Page 8 of The Storm
It was winter and bitterly cold, but icy winds didn’t bother her, so she had the roads to herself. When it began to rain, she found another church. Sometimes she thought she saw shadows in the trees and heard the distant soul voices of other Irin, but none of them approached her. She wore heavy clothing and sheared her hair when it became tangled. She didn’t bathe. She only ate enough to survive.
Every night, she prayed to heaven that the Grigori would find her and give her peace.
They never did.
Renata traveled north. Venice was the only port she knew of, so she took the road to the sea, hoping to find a ship that could take her to the east. She had half her family’s gold sewn in the hems of her garments, and she thought she had enough money to buy passage to Jaffa. Balien had spoken about a brother who lived there. Perhaps, if she made it to Jaffa, she could find Balien’s people. She had the ring he’d given her, and his seal on her forehead. Perhaps it would be enough and they would give her some kind of home.
She had no one and nothing.
She was sleeping in a church outside Ravenna when she woke to a hand over her mouth. Renata’s eyes went wide as something dragged her from the base of the altar and into the shadows of a chapel. Her heart raced for a second before she slumped against her attacker.
Finally.
She let out the breath she’d been holding for months, waiting for the cool piercing metal at the base of her spine that would release her from the hell she’d been living in.
The cold silver never came. The hand over her mouth eased away, and two dark brown hands turned her around. She blinked in the darkness, trying to see who was with her. No one spoke. In the dim candlelight, she could see a figure unwrapping the heavy scarves around their head. The face revealed was a woman’s with skin darker than any Renata had seen. It was the color of seasoned walnut and perfectly smooth except for a vicious red wound on her cheek and jaw.
Whoever she was, her magic was strong. She was unquestionably Irina.
“Who are you?” Renata croaked out. It was the first time she’d used her voice in weeks.
The woman held up a finger and reached into a leather bag. She reached inside and brought out a leather roll. She unrolled the makeshift scroll, and a rag and chalk fell into her hand.
She carefully wrote in Latin:I can’t speak. My name is Mala. The Grigori took my voice.
The woman unwound the cloth from around her throat, showing Renata the raw edges of a wound that looked like it had taken out most of her throat. The wound looked like it had been made by an animal’s teeth. It was ragged, red, and swollen.
Renata reached for the chalk in the woman’s hand, but the woman wrote again,I can hear.
“It’s infected. Your wound is infected.”
Mala shrugged.
“I can heal it for you.”
Mala cocked her head as if to say,Really?
Renata realized too late what she had offered. She hadn’t sung a song since Balien had died. She hadn’t wanted to. But the woman was an Irina. She’d been wounded. Renata had a duty to help her.
Are you a healer?the Irina wrote on the leather, wiping out the words after Renata read them.
“No, I’m an archivist.”
The woman’s eyes gleamed with respect. An Irina archivist was like a walking magical library.
“I know the song, but it might not work as well as if a true healer sang it,” Renata said. “What about you? Why are you here? Is your mate in Rome?”
Mala’s eyes went cold.They killed him while he was defending our scribe house. I came to this country to tell his mother, but she is dead too.
“My whole family is dead, and my mate.” Grief sat like icy air in her lungs, making it hard to breathe. “We weren’t mated yet, but he was myreshon.”
The woman clasped both Renata’s hands between her own, and Renata knew from the silent grief crying in her mind that Mala had also lost her soul mate.
“What do we do now?” Renata said. “Nowhere is safe. We traveled to Rome to escape, but they still found us. Most nights I just want death to find me, sister.”
The woman’s eyes turned fierce. She shook her head vehemently and wrote:Not until we kill as many of them as they have killed.She drew back her cloak, revealing the wicked curved blade at her waist. Renata had never seen a blade like that, but then she’d never seen an Irina like this woman.
“I don’t know how to fight,” Renata said. “I’m an archivist.”
