cloak. Once, those roaming warriors guaranteed the safe passage of anyone who traveled the road with them, for only a fool would attack one of the goddess Vela’s chosen. But few Nyrae warriors had survived Anumith the Destroyer’s deadly march a generation past. Now, it was more likely a woman from the caravan had donned a crimson cloak in hope that bandits would not risk attacking a party led by a true Nyrae warrior.
The deceptive practice had become so common, however, that there was little protection in it anymore. Instead those who could afford the cost hired guards—which was how Lizzan earned most of her coin. She escorted merchants and nobles fleeing east, as rumors spread of the Destroyer’s return from the west. From the east, she escorted merchants and nobles fleeing west to escape the tyranny of the warlords in Lith. And from the north came those fleeing unnamed terrors that haunted the ice and snow.
From every direction, everyone was fleeing some danger—only to find there was nowhere safe to go. So most remained in Krimathe, where the Ivory Throne offered protection to all who sought refuge. Those who didn’t stay in Krimathe continued fleeing south.
This was the first party she’d seen fleeing north. Usually the only escort in that direction was for merchants’ goods, which were a prime target for bandits. More than all else, the destitution of these travelers might be better protection than any red cloak. They had little to tempt thieves.
Unfortunately, thieves were often tempted by very little.
A few stragglers made up the tail of the caravan—likely those who had joined the group after it had already started out, for it was Vela’s law that no one would be denied a Nyrae warrior’s protection upon the road. Even if that warrior was in truth a farmer, she would not chase away the stragglers and risk her disguise.
Lizzan waited for the entire procession to pass, then caught up to straggle after the stragglers. With her sodden hair hanging over the left side of her face, armor and leathers wrapped up in her bedroll, she received little more than a curious glance or two from the others, and she remained far enough behind to escape any attempts at conversation.
But she did not escape notice. Lizzan had barely settled into the procession’s slow pace when the quick tempo of hoofbeats announced the approach of the red-cloaked figure.
Oh, and no farmer was she. Not on a horse so fine. Sheer envy struck Lizzan’s chest. Perhaps she would part with her mail tunic, after all.
Except this woman did not need Kothan armor, though she hardly wore any of her own. She was not a large woman, shorter than Lizzan and more finely boned. A thick braid swept her black hair away from the proud set of her face. Lizzan had never laid eyes upon that face before but had little doubt of the woman’s identity. Lizzan could not step into a tavern without hearing of how Krimathe’s future queen had set out on the sacred quest that would earn her the Ivory Throne—and all who quested for the goddess Vela also wore a red cloak.
But the woman eyeing her now was no mere princess. Legend was that Hanan had fucked one of her foremothers. Now that god’s silver blood ran though her veins and his strength through her limbs.
So Lizzan felt a bit of a fool when she said to the woman, “I was told that bandits prey the length of this road. I offer my sword and assistance if we happen upon them.”
The woman’s dark eyes swept Lizzan from drenched head to wet toe, and Lizzan did not think that piercing gaze overlooked a single scar or battle-hardened muscle.
No response did she give, except to cock her head—as if waiting for more.
Lizzan sighed and scratched the side of her neck. “I would not ask these people for payment . . . but if the bandits are mounted, I would like first pick of their horses.”
The Krimathean’s eyes narrowed. As if she knew there was more.
And so there was. “Also their flasks.”
The woman’s lips twitched. Then she swept her forefinger over her left eyebrow.
Lizzan’s chest tightened. Yet she could see no way around it. Had she still been in the north, or if it were winter, no one would think anything if she’d covered much of her face. Yet if she’d joined this procession wearing the mask she often used while working, she’d have immediately been thought a bandit. And