn't managed to buy a colorful cloak, but at least it wasn't black. Brown was a perfectly unexceptional color that did not make anyone think of the Sepulchral Princess. When it was Gideon's turn to go shopping, she'd try to find one in red or purple.
"You eat like a barbarian," Harrow sighed, as if she hadn't expected much better.
Gideon paused with her spoon in her mouth, then pointedly finished the bite before speaking. "I'm using utensils and everything, Pr—pretty thing. Don't pretend you're not starving, too." She took a long swallow from her mug.
"Lost Empress, are you drunk?"
Gideon set down the mug. "Okay, now I am actually offended. No, Harrow, I am not drunk." sh*t, she shouldn't have said her name. They'd have to come up with fake names. "This is apple cider. The non-fermented kind. I may be an idiot and a barbarian, darling, but I'm not stupid enough to get drunk when I might be fighting for both our lives at any time."
Harrow looked uneasily around the common room—crowded and noisy, no one paying any particular attention to them. "Good."
The serving girl brought Harrow's food and a cider mug. Her table manners, Gideon thought smugly as Harrow fell upon the bread and stew, were no better than Gideon's own.
"You've gotten us a room, yes?" Harrow asked when both their plates were empty.
"Yes. It's still early, though, and I need new clothes—"
"I bought them already," Harrow said with a dismissive wave.
"What?" The word was half a squawk, packed with indignant disappointment. "Har—Honey—"
"We don't have time for fun and games," Harrow said impatiently. "The crowns I took from the purse stretched further than I thought they would, so I made efficient use of them. Take me to our room."
So she did, and got to savor Harrow's expression when she saw that the innkeeper had decorated the room with dried flower petals and a little fire spell to put twinkling lights on the ceiling, 'for the newlyweds.'
"That's going to make it hard to sleep," Harrow said, glaring at the lights.
"Are we really going to be sleeping that much, my little sweet potato?"
"You are such a child."
"Does that make you a cradle-robber?"
"As if I'd ever bother stealing you." Harrow stomped over to the bed, swept petals off it with her arm, and dumped the bundle she'd been carrying. "The dress is for me. I'm going to go clean up now."
Gideon examined the purchases. Two shapeless leather packs, two waterskins, and a decent amount of travel rations—journeybread, dried fruit, a bit of salted meat. Harrow's new dress was grey wool with a blue bodice. The clothing she'd bought for Gideon turned out to be a black hood, a dark green cloak… and a pair of gloves.
They weren't the same ones she had picked up at the leather-seller's stall. They were better. Stronger leather, warmer lining, and cuffs decorated with little yellow starbursts. And they had to be for Gideon, they were much too big for Harrow's hands. Gideon turned to ask Harrow about them—then dropped the gloves on the floor.
Harrow was naked.
It wasn't exactly that she'd never seen Harrow naked before. Back when she was Harrow's bosom companion, they'd done everything together, including dress and bathe. But that was seven years ago. And seven years had… wrought some changes to Harrow's figure.
"Nav!" Harrow yelped, snatching up her discarded skirts to cover herself.
"Don't you Nav me!" Gideon scrambled to turn away, covering her eyes. "You're the one who took off all your clothes! What, did you forget I was here?"
"I told you I was going to clean up! I thought you were trained in chivalry, for heaven's sake. Any other knight would have the decency not to look."
"Well, unfortunately I'm the knight you're stuck with."
"Very unfortunately," Harrow said icily, "for everyone in Castle Drearburh."
Ouch.
"Stay right there, Sir Gideon Nav," Harrow continued, "facing the wall, until I tell you otherwise."
Gideon groaned impatiently, but remained facing the wall. There was absolutely nothing to look at on the wall, other than the mild novelty of wood instead of stone. So there was absolutely nothing—other than the overwhelming guilt she'd rather not think about, thanks, Harrow—to distract Gideon from the sound of Harrow dipping her washcloth into the water basin, wringing it out, scrubbing it over her skin. Rinse and repeat. Gideon stared at the wall, tapping her fingers against her elbows, trying not to think about shoulders or thighs or dinky little feet with scabs and bruises that needed tending, and definitely not about tawny-peaked little… other things that were prettier than she'd ever expected.
She really needed to get out more. See more people. See people other than Harrow. As soon and as often as possible.
"All right, Nav," Harrow said, sounding harried. "Your turn."
"My turn?"
"To clean up! You think I'm sharing a bed with you in your current condition?"
Sharing a…? Right. Of course. There was only one bed in the room.
Gideon peeked cautiously before turning around, but Harrow was safely covered by her thin chemise. They circled each other warily, switching sides of the room.
Gideon looked down into the wash basin. The water was cloudy with dirt, bits of twig and leaf floating in it. She wrinkled her nose, picked up the basin, and dumped the water out the window, ignoring Harrow's squeak of outrage at having her chemise briefly exposed to the night sky. Then she refilled the basin from the water jug, and rinsed their one and only washcloth thoroughly before using it, for all the good that might do when she was washing in the water she'd rinsed it in.
While Gideon peeled off her dirty clothes and started cleaning off her dirty skin, she heard Harrow bumping about with their packs, dividing the supplies between them. Doubtless giving Gideon the heavier share. It took her a few seconds to notice when the noise stopped, and glance over her shoulder—to see Harrow staring at her.
"Hypocrite much?" Gideon said indignantly.
"I wasn't looking." Harrow managed to sound affronted by the accusation, even as scarlet bloomed high in her cheeks. "I—thought I heard a noise. Anyway, even if I was, it would only be fair."
"Face the wall, Princess."
"Oh, for the Lost Empress—"
Gideon raised her eyebrows and drew a circle with her finger, miming turning around. Harrow rolled her eyes, and turned around, cheeks still flushed.
Gideon took her time bathing. She wouldn't want Her Funereal Highness to have to share a bed with someone dirty.
The sleeping situation was awkward, of course, both of them in a bed smaller than the one Harrow slept in alone, though larger than Gideon's pallet. They lay back to back beneath patched and musty blankets, but their legs—bare under Gideon's long undershirt and Harrow's chemise—kept touching.
"If you kick me during the night," Gideon grumbled, "I will not be responsible for my actions."
"I'm surprised you're aware of the concept of responsibility for your actions."
f*ck you, f*ck you, I didn't mean to get your parents killed. Gideon clenched her teeth, and said only, "Go to sleep, my bumpkin bride, or I might knock your teeth in. For the peasant disguise, you know. Verisimilitude."
"Bumpkin," Harrow said blurrily, sounding perilously close to amused, and Gideon realized she was half asleep already.
Gideon wasn't far behind.
She woke flailing and gasping in the unfamiliar dark—or half-woke, her mind still overflowing with images of blood, smoke, screams and the wet juddering drag of a blade through flesh. Freckles disappearing into the wall. A soldier on the floor with surprise on her dead face.
"Gideon. Hush, hush, it's all right. Gideon, you're safe."
She wasn't coherent enough to put a name to the voice, or to the warm hands stroking her brow, combing through her hair. But they were familiar. Trusted. Somewhere underneath the odors of dirt and sweat imperfectly washed off, she could smell lilies.
She curled herself around the warm, familiar, trusted body, and went back to sleep.
