That night, he dreamed of home. Not Nova, stinking and huge, claustrophobic, drowning. No, he was dreaming of Vilsi. The shores down from the rocky bluffs, long and sandy, cold with southern winds. He dreamed of youthful memories, of walking from the trail up from those beaches, barefoot and spry, hopping across packed dirt, hardly tired from the relentless climb. He surfaced and was greeted with endless stretches of grain, fallow fields full of cattle and sheep, and the occasional stream with its guarding thickets. Wabble and daub sunken huts with thatched roofs peeking over the palisade of his home. He ran to it, fast as the relentless winds, warm in the summer sun. And then he was riding. At a full gallop, tearing across the land, beating the wind now. Free as could be. Joyous as could be.

  Something flew out from the corner of his vision. His horse stumbled and collapsed. He flew from his saddle. The ground came to meet him. Rocks and broken cobble and still-burning embers. He shut his eyes, readying for the impact.

  Laczlo awoke with a start, mouth dry as the sun-warmed sands, head pounding, and mind still somewhat hazy. He blinked and looked around. A dark room. Not the ship anymore, no. He shoved off the pile of furs covering him, hot and sweaty. I’m in Armagne, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath. It’s safe.

  “Nightmare?” a voice asked.

  He jumped, only just keeping himself from rolling from the soft furs onto the cold floorboards. He turned and found Silene there, covered up to her shoulders, propping herself up with one naked arm to stare at him. With some effort, he pulled his gaze from the slender length of smooth skin to her face. She seemed a mix between concerned and amused. It all slowly came back to him.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his head. “I know I can be a nuisance for noise in my sleep.”

  “You’re no nuisance.”

  He blinked, squinting at her. “Is it morning?”

  “Nearly.” Silene looked to the covered window, then back to him. “The horizon was warming a little earlier.”

  “Have you been awake?”

  “I have a difficult time sleeping anywhere I’m not used to,” she said with a shrug, then smiled at him. “It seems we both have trouble in the night.”

  He took in a deep breath, curling his tongue in his foul-tasting mouth. Not even a month away, and I’ve already broken my vows of fidelity, he thought, closing his eyes as the deep pains of guilt ran through him like the arrow through his horse in his dreams. Even if he was drunk, it didn’t matter. He failed. Deus, forgive me for my transgressions. Give me strength and virtue. Allow my wife forgiveness. Let me strive to do better by your name—

  “You feel guilt, but you shouldn’t,” Silene said after a moment.

  He clenched his teeth, whispering out, “And why not?”

  “Kapitelena has been a poor wife to you.”

  “What do you know of her? Of our relationship?” he shot back, quick and sharp.

  Silene sat still for a breath, then swung a leg over to straddle him, one arm braced above his head, leaning down to stare into his eyes. “I know how you see me. I ran from my duty and lived the life of a whore and a spy. You think yourself a martyr to your responsibilities while I’m nothing more than a coward, and maybe you’re right. I don’t know.” She leaned in closer, whispering, “But I chose not to submit to a life not meant for me. My father did not respect my mother. He beats her often, you see. And he was willing to send me off to a similarly broken marriage at the behest of my uncle. A violent one, surely. A deadly one. So I know what it looks like when one spouse does not respect the other.”

  He licked his lips and scoffed, looking away. “Even if that were so, it does not excuse my actions. It wouldn’t even come close.”

  “No? Must you bear a broken marriage for the rest of your days? I know you cannot simply petition for divorce without political repercussions, so must you wallow in solitude? Forever the victim? The martyr when you are a voivode of Vasia?”

  “Then why sleep with me if I am such a weak disappointment?”

  “You’re not, Laczlo,” she said, sounding almost confounded. “You’re not.”

  They sat in silence for a long time, each looking away, in shame or thought. Perhaps a minute later, Silene slipped down to lean upon his chest and said, “I know I’m na?ve, maybe too optimistic considering our complicated situation and histories, but I didn’t sleep with you just to gain some advantage.”

  “Then why?” he asked with a slight frown, confused.

  Her expression flickered to something. Pain, was it? She gave him a sad smile and bent down, kissing him. Laczlo froze but let it happen. Her lips were soft, the pressure firm yet unrestrained; it felt natural, passionate. When she pulled away, his chest ached for more. “Oh, Laczlo,” she whispered, a hand running through his hair, petting his unshaven jaw, “I slept with you because I want you.”

  His mind was spinning. His skin felt prickly and hot, especially his lips. “How… How can I trust you?”

  “When everything is a lie and a scheme, it can be impossible to believe anything. I know this.” She kissed his cheek and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “For now, let this be all the confirmation you need.” Her hips began to move. He closed his eyes and let his head roll back. Soon, the world fell away, the anxiety melting into a puddle to ignore, pleasure running through his veins. The blur of last night returning into sharp, hot focus. Memories rekindled. All else faded, washed away by the tide of ecstasy and want. Disappeared.

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  When he finished, and they lay front to back, covered in the sheen of sweat and thick musk of sex, Laczlo squeezed her body against his. She didn’t pull away or squirm against his grip, but relaxed into him. Long legs intertwined in his, feet tangled, the arch of her back and thrust of her round behind, a delicate neck angled for her head to fall beside his so their cheeks touched. She breathed in a steady, slow rhythm of recovery. He smiled, hands gripping and regripping, unable to hold her tight enough. Unable to let the moment slip away.

  Am I afraid of losing this? he thought to himself. I must soon wake and face the day, continuing the journey. Can I after last night? This morning? He pressed his face into her shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. It’s not pointless anymore—it isn’t. But it feels like it is. As if I wasted it all away. But then again, he was just deceiving himself, wasn’t he? His household was already broken. He was hardly saving his family. His wife despised him, his daughter mistrusted him, and his son was but an infant, ignorant to what he’d soon discover about the world he lived in. A life perched precariously between prosperity and disaster, relying too much on the loyalty of others that didn’t exist. Like gold lead, illustrious but horridly frail. A simple touch would break it in two.

  And yet, if there was one thing he’d learned on the journey thus far, it was that he could succeed where, before, he’d failed. The druzhina he’d feared had resworn oaths and looked upon him as a man worth following. So maybe he could fix things.

  Where did that start? Here? But the ways she spoke to him, touched him… How could this be something that needed fixing?

  After a long moment of concerted effort, Laczlo pulled back and rolled from the bed of furs into the cool morning air. He stretched from side to side, taking great deep breaths, and strode to the curtains, pulling them open, as well as the shutters. Outside, a thick fog held the land motionless, and only the beginnings of a sunrise revealed anything through it, such as the various huts and hovels of the settlement, the forms of peasants tending to animals, the outline of their ship’s mast swaying gently.

  He turned to find Silene sitting up, watching him.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “We should ready ourselves for the day.”

  “Should we?”

  He sighed and grinned. “Don’t make getting up more difficult than it already is.”

  “I just don’t want this to disappear when we walk outside.” She held up a hand. “I understand the need for discretion, of course. But beyond that.”

  His smile withered. “I can’t make any promises, Silene… I just can’t.”

  “Then, at least until we return to Vasia?”

  He took in her searching expression, large, worried eyes and the lips below them that so entranced him. “Okay,” he said. “Until Vasia. I can promise that.”

  She smiled, and he knew it was worth it.

  …

  For some reason, it felt good to be on the ship again. Freeing, maybe. A continual sense of progress, more likely, as they cut through the currents towards Delues, sail out and full. The sailors, having spent the night on or near the ship, were not nearly as hungover as the rest of them but still seemed pleased not to have to row. His druzhina were lounging around with watered-down ale close at hand, sipping away the dehydration and aches as best they could. Laczlo felt oddly fine, chalking it up to his… activities at night and in the morning. And either the men were unaware or all quite respectful for it seemed no one knew what had happened. Well, all except Mikha, for Laczlo noticed the little things in his behavior. The scrutinizing glares towards Silene, the tight-lipped frowns when he thought no one was looking, and the almost frustrated silence that shrouded him like a thick cloak. Laczlo didn’t dare wish to breach the subject with him, so they carried on about their business hardly speaking to one another.

  It was foolish, he knew that. Not just his fear of confrontation but the whole notion of keeping it secret from others. An affair in a manor when all are drunk and feasting is much easier to hide than aboard a ship with only one real sleeping chamber reserved for just him. In the back of his head, the looming dread of the truth festered, for he knew that when tempted with her again, he’d hardly resist. Deny it or not, he mused as he stared out at the passing countryside, I’m lonely. And that’s a greater vulnerability than almost any amount of naivety and ignorance. Someone had said that once. Who? His mother? It wouldn’t be unlike her, always trying to convince him to marry, successfully doing so upon his father’s death and the approaching end. She’d wanted grandchildren, but he was still a child himself, really. A youth in a man’s body. He thanked Deus every day that it was sickness, and not the ravages of war, that finally took her. And secretly, buried beneath conscious efforts and corrections, he was thankful she died before seeing him blunder the family legacy into the fires of civil war.

  After a few hours of sailing across an open stretch of lake, it was only a short distance into the mouth of another river before reaching Delues, or, well, the way into Delues. Though traffic had been steady thus far, it was not nearly so hectic as to make him believe the sight before their ship: boats, barges, merchant ships of all sizes and make, even a few low-sitting sleek war vessels turned the river into a crowded thoroughfare, for up ahead, if he stood at the rear castle of the ship to peer on, one could just make out the beginning of the famous Deluesian Docks. He stood there, squinting under the harsh sun of an otherwise dry land, and thought of what awaited him. What plots lie ahead, tangled and deceptive? So the Olverins were funding the bribes, but who was funding them? It was the truth he’d been released from his debt to Iarek Kostuveski to find. Whatever pragmatic little voice in his head that preferred tactical retreats and shows of humility was silent, squashed by something growing ever-stronger. Something proud. Something… something that felt right. He needed to see this through. He needed to.

  After a slow paddle forward for another two hours, they eventually got close enough to see the weaving network of canals, rivers, and ponds that made up the Deluesian Docks. One could take their vessel and navigate it through much of the city, including its entire eastern perimeter, and dock wherever they pleased. At the entrance, however, was the source of the significant hold-up. An entrance fee, taken and administered by well-armored guards of the city, wearing fine clothes that signified a more royal allegiance. Laczlo begrudgingly admired the king’s business savvy to corner such extensive revenues beyond the reach of his personal estate.

  After he paid the toll, which was not quite as harsh as Nova’s, the crewmen rowed them up what Silene theatrically called the Throat. It didn’t take much to imagine why, for the very city’s lifeblood, or, perhaps, air, flowed through the main, bisecting channel of Delues. If there was any sense to flanking streets running along the river, it was lost on him, for all seemed a jumble of warehouses, homes, apartments, estates, temples, old and abandoned walls, scavenged ruins, and shops. Oh, the shops. Laczlo felt as if he were in a strange Nova, how much the city moved and shouted and stank with commerce. One might think the water would help there, but however their canals worked, it didn’t seem much of the refuge flowed out of the city. Regardless of the distractions, many as they were, he recognized where his ship slowed as a wealthier area, with clay-tiled roofs and fine-clothed people who seemed patricians of an imaginary world. But most of all, it had that familiar scent of silver and arrogance. Yes, truly a strange Nova indeed, he thought, stepping from the ship to the cracked cobble street, feeling out of place, overwhelmed, and, for some reason, excited to begin.