Emberhawk - Jamie Foley Page 0,57

to her eyelashes. He had to survive. How would she get home without him?

The trap was still empty. Kira sighed and watched the sky bleed orange through the treetops. One would think catching d’hakka in the Gnarled Wood wouldn’t take so long.

She glanced down at Ryon’s belt on her waist. She’d already examined his cartography tools and emptied his water skin. But she hadn’t inspected that small leather pouch yet—a cord and bone clasp held it tightly closed.

Kira unwound it and found a few small paper scrolls. One was nothing but ink blots, perhaps for prepping a quill pen. Another bore numbers she couldn’t calculate; the Phoeran numeral system didn’t make any sense. The next was blank.

She set the empty parchment beside the fire, and a flicker caught her eye. She looked at the fire, then around her campsite. A pair of branch runners chittered at each other somewhere in the distance.

Kira glanced down at the blank parchment and did a double-take. The curled corner that sat closest to the fire gleamed with ink that slipped into existence like an oil stain on the surface of water.

She grabbed the parchment and held it up to the fire. As it warmed between her hands, more ink appeared and darkened into a legible gray. The markings seemed like feminine handwriting in flowing Phoeran script.

Incredible! Kira squinted at the delicate letters, trying to remember the sounds each of them made. It was rare enough for a Navakovrae farmer or rancher to be literate in their own language—especially women. But Kira had made a point to learn to read Phoeran to ensure she wouldn’t be cheated while trading with tribesmen in Navarro.

Unless she was mistaken, the writing read:

Continue mapping north. And fix your handwriting—bird scat is more legible.

The shrine may work as a lookout point, but it won’t be a good foothold. Find another spot further north and east of the border.

If you see that Lieutenant again, take care of him.

B.

Kira re-read the script as her mind whirled. Who was B—surely not “Brooke”? Ryon took orders from the Jade Witch herself, the Katrosi chieftess?

The shrine may work as a lookout point—was that the shrine to Lillian on Kira’s family’s property?—but it won’t be a good foothold. Kira strained her memory for the implications of the word “foothold.” She was fairly certain it meant a strategic military fortification.

He was looking for a good location for a Tribal Alliance base of some sort. A fort to hold the northern border, maybe? Bumps raised on Kira’s arms, setting her hairs on end. So he’s not a spy; he’s a scout.

She read the last line again. Or an assassin.

The realization should have filled her with terror. But somehow, it just didn’t click in her mind. Ryon didn’t have the personality of an assassin. He seemed light-hearted and laid back when he wasn’t in pain. Well, what personality did a killer have, anyway?

He didn’t seem dangerous to her, at least. He had plenty of excuses he could have used to end her by now, if he’d wanted to.

Kira pulled the parchment back from the fire and watched the ink fade until it was blank once again. She took a deep breath and wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. It’s okay, she told herself. Whatever Ryon is, he’s not my enemy.

She took up the spyglass again and checked her trap. It was even more difficult to make out in the dying sunlight, but still definitely empty.

Kira took the last little roll of parchment and slowly unfurled it, dreading what else she might find but insatiably curious. The scroll seemed older than the others with fraying edges and fading ink.

A drawing of an old woman smiled at Kira with kind eyes. And as she rolled it further open, a second beautiful woman, who might have been Kira’s age, presented a huge grin over two children—a girl with a bashful expression and a boy with a playful snarl.

Kira marveled at the artist’s skill. Did Ryon sketch this? The young woman’s eyes were deep, as if the ink stretched through the paper and captured a fragment of her soul.

He said he wasn’t married. Kira’s heart twisted in a strange direction she didn’t approve of. The children were adorable. They had to be Ryon’s. Who carried around a sketch of someone else’s kids? And the older woman was probably his mother.

Or perhaps the children were meant to be Ryon and his sister as kids. But if the portrait had been sketched so long