Dacey had rowed until her shoulders had gone completely numb.
The little boat had been too small for comfort and too stubborn to sink, its gunwales knocking her knees each time the oars bit water. She had left the battlefield early but no doubt there were others behind her. The water around her swirled with eddies of blood as the oars dipped in and out.
Dijkstra had ridden the sternpost in silence, a pale shape against the dark water. Even he maintained an atypical silence after the clamor of battle.
Saltpans rose from the mudflats in the light of late afternoon, low roofs and tarred docks and nets hanging limp from posts and rails. A smell of brine and fish guts clung to everything.
Dacey could have wept with relief at the sight of a hearth. She credited her northern constitution for the lack of hypothermia.
She pulled the boat into a narrow slip between pilings and jumped out into ankle-deep muck. Her legs wobbled as if they had forgotten what land was. She dragged the skiff up by its bowline, hands stinging, and forced it higher until it sat above the tide line. Only then did she straighten, rolling her shoulders with a hiss.
A man in a patched coat watched her from the end of the dock with a wary set to his mouth. His eyes slid to her hammer, then to the white raven, then away again as if he'd decided not to ask questions.
"Room," Dacey said, and her voice came out rough. She cleared her throat and tried again, softer. "An inn. Somewhere with a fire."
He nodded once, slowly. "You look like you got dragged here by a squid. Come on, then."
She followed him off the dock and up a lane of trampled mud. The town sat behind a four meter stone wall, more to keep animals out than armies, though there was a river gate with iron bars that could be dropped in a hurry. People moved quickly in the streets, heads down. Some had bundles under their arms. Some had nothing at all, only the look of folk who knew that conflict was near.
The inn was a squat building with a crooked sign painted with a salt barrel and a fish. When Dacey opened the door, the warm air blasted her in the face. Voices hummed over it, low and tired. A few men sat with their backs to the wall and their hands wrapped around steaming cups.
The innkeep took one look at Dacey's wet hair and the way she stood like she might fall asleep upright and said, "Coin first."
Dacey dug out a few coppers and a silver stag, then slapped them on the counter with more force than needed. "Bed. Dinner. And a clean bath, if you've got it."
The innkeep's eyes flicked to her hammer again. He swallowed whatever thought he'd had and nodded. "Back room. Up the stairs. Third door. Don't break anything."
Dacey trudged up the stairs, leaning on the wall as she went. She wished she had brought a change of clothes with her. Bloodshed wasn't new to her, but it was not a smell she liked.
Up in the room, she kicked off her boots and sat on the edge of the bed long enough to feel herself tilt sideways. She forced herself to stand again, splashed water on her face, and started rinsing the blood and mud from her clothes.
By the time Dacey finished cleaning her clothes and body, the bucket of water had turned black. She hung the clothes out and wrapped a blanket around herself.
When she lay down, the mattress felt like a field of feathers. She should have slept like a stone.
Instead she listened.
Saltpans settled in the way a frightened animal does. A door shut. A child coughed. Somewhere down the lane, a dog barked once and then went silent, as if someone had kicked it.
Dijkstra hopped onto the windowsill, red eyes bright in the dark. He was quiet, almost polite, and that alone should have made Dacey nervous.
"Don't," she muttered, too tired to be charmed by him. "If you're going to say something clever, save it for tomorrow."
He blinked slowly, then tucked his head beneath a wing like any ordinary raven.
Dacey lay there staring at the ceiling until exhaustion won. The last thing she heard was the wind worrying at the shutters.
——————————————————
She woke abruptly to a sharp pain between her eyes.
It was from Dijkstra's beak.
He pecked her forehead again, hard enough to make her sit up with a curse. "Old gods save me," she snapped, swatting at him. "Are you trying to make me brainless like a gull?"
He hopped back, feathers ruffled, and stared at her like she was the slow one. Then he made a sound that was halfway between a croak and a laugh.
"Up," he ordered in a rough, cawing voice. "Bearblood. Up. The town is being corked."
Dacey swung her feet to the floor, heart already climbing. "What."
"The gates," Dijkstra said. "Closed. Chained. Men with griffins tell folk to go inside and be calm. Men are very good at saying 'be calm' right before they do terrible things."
Dacey grabbed her boots and shoved her feet into them without lacing. "Connington." She threw the damp tunic back over her head next.
"Connington," Dijkstra agreed, pleased to share a secret. "And a red woman who smells like smoke and lies. She was wearing a robe to match that fire priest you killed."
Outside a bell rang, low and urgent, then another, faster. Dacey felt it in her teeth. She rose, crossing the room in three strides, and flung the shutter open.
A glow had started on the far side of town.
Not the light of torches and lanterns. Fire. Real fire, roaring and unconfined, throwing sparks into the wind.
The little stone sept stood near the square, its spire squat and plain. Now flame licked from its windows like tongues. Smoke rolled over the rooftops and caught the moonlight, turning it sickly. She must have slept longer than she thought—night had settled over Saltpans while she lay like the dead.
Dacey's throat went dry. She could smell it already. Pitch. Oil. Dry timber. This blaze could not be put out.
Down in the street, people were running. A woman in a sleeping shift dragged a child by the arm. A man stumbled with a sack over his shoulder, looking back over and over like he expected the flames to catch him.
Two guards in griffin sigils shoved a pair of townsfolk toward a doorway and slammed it behind them. One raised a crossbow like the weapon might keep the smoke away.
Dijkstra hopped onto her shoulder without asking. His claws pricked through her shirt. "They're locking folk in," he said, voice lacking the usual indifferent mirth. "The townsfolk are trapped."
"Connington is designing a massacre," Dacey growled, though her voice shook.
She felt something else in the air, under the smoke and the shouting. An odd vibration, like the moment before lightning splits the sky. It made the hairs on her arms stand up.
Magic.
The Isle of Faces had hummed with it in a soothing manner. This was wrong. It felt hot and abrasive. Meant to destroy rather than preserve.
Once fully dressed, Dacey snatched her hammer and her shield and went for the door. Dacey didn't think indulge in deep thinking. Getting to Dragonstone would require a boat. She needed to find one before the fire did.
On the stairs, she nearly ran into the innkeep. His face was pale as lard.
"My lord says stay inside," he babbled. "We're to bar the doors. It's safer."
"Safer for who," Dacey shot back, and pushed past him.
She grabbed a pastry on the way out. She paid for dinner and wasn't leaving without it