Eona - Alison Goodman [30]
“Are you injured?” Dela propelled me toward the staircase.
“Only my hand.” I held it up for inspection.
The pearls around my forearm shifted, securing the folio against my skin. For the first time, their clicking embrace frightened me. If Kinra’s swords were tuned to the emperor’s death, then what was her journal’s purpose? Maybe it, too, had Gan Hua worked into it—negative energy distilled from Hua and aimed at the emperor. Gan Hua could be a very deadly force without the balance of its positive energy opposite, Lin Hua. I fought back a rise of panic. I had placed all of my hope in a traitor’s journal. Even if it did hold the secrets of my dragon power, it was useless; the words of a woman who had tried to kill her emperor and sent her hatred across five centuries could not be trusted.
I could not risk carrying a book whose power might snake into my mind and take it over, like the power of the swords.
“My lady?”
We both turned. Vida was at the back doorway.
“Solly and I have caught some of the guards’ horses,” she said. “I’ve packed as much as I can into the saddlebags.”
“Good,” Dela said. “Where are our clothes? Lady Eona has to dress. And she needs doctoring.”
I also needed to remove the folio from my arm—and my presence. The decision thickened my throat with loss. The folio had been a constant companion over the last few weeks—a symbol of hope and power. I felt as if a loyal friend had suddenly betrayed me.
Vida beckoned us through to the stable yard. Outside, the air smelled of frightened animals, grain feed, and dung, a relief from the stench of blood and spilled entrails in the courtyard. I drew in a shaking breath, hoping to break through the despair that threatened to overwhelm me. If I could not trust the journal, how could I learn to control my power?
Four horses were tethered along the stable rail. Solly moved between them, calming each with gentle strokes and soft words. He saw us coming and stopped our progress with a raised hand.
“My ladies.” He ducked his head into a quick bow, his usual broken-toothed grin reduced to a thin line. “Stay back from the horses. They’re all battle-trained and will kick anything near their hindquarters.”
Dela ushered me toward the stable. “Go with Vida. Get your arm bound,” she said. “And get dressed. Not the mourning robe, though. Something less conspicuous.”
Giving the horses a wide berth, I followed Vida into the shed. The oxen lowed as we passed their stalls. They were probably hungry. I realized that I was, too, and couldn’t help a wry smile; my body did not care about treachery or despair, only food and rest.
Vida looked over her shoulder. “How bad is your wound?”
The tight embrace of the pearls had deadened the pain. Now, as I focused on the cut, it stung with every flex of my fingers. I showed her the shallow slash across the back of my hand. “It is not too bad,” I said. “It’s not bleeding anymore.”
“I saw what you did for His Majesty. How you stopped him,” Vida said. “It was bravely done.”
I eyed her warily, unaccustomed to such warmth from the girl.
She hurried behind our cart. “All the bandaging has been packed in the saddlebags. I’ll find some when you are dressed.” She flipped back the canvas canopy flap, opened the nearest basket, and dug her hands into the contents. “Here, take these.”
She passed me a pair of woven rush sandals—thin-soled, meant for the paved roads of a town—and went back to rummaging. Finally, she pulled out two packets of neatly folded cloth, one the color of rust; the other, olive green. With a flick of her wrists she shook out the rust cloth into a long, full skirt. The green was an over-tunic: the day wear of a merchant woman. The resistance had supplied us well.
She squatted down, holding open the skirt. “Quick, my lady.”
I stepped into the middle of the pooled linen. Vida pulled it up over my blood-streaked shift, then deftly fastened the ties around my waist. Although it was just past dawn, the air was already hot