Only Cowards Stay While Traitors Run


When Last We Met: Finally with a point to head toward, the five companions take rest in the small township of Ammenium, before undertaking the long-untravelled roads through the southern mountains. Cain, however, will not head idly to the very edge of the Outer Zone, seeking instead reassurance - and taking DG with him.


Chapter Twenty Two: A Seed of Doubt

Cain had never walked the twisted, narrow roads of Ammenium, but there was nothing here that didn't speak to him, every pock and rut a happening, every footprint pressed into the fresh mud a story. He'd tread too many roads to remember them all. He wouldn't remember this one.

The night was black as pitch. Most of the street lamps had sputtered out, and those that fought to shine on were weak and ineffectual for all the struggling. The late hour near guaranteed no windows burning bright with life within, save for one open doorway at the far end of the lane. Even through the rain, that rectangle of light was sharp and clear.

Behind him, DG cleared her throat. "Care to tell me where we're going yet?"

Cain chuckled to himself. The girl could traipse from one end of the country to the other chasing ghosts and memories without a word against it, but she couldn't make it from one end of the village to the other without tripping him up every step of the way with her questions.

"Thought maybe we could both do with a quiet drink," he said, now that the guild hall was in sight.

She gave a short laugh. "You're not serious."

"Not really, no," he said. "I had the notion to put an ear out for news while we're here. Figured I'd ask you outright to tag along instead of listening to you try follow me. Hard to keep two eyes on a shadow."

"Oh." Was she trying very hard to sound insulted, or had he truly struck a nerve?

"I can walk you back if you'd like."

"No," she said. "Just – you aren't worried about me being recognised?"

He stopped, and turned to face her; she pulled up short within arm's reach. Her hood was sodden and heavy, hair plastered to her forehead. "You mind your manners in there, I doubt we'll run into any trouble."

"Then you're in luck. Mother took my etiquette lessons on herself."

"We aren't stopping for tea," he said, smirking.

"Good, because I'm not properly dressed for tea." She smiled at him, something real and honest and sudden.

He found it was a great deal easier to drag her with him when she was smiling as he did so. As that thought passed through his mind, he reached out and touched her elbow, gave her a little tug to get her moving again. She nodded at him, flashed him another smile, sadder somehow for all the familiarity of the gesture. He fell into step behind her, his hand falling away far too late for his fingers to simply forget the feel of her jacket. He was brushing them against his palm in near annoyance when she said from ahead of him, "You didn't exactly answer my question."

He thought back. "Then your answer is 'no'."

"Why not?"

Cain sighed; he kept his tongue in his head and his foot out of his mouth, relieved when she didn't press him. He didn't need to tell her that she'd be noticed more for her sweet, pretty face than for her familiar one. Pale, wet, and poorly dressed rarely passed for princess, no matter where one happened to be. "Just don't take your hood down, all right?"

Keep those dark Gale curls hidden.

"Yes, sir." Said in jest, it still caused him to cringe.

The road was empty before them, ending at the gap of light that was their destination; with the rain and the chill, the absence of others was hardly something to guess at. While the hour was late, the night had not yet grown old, and those who lingered by warm fires in good company were not likely to abandon either in a hurry.

All too soon, however, the crooked lane came abruptly to a set of stone steps, which led up to a low-walled courtyard. The ground here had been beaten bare by generations of training exercises, and the bushes that clawed at the foundations of the meeting hall were thorny and mean. The annuals of neglect and decay that whispered of a war not long behind them clung desperately to the town, and perhaps as well to the people who lived their lives within its limits. Cain was about to find out.

As they'd entered the courtyard, DG had, by habit, let him in front of her; she followed him at a faithful two steps behind. Almost a familiar rhythm now, she lurched to a halt as he paused; he didn't turn around to face her, kept his eyes – and hands – forward as he addressed her.

"This isn't gonna take long. You up for it?"

"Yes." Neither eager nor nervous; her voice said enough that he didn't need steal a glimpse of her face. There was enough determination in her single, simple affirmation to tell him he need not worry about her. Not that knowing it ever stopped him.

A deep, steeling breath was all that he carried with him into that guild hall. The floorboards were soft under his feet; the stench of old ale overtook him. His first impression was not one of distaste, but a sharp and unexpected wave of nostalgia; it was longing that he'd not allowed himself to feel for time out of mind. The force it took to shove those memories away was like nausea pulling at his throat, his gut. It hurt, plain and simple.

There were fewer bodies here than he had guessed there would be, the number of men – and no women – lingering at about a half-dozen. The hall was wide open, crowded with tables set at haphazard angles, the walls lined with empty display cases without glass. A mammoth flagstone fireplace dominated the far wall, around which most of the patrons gathered. Some turned to see the strangers enter, most didn't take notice.

"Friendly," DG muttered, edging in beside him.

Cain looked down at her, of half a mind to reply when a holler from the other end of the long hall sounded.

"You the ones take the rooms at the Wellspring?" The man the voice belong to stood up from his chair, motioning for them to come closer to the fire. Cain touched the brim of his hat in thanks before moving forward, DG stepping haltingly behind.

"Just stopped over for the night," Cain said, taking a seat on an old, battered chair. DG, he was happy to see, crowded her own chair in behind him to hide in his shadow. Only the toes of her shoes showed in the firelight. "The rain made the decision for us."

"Keeps up like this," the man said, "you can expect the roads going north to be flooded. You headin' that direction?"

Cain paused for a moment, as if giving the matter a thinking over. "Truth be told, we'd been thinking about it. Central City, that is."

The man shook his head. "Central, now why would anyone want to be going there? Never understood what was inside them city walls that appealed to so many."

"Work," was Cain's reply.

"You'd be better off making the trek all the way up to Quick City, if it's just work you're looking for. Nothing in Central City but heartache and misery."

"It wasn't so bad before," Cain said, and he was surprised to find that he meant it.

"When was the last time the bricks led you there, friend?"

"Been a good six months, at least." Even as the words passed his lips, he thought sharply of DG sitting behind him; if he tried his hardest, perhaps he could pretend that the way she shifted restlessly in her chair at his words had nothing to do with him, with her, with anything. It was a lie, and it wasn't a lie, a thin veil of truth stretched to breaking to cover all the darkness and uncertainty they'd managed to wrap themselves in.

What was one more lie.

"You've heard nothing?" the man asked.

Cain forced himself to smirk. "Heard plenty. Haven't had my hands on a copy of the Gazette for a good while, mind you. Wouldn't happen to have one of them kicking around, would you?"

Around the fire, the other men laughed, low and lazy. There'd been nothing close to decent news reporting in the Zone for almost a decade; even now, there was little the one and only publication out of Central City had done to pull itself out of the grave.

"The only news out of Central worth hearing is that Azkadellia's managed to sit her pretty ass back down on the throne," said a gruff old man, the closest to the fire. His cragged face was cast a harsh orange in the firelight. "Won't be long before the bitch is tearing it all apart again. Just give her time, you'll see."

"That's to say the only news worth hearing is news coming out of Central, and that ain't so," another said. "They're saying –"

A third man joined in. "Never mind what's been said, nor what's being said. I don't need to be hearing that bitch's name, queen or not, so shut your –"

Cain grit his teeth as the men around the fire fell into bickering amongst themselves. He glanced over his shoulder at DG, but her head was bowed, her face hidden from him. Sighing, he reached back and placed his hand on her knee, meaning for the touch to be light and quick, a comfort, but her hand slid over his and wrapped itself there, her cold fingers curling around to rest in his palm. And so he was anchored.

"So where's the real queen in all this?" Cain asked his increasingly disappointing sources. It was carefully worded, to be sure, and he didn't fail to notice how her fingers twitched against his hand as he said it.

"Holed up in her tower, like always," said the old man by the fire. "Holed up with that sweet little thing that should be queen in her place."

"You're starting to sound like Brett Thomas' boys," said one, his face turned away, "or are we finally learning where they've been getting it from?"

"Those boys have got some good notions in their heads, if they could rightly put 'em to use," the old man defended. "You watch the sky, mark my words; that sorcering whore hasn't finished with her tricks yet. All this sweetness is her greatest one yet, and it's headcases like you that fall for 'em, every time."

The barbs continued from one side to the other, the group of men seemingly forgetting about the stranger who'd started the trouble in the first place. One, however, was not so easily distracted: he who had greeted Cain was of a calm mind and quiet tongue, and as the heat of debate rose at the fireside, he left his seat in the fray and joined Cain on the periphery, turning his back on the others.

"You seem to have caused a ruckus, friend," he said.

Cain smirked. "I wouldn't hardly say that."

"The name's Amos." The gentleman extended his hand; Cain found his grip sure, relaxed. Friendly, almost; had they all fallen so far to be so surprised by overturned kindness?

"Wyatt."

"And the lady?"

"Emily," DG said in a weary voice, and she rested her head on Cain's back, between his shoulder blades. She didn't untangle her hand from his; in fact, she tightened her grasp.

"Been on the road awhile, then?" Amos asked, nodding toward the sleepy, hiding girl. Or perhaps, not so sleepy.

"Longer than expected. Still not anywhere we need to be."

"Never known the Old Road to lead a man anywhere he didn't need to go. That's why I tend to avoid it." Amos smiled, which had the curious effect of nearly setting Cain at ease, which, upon realisation, immediately unsettled him again. "So you're heading north, then?"

"North-east, maybe," Cain said. "Central ain't sounding too stable."

"Can't say myself if anywhere is too stable, even here, if you'll understand me." Amos glanced over his shoulder at the fireside group. A bark of laughter seemed to indicate the colloquy had progressed to more amicable territory.

"I do." In his hand, DG's fingertips pressed ever deeper into his palm, her touch growing warmer.

"I'll bet," Amos said with a laugh. "In fact, I'd bet you understand it more than me, or anyone else in this room."

"I'd hold off on the wagering," Cain replied. "Things aren't about to go changing any time soon."

"I don't know about that. Wind's been carrying all sorts of folks through this region lately, folks like yourselves."

"Folks who're watching for clouds on the horizon and steering themselves clear, then," Cain said with snort and a grimace. "Forget change, I'd like to see things stay quiet for a good long while."

Amos rubbed his chin. "Maybe you've got the right idea."

"No maybe about it," Cain said, and he shook his head, gazing hard down at the floor. "Listen, I appreciate you takin' the time to talk to us," he finished finally, after the answers he was seeking did not etch themselves into the floorboards as he'd willed. "Best be getting back if we want an early start."

He stood, and once more, all the eyes at the fireside fixated upon him; he wondered how he measured to these men, wondered if suspicion outweighed curiosity. Amos stood as well, and once again offered his hand.

"Well, sir, we'll see you down the road," Amos said, and then he looked square at DG as she got to her feet. He gave her a short bow of his head, and a fleeting wink. "My lady."

Cain wasted no time seizing up DG's hand and pulling her out of the guild hall and back into the rain.


Down the lane that led back into town, they'd made it halfway before she was digging in her heels and yanking her hand out of his grip. "Stop. We're still okay, aren't we? Even if – well, even if he did know, he wouldn't say anything." And then she paused, worry thick in her throat as she asked, "Do you think –"

"I don't," he said, "but that's not what's got me thinking, and no, we aren't going to talk about it here." He looked up into the black of the night, no moons, no stars, nothing but emptiness and the steady fall of rain in his eyes.

"You won't talk about it when we get inside," she argued. "You've mastered avoiding the subject." He glanced down to see she'd defiantly crossed her arms over her chest, and looked about ready to make her stand right then and there, which would have suited him fine any other place, any other time but this – or, at least, that's what he tried to tell himself, that he wanted to sort it out with her, wanted the truth, wanted the heaviness gone off his chest so he could sleep and breathe and exist in peace.

"You want to stand in the rain all night?" he asked.

"Avoidance. Why doesn't it surprise me." She reached up and ran her hands over her hair, finally taking down her hood as she did so. With her hands behind her neck, she upturned her face to the sky. Then, with a deep breath that heaved her shoulders, she put her head and hands down and marched past him, down the road toward town.

Without a word, he followed her, watching her close; there was no stiffness in her step, nothing measured or certain. It had always been his place to walk a step behind, to keep an eye on the road they'd walked, ever searching for the trouble that inevitably followed. Now, he felt aimless, without purpose, following her not because he trusted her lead, but because it was the only way he knew how to go forward – one step behind.

Cain didn't quite know how he was meant to make sense of what was happening around them; he didn't know how much longer he would be able to stay his tongue. It was becoming harder and harder to convince himself that her grief made her blind to all else, that her heart couldn't bear it all; more so now than ever, after listening to the strangers by the fireside, did he believe that she'd chosen to place responsibility aside. Or that she just didn't care.

"Princess," he said aloud, and she came to a grudging halt ahead of him. She didn't turn.

"I think you understand the concept of 'low-profile' less than I do," she said.

He put a hand on her shoulder, keeping himself at arm's length, enough of a gulf between them to remind him of what divided them. "Were you listening to what those men were saying back there?"

She hesitated, and then, "Yes."

"Good. Remember it, because it's something that you need to be thinkin' on."

She shuddered under his touch. "Why?"

"Because – " he began, but stopped himself short, cutting off words he knew he would regret. "Just because, all right?"

"Not good enough," she said, turning abruptly and forcing him to let go of her. He found himself quite suddenly the focus of her ire, and entirely unprepared for it. "You want me to think about how much they hate my sister?"

"DG –"

"Or how much more they'll hate her if Mother dies?" she demanded, her voice cracking. Her own words caused her to falter, and she sniffed, visibly shaken and running another nervous hand over her hair.

Cain sighed, still stumbling over what was on his mind to say, and what she needed to hear. Gods only knew she didn't need every doubt and gnawing fear that had been plaguing him since he'd walked out into his yard to be faced with pen-and-ink proof that the illusion of peace around them was about to shift and change.

"Or," she said, trying and failing to harden her voice, "do you want me to wonder why the hell they think I'd make a better queen than either of them. Or what some people would be willing to do to make it happen?"

She sounded so damn unsure, and outright frightened. He'd pushed, and now he knew what she was truly running from, why they were chasing this foolish chance to save her mother. She didn't want to let go of what was, what she'd strived to fix when she'd first arrived in the Outer Zone. She'd seen so much as broken then, and yet never weighed the possibility of something new growing out of the ashes.

"Why are you so scared?" he asked her, gently as he was able.

She gave a breathy laugh that ended on a near whimper. "Why aren't you?"

He lifted his hand, heavy with hesitation, to her face, cupping her jaw in his palm; so easy it was to sweep his thumb over her cheek to wipe away the droplets that clung to her skin, even as the sky continued to wash them both with clean early summer rain.

"I am," he said, focusing on the muted outlines of her features. He brushed his thumb against the corner of her mouth; ever so slightly, she turned her face into the touch, the sweet tilt of her head mere reflex, intuition of body that ran deeper into her than her young mind could hope to follow.

"Liar," she said, and again gave that breathless, insecure laugh.

"I wouldn't lie to you, darlin'."

The wrong thing to say. She turned her face away from him, slipping from his grasp.

"Fine, you don't lie," she said quietly, "only hide the truth."

Cain grit his teeth together, biting back a lashing response. The grudges of a youthful heart were hard to escape, harder to placate; forgiveness could not be won, nor earned. Only time assuaged those kinds of wounds, and he was stuck still trying to set it right.

"What do you want from me, DG?" His own heart would make this a harsh demand, but his words were whispered, no strength behind them.

She waited a moment, looking back up at him with eyes lost to shadow. He imagined nothing less than the full power of her sky blue gaze, and even that was enough to bend him.

"I want," she said, then paused again. She wrapped her fingers around the lapels of his duster, tugging on him. "I want too much. I'm sorry." She bowed her head then, still clinging to his duster as she pressed her forehead against his chest, hid herself in him, in the dark, in the rain.

She'd said that before to him, once, because he'd asked it of her, once. The night before he'd left Central City. She wanted too much, which wasn't really that much at all, because in the end, all she wanted was him.

And like a coward, he'd run, doing what he'd told himself he needed to do, for the ease of his mind, the mending of his heart, to claim what he'd lost.

What a hypocrite he'd become.

Sighing deeply, he fit his arms snug around her, holding her close on that lane in the middle of the night, far from where either of them called home, separated from everything that reminded them they were not the only two beings in the world. Greater things at stake couldn't pull her from his embrace, even as she trembled, even as the rain beat down.

He would let her run, if she felt she had to run, and perhaps, somewhere along the road, he'd be able to convince her the days of trying to escape her past could be, would be, over and done.