Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

She felt a weight settle on the edge of the bed, and then a gentle, familiar hand ruffled her tangled hair. “It’s me, love. Don’t cry anymore.”

“Dad!” Zanna shot upright and flung her arms around him.

One-handed, Vannor hugged her. “Everything’s going to be all right, lass—don’t you worry. Just give me a day or so to get my legs back under me again, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Getting out of Nexis was not going to be easy. The patrols of guards in the streets had been markedly increased since Vannor’s escape, particularly at night, and Zanna’s description had been circulated all around the city—with a large enough reward to ensure that folk would be looking twice at every girl her age. To that problem, at least, it was Yanis—of all people—who found tne solution. “Then why does she have to be a girl?” he said. “Why can’t she go disguised as a lad?”

“What?” exclaimed Hebba, scandalized. “And cut off her lovely hair, and all! Why, the very idea!”

“Well,” said Benziorn, with an apologetic smile in Zanna’s direction. “It does seem to be the only solution…”

“Don’t worry, Hebba,” Zanna said stoutly. “I can always grow it again.”

But later, when her thick mane of shorn curls was lying on the kitchen floor and she looked at herself in Hebba’s tiny mirror, she felt far less brave about the scheme—in fact, she was utterly aghast. Dear gods! she thought. That can’t be me! I look like a scarecrow! With the defensiveness of a young girl who had always known that she wasn’t pretty, she had long ago stopped worrying about her appearance, but now that her hair had been hacked off—badly—by Hebba, the plainness of Zanna’s features seemed more pronounced than ever. What would Yanis, so handsome himself, think of her now, compared to the girl Emmie whom he had called for in his sleep? He’d said that the stranger was beautiful…

And Hebba was no help. Even now, she was fluttering around Zanna, clucking with dismay. “Poor little lass, what have we done to you? All your lovely hair—what a dreadful thing to happen, and at your age. Why, what young man would look at you now—you look just like a lad yourself, and no mistake! How the master could have allowed it… I told him, I did. Oh, if only he had listened to me!”

Zanna could bear it no longer. “Shut up, you stupid old woman! It was necessary! Better this than being recaptured by the Magefolk.”

“Well, I’m sorry, I’m sure,” snapped Hebba. “Still, you’re bound to be upset, I expect.” She flounced out of the kitchen in a huff, banging the door behind her.

The hated reflection in the mirror suddenly blurred as Zanna felt her throat grow tight with tears. She swallowed hard, not wanting to betray herself to the menfolk when they came back into the kitchen. You fool! She told herself angrily. What you told Hebba was right—it was necessary. Fancy getting so upset over such a little thing, after all you’ve been through these last few weeks! If your face isn’t good enough for the so-called leader of the Nightrunners, then that’s his loss. But even common sense was little comfort, and she dreaded what she would see in the faces of the others when they returned.

Vannor was the first to enter, and from the cautious way he put his head around the door, Zanna knew that Hebba had been telling tales. The very notion made her seethe. “Well?” she snapped. “Go on. Have a good laugh, and get it over with!”

Gravely, Vannor shook his head. “I don’t see anything to laugh at. I never could understand this notion of yours that you aren’t pretty—there’s more to beauty than looking spectacular, like your sister and Sara…” A slight frown crossed his face at the memory of his lost young wife. “Anyway,” he went on, “don’t let Hebba upset you. She’s all heart and no brains, as Dulsina used to say. You look just fine, love—and if it really bothers you, remember that your hair is something you can grow back in no time…”

As his voice tailed away, Zanna’s eyes went guiltily to the bandaged stump of his hand. Though he tried to hide it from her, she knew he was still suffering a good deal of pain from the injury. Her own resolution hardened—which was just as well, because she needed it when she saw Yanis’s mouth twitch in ill-suppressed amusement. Tarnal, however, cheered her a little. “Why, I never noticed, under all that hair, what lovely eyes you have,” he exclaimed.

Zanna could have kissed him.

The escape from Nexis was set for the following day, and the fugitives sat up late that night around the kitchen fire, making plans. Hebba, with Zanna in her lad’s disguise, and Tarnal—who had insisted on accompanying the women in case of trouble—would leave early in the morning, when folk were out in search of food and the streets were at their busiest, in the hope that they could lose themselves in the crowds. Tarnal was to convey them safely to the fulling mill and leave them hidden in the sewers, to wait there until nightfall, when Benziorn would come down with Yanis and Vannor. In the meantime, Tarnal would make his way out of the city via the sewers to the few outlying merchant mansions that had been built too far out of Nexis to be enclosed by Miathan’s great wall. Once there, he would scout their little riverside boat-houses in search of a pleasure-craft to steal.

“And let’s hope he does find one,” Vannor put in at this point, “otherwise it’ll be a bloody long walk all the way to Wyvernesse.” He had reluctantly allowed the others to talk him into heading for the smugglers’ hideout rather than the rebel camp, because it could be reached by water, sparing him the hardships of the long trek across the moors. It was the only workable solution—but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Not only did he want to be back with his own folk, but the thought of what could happen to a small boat on the open sea, even hugging the coastline, made his blood run cold.

Zanna made no reply. She was far too busy worrying about Tarnal. His would be by far the most dangerous role in their escape, having to creep through the grounds of the well-guarded mansions—especially in broad daylight. When all the details of the plan had finally been settled, and Zanna crept gratefully into bed, she was so weary that she could barely think—yet for a long, long time she found herself tossing and turning restlessly, as her concern for the young Nightrunner made it impossible for her to sleep.

The following morning, when Vannor shook her awake in the dimness before dawn, Zanna was far too tired to worry about anything. Shivering and reluctant, she climbed into the mismatched selection of lad’s clothing that Hebba had been able to scrounge together for her. It felt strange, not having skirts to swirl around her legs—very free, yet at the same time oddly constricting. It was lucky, she thought ruefully, as she fastened a band of fabric tightly across her breasts and pulled on a loose, ragged tunic to hide the evidence, that she didn’t have much there to conceal.

When she left the cramped litle room she had shared with the cook and came downstairs, the others were already in the kitchen, huddled round the fire drinking taillin and speaking in subdued voices. Hebba, who was bustling around trying to get breakfast, kept dissolving into tears at the thought of leaving her beloved home. On that score, however, Vannor had been very firm. If the Magefolk should ever find out that she had harbored the fugitives, her life would instantly be forfeit. Whether she liked it or not, he was determined to have her safe.

When he saw his daughter, Vannor’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “By the gods, lass—I never would have recognized you!” He pulled her roughly into a hug. “Do you know,” he said softly, for her ears alone, “when you and your sister were born, I was young and daft enough in those days to wish for a son. Well, I want to tell you now that you’re far braver and more clever, and more precious to me, than any son could be. I couldn’t be prouder of you.”