Read parts 1-6 here!

Three days they stayed in the concealed house, planning and preparing for their next step—finally, the day to depart arrived. Conner heaved a sigh of relief once the blue guard’s vest was tossed in a pile of bedraggled uniforms. Some were Doerman, and some belonged to old Vamaser, a few were from Palmina’s elite forces. Only a handful were from the Barati Island tribes. Don collected the fabric with a frown. He’d become something like a friend since they’d arrived. Connor liked and respected him. 

“I don’t even know if our mages could save this,” Don said. He held the uniform between two fingers, lips pursed at the ripped seams and the stained cloth. “It might be better off destroyed.” 

“Do whatever you want with it,” Conner grunted. He pulled on a light cotton shirt that matched the one Anfir had slipped into moments ago before trotting outside. The material was much more suited to the island’s heat. “I’d pay to see it burn.” Don raised a brow at his acid tone but dropped the vest. “Where are these mages anyway?” he asked. “I’ve only seen a handful of people around here these past few days.” 

Don chuckled. “This is not one of our most used outposts.” He parsed through a box on the floor, searching for something Connor couldn’t see. “The fox is the one that prefers this location.”

Connor made an agreeing noise. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” Don offered Connor a sash dyed the soft, green color of sea grapes, checked with blue and purple at the edges. It was a fine piece of clothing, not something that would be out of place on a merchant. Such finery didn’t suit disgraced soldiers. “The mages that came with me this time are still young. They want to see the markets. I had them stay with supporters in the village,” he laughed. Connor nodded absentmindedly as he ran the soft material over his callused hands, thinking. 

Connor followed Don’s direction and wrapped the material around his waist, slipping a few flat knives between the folds. Couldn’t be too careful. A skinny teen ran into the hut just as he finished. She choked out a quick “Don,” before stopping to stare. 

Large, dark eyes glared at him from a tan, angular face still growing into adulthood. Her red hair was tucked into a headwrap like a Barati native, and only a few curls escaped to frame her face and the tattooed mage mark that rested under one eye. Connor shifted, adopting a non-threatening pose to put her at ease. It didn’t. Instead, her gaze sharpened, and she drew a pair of daggers, one glowed with a soft red light, the other gleamed quietly, but Connor could taste some kind of crackle in the air that spoke of magic. The red confused him; he shouldn’t be able to see her magic. Don snapped into action, moving between the two with a frown. 

“Freya,” he hissed.

“He’s a soldier,” she snapped. Connor thought it wise to stay still in the face of the girl’s murderous gaze. 

“Not one of Doerma’s.” Don made a soothing motion, and Freya’s knives drooped. “He comes with the princess and Fox.” The knives were returned to their sheaths. Still, Freya glared at Connor.

“Make trouble,” she said, thumbing one of the handles. “You deal with me.” Though he wanted to chuckle, Connor nodded.

“Of course, ma’am.” 

Satisfied, the girl turned back to Don. “A Doerman ship just pulled into the bay. Their escort wants to speed up departure in case they try to close the port for checks.”

“I agree with him.” Sarai parted the curtain that closed the room off from the rest of the house, Tristan on one hip.  She wore a simple white shirt, a colorful skirt, and a matching headscarf that let her hair fall from the top. She’d already agreed to play the role of Tristan’s nanny until they put out to sea, though Sarai had seethed at having to hide her sword under a carefully placed sash. Barati women tended to wield staffs if necessary, Freya’s sword would stick out in their disguise. Connor would be Tristan’s father if asked. As if to play into the disguise, Tristan sleepily held her arms out to Connor, asking wordlessly to be held. 

It wasn’t an unusual setup, a white merchant with a Barati nanny. The islands were visited enough that having a native anywhere in your employ was guaranteed to get you better prices or goods. They knew the individual tribes and often had first-hand knowledge of the best products. Having a Barati nanny meant that your child would often learn the language and tricks of the sellers at their knees, tucked away in some grandmother’s stall or at one of the great looms. Tristan’s mother was no exception, telling Connor once that all of her practicality was learned at the hands of her Barati nanny’s family on many of her family’s voyages. He rocked Tristan gently; the girl was already falling asleep against his chest. How Connor wished he could bring Tristan to her ancestral house on the other side of the Island chain, but she wasn’t known to her mother’s kin. Connor wasn’t sure if any of them escaped the Doerman occupation anyway. 

Two boys, around Freya’s age, peeked around Sarai but didn’t come in. One was stocky, and white, the other tan and gangly with the look of the desert nomads about him. At the base of the second boy’s neck was a mage mark similar to Freya’s. The first cleared his throat.

“We can get you through the market fast. Best ways are through the artists’ row.” He stood confidently, but Connor spied Freya slip behind him with the other boy and give him a reassuring pat on the back. 

“He’s good,” she whispered. The boys relaxed immediately, and Connor realized they’d been afraid of him. His stomach sank at the implications. The children couldn’t be more than fourteen, but they possessed an intimate fear of Doerman soldiers and their hunt for mages. 

Sarai nodded. “I say we take the children up on the offer. I don’t want to cross any guards or risk leaving when the port’s shut down.” Don frowned but agreed with a huff. 

“They will get you through,” he said. Fierce grins lit up the young faces. “They may be young, but this is not their first time slipping under the noses of Doermans.” 

Sarai had been interrogating Anfir before the troupe of children showed up. He’d been maddeningly vague about his magic and the Valley, a rebellion of mages fleeing Doerma’s intense magic laws. She’d never noticed a mage mark on him, and he smirked when she voiced that observation. 

“You haven’t seen all of me, Dearest,” he said eye’s twinkling. “Just most.” 

Before Sarai could redirect the heat in her cheeks back towards her anger, a group of bedraggled teens skidded to a halt practically at her feet, yelling about a Doerman ship. She was grateful for the warning. With Don’s help, Sarai and Connor collected their bags and readied to leave with their young guides. 

“When you reach the drop-off, our men will guide you to your new home,” Don spoke quickly. Sarai groaned at what else would be waiting for her. 

Sarai had objected to going back to Tutti’s village, but it was so out of the way, it was voted the best option. The journey would take a month by sea if they sailed around the tip of the continent, but two by land with the mountain passes to contend with. Her teacher would definitely have something to say to her about the situation she’d involved herself in. She bid both Don and Anfir farewell and wished them the best.

 They followed the young mages through the market, slipping between booths, beggars, and women toting around baskets of fruit or sweets and hawking them to passerby. They’d nearly made it to their ship when a voice barked, “Halt!” 

Sarai wanted to scream. The ship was right there at the end of the dock. Instead, she straightened and turned, smiling as prettily as she knew how. 

“Yes, sir?” Her tongue felt strange as she contorted the words into a passable Barati accent. In the corner of her eye, she saw the mage kids melt into the crowd and reappear behind the guard. The guard was young. Sweat beaded his upper lip, where a mustache was desperately trying to form in some capacity. He looked uncomfortable in the crowded docks. Sarai knew from Connor’s experience that the guard uniforms didn’t breathe well. 

“We’re looking for some fugitives,” the guard said. “A deserter soldier, a young boy and a woman bearing a sword that’s been seen with them.” Sarai praised the gods her blade was hidden, as her heart began beating out of her chest. Her smile held. 

“I’m accompanying my employer and his daughter,” she said. She felt Connor approach. “We haven’t seen anyone like that?” She threw in a wide-eyed head tilt for good measure. 

“Still—” The boy cut himself off, staring at Connor in shock.

“Ask elsewhere,” Connor snapped. He sounded imperious, just like a noble, but Sarai sensed the act was up. The boy leveled his spear at them.

“I need you to come with me,” he said. His voice shook, but his grip didn’t. Doerma trained their soldiers well. Not well enough, though. The children each grabbed a handful of his jacket and yanked him into a niche out of sight. Sarai marched in after them, landing a series of blows that left the guard incapacitated on the ground. 

“We have to kill him,” she said softly. “He knew who we were.” Connor nodded, over Tristan’s head. The young princess looked afraid but accepting. Sarai had to believe this wasn’t the first time murder had been discussed in front of her. 

She drew her blade, prepared to grip the guard’s hair and slit his throat when a small hand landed on her arm. Freya was looking at the downed guard, jaw clenched. There was something hesitant but fierce in her expression. 

“There’s another way.” She guided Sarai’s sword away and placed a hand against the guard’s sweaty forehead. She closed her eyes, and Sarai’s tongue felt fuzzy at the sudden sensation of magic in the air, though her eyes registered nothing. 

Mage magic was different from elf work. Elves manipulated natural power; mages were born with it. If they didn’t master it, it would drive them insane. Freya’s pose wasn’t unfamiliar to Sarai, she’d seen her fair share of healer mages before Doerma invaded. The surprise came when the guard sickened in front of her. His face turned red, his breathing shallow, and he started to shiver. Freya pulled back, looking tired but satisfied. 

“There,” she said. “He won’t remember you, just having a bout of heatstroke. Not unusual around here.” She wiped her hands on her pants and looked up at them. “You better get on the ship. We’ll take it from here.” Her friends nodded. Sarai hesitated, not wanting to leave children with the responsibility, but looking at their determined faces, she understood they’d handle it. 

Later on the ship, she and Connor talked over the dark waves as the island faded from sight. 

“They know what we look like,” Sarai stated. Connor nodded. “Are we betrayed?” 

Connor sighed. “It’s possible, but I doubt it’s any of Anfir’s group.”

“Who then?” 

“Vamaser’s soldiers were forced into the Doerma army, but some turned traitor willingly. A few knew me well enough to tell others what to look for.” 

Sarai’s lips thinned. Splinters dug into her fingers as she gripped the rail. 

“He called you a deserter,” she finally said. “Were you?” Connor didn’t answer her, but his expression said enough. “You did it for Tristan, didn’t you?” 

He didn’t give her an answer. She didn’t really need one.