Song of Ashes

19: Horn Harbor

Horn Harbor was an enormous settlement by Sarka's standards. If Kogoren's wrath had caused any damage in the oceanside settlement-which it almost certainly had-the folk there had rebuilt and had kept things in order and good repair.

They approached from the south, and it was a weary trek away from the Razors. Ro rode out of necessity, but Donkey-Meat was no thoroughbred. By the time they had gained the town, the poor beast's head hung low with weariness.

Sarka had not known what to expect, but she had assumed that the coast might be some bustling hub of trade, full of people-or at least of goods for the buying. To the contrary, although the city was large, it was not crowded, and the only folk in sight were ashlanders in dun and gray clothes with scarves wrapped around their heads and faces.

Ro reined up in front of a building with a sign at the top. Sarka looked up, painstakingly sounding out the letters in her mind. She had learned to read from her mother, but there had never been much opportunity for practice. Before she could make out what the sign said, Ro interrupted her attempt.

"I'll stop here. It's a tavern, but the keeper has some doctoring skills." He slid down from the donkey, landing on the soft, dusty ground with a grunt of pain.

"You might as well keep him," Sarka said, gesturing at the beast. "I don't assume they'll have room for him on board my ship."

"Impatient to get going, are you?"

"No sense in wasting time."

"Well, just because Your Highness has arrived doesn't mean there's a ship ready to sail. Even if there were, you can't assume there's a place for you on board. Tie him up and come inside with me. Milsa will know."

Ro left Sarka to puzzle out what a highness was as she tethered the donkey to one of the posts outside the inn. He used his spear to stagger up the steps to the door. Sarka retrieved her satchel from the saddlebag before she followed him inside.

Within the tavern, some of the folk assembled for lunch looked up. A few nodded at Ro in recognition.

"Ro!" A middle-aged woman, petite and comely, stepped out from behind the long bar. "Welcome to you. I was wondering when I might see you come back through-but this isn't Aneir."

Milsa turned her dark eyes to Sarka, and they glanced off the scarred side of her face like an arrow off a shield, darting to the side and then back to stare fixedly into Sarka's one good eye.

"This is Sarka," Ro said. "She's here for the Annari."

Milsa's expression changed. First, she narrowed her eyes; then, she pressed her lips together and shook her head. But her words affirmed Sarka's hopes. "Well, they're here."

"That's a stroke of luck for you, girl," Ro said to Sarka. He pulled a chair back from its table so he could sit down.

"Just arrived yesterday. They'll ship out in the morning, most likely. You look half-dead, Ro-what happened?"

Milsa's eyes were on Sarka, accusing. Sarka said, "He stepped on a stone in the Razors."

Any focus on Sarka's potential suicide mission was averted to Ro's wounded foot. Milsa did not seem to like what she saw when she unwrapped the makeshift bandages. After a brief sojourn into a back room, she returned with a bowl of water and makings for a dressing.

Sarka lingered, watching as the costly cloth she had sacrificed for Ro was set aside, now ruined with blood, sweat, and dust. She still felt the frustration and the pain of the terrible loss, and while she waited for Milsa to finish so she could ask about the Annari, she entertained the futile idea of cleaning the linen-a task she knew would be impossible, given how difficult it had been for her to wash the blood out of her own dress after she'd killed the wildcat.

No. She would let it go.

Once Ro's foot had been tended to, Milsa took away her doctoring things. She returned with two beakers of milk, one for Ro and one-given with what Sarka sensed was a less-than-generous spirit-for his companion.

"They're not going to take you," Milsa said.

Sarka had greedily swallowed half the milk as soon as it was in her hand. She looked up from her beaker at Milsa's comment, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She didn't have to ask to know that Milsa meant the Annari. "Why not?"

"It never ends well. You've wasted a trip. I cannot imagine anything that would put them in mind to take another Kogorian off the continent."

Glancing sidelong at Sarka, Ro shrugged one shoulder with a lopsided smile. I told you so. Milk rimed his top lip, and Sarka noted how the child's smug comment she read in his eyes matched the child's mess on his face.

"They'll take me," Sarka said, looking at Ro although she was addressing Milsa. "I've come far. I walked for days across the desert. I crossed a river of molten stone. I could have died. I won't turn back. I refuse."

"You needn't turn back; there's usually work here in Horn Harbor for those who want it. But I'm telling you, you'll have a hard time getting on board that ship." Milsa nodded toward a corner of the room, where a man and a woman were seated at a table. "That's the captain. You can talk, but I think you'll be disappointed."

Sarka's heart beat with exhilaration-or was it anxiety? The moment was here.

When she had fallen asleep the previous night, she'd been an old version of herself, a self that was now a shade, a piece of the past. She had arisen that morning ready to begin a new life, ready to face a new challenge.

This was the first step.