Syrian Small's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Syrian crouched in the trees as the watch torches flickered through the village. Her back ached where her wings had been. She reached for them out of habit and found only the strap of the flame thrower. Footsteps crunched behind her. She turned, blade half-drawn. Matthew Ashford raised one open hand. "Come," he said. "I have a place." He led her down a worn path to a stone arch set into the hillside. Heavy timber doors. A rusted lock. He opened it and waved her inside. The cellar smelled of damp earth. "They will sweep the village tonight," he said. "You sleep here. By day you move." He took her further into the brush. An old canvas carriage sat swallowed by vines, wheels broken, frame sagging. "Inside this when the sun is up," Matthew said. "They search cellars first. They never look at junk." Syrian ran her hand along the rotted wood. It would do. It would have to. She pulled paper from her coat and worked by candle. She wrote a warning in a shaky hand, smudged the ink, tore the edges. SYRIAN SPOTTED IN ANOTHER VILLAGE. She passed it to Matthew. "Nail it where the captain will see. Say a traveler brought it." He read it once. His jaw tightened. "This costs me if it breaks," he said. Then he folded it and put it inside his coat. By dawn the poster hung on the watch board. Syrian heard the boots move past her carriage and on toward the far road. She breathed out for the first time in a day. She had a cellar. She had a carriage. She had time. Somewhere out there, the man who took her wings did not yet know she was still hunting him.