The Darkest Bloom

by P. M. Freestone

  She pokes at the fire. Sparks fly up from the glowing coals. “I still can’t believe he would do that.”

  “Take the money?”

  “No, that part I get. What I don’t get is why, if it’s true, he hid his condition. If he just owned up, things would have been different; surely he would have had an honourable discharge, and a pension. And even once he’d stunk everything up, why wouldn’t he tell me? That’s the bit that hurts. The lies. The deceit.”

  The pain in her expression moves me in a way I’ve not experienced for turns. I want to reach out to her, to comfort her. If only there wasn’t much more than a campfire standing between us.

  “I’ll probably never know the whole of it. What secrets Sephine took with her to her pyre … if they even gave her one after what they think she did.” She shakes her head and rises to her feet. “I’m going to refill the water skins.”

  This is the chance to tell her, to admit my condition. Deep down, I know it’s a turning point.

  “He probably thought he was protecting you,” I venture.

  “Sorry?”

  “Your father. I’d wager he was trying to protect you from the truth. People make mistakes. Perhaps he thought he could figure a way out of things, a way to make them right before you found out.”

  Her expression hardens. “Broken trust is the hardest wound to heal. And it always leaves a scar. Always.”

  She gathers the skins and sets out across the stones to the water’s edge.

  I should follow her. Explain that I understand what it’s like to be hiding something from the ones you care for because the truth can only hurt them. That you only intend to protect them.

  But I saw the look in her eye as she spoke. Pain. Contempt. And a coldness that time will one day turn to indifference.

  The fledgling trust between us is still so tenuous. I can’t afford to put the mission at risk by telling her something that might make her see me in that same way.

  CHAPTER 27

  Rakel

  Esiku’s first children were turned to stone

  Where to next?

  We agree to leave the Alet Range quick as milk sours in the sun. The trip down the other side will take us further away from Aphorai and the last place we encountered Rangers. But while there’s part of me that wants to take comfort from having found the first two ingredients for the Prince’s cure, the other part wants to throw up my arms in frustration. Who knows if it’s the right cure? Or even the right diagnosis? There are so many unknowns I could scream.

  Where to next?

  Our descent is mercifully quicker than the climb. That said, the ground is uneven and too corded with tree roots to risk riding Lil. My knees and shins start complaining. Soon each step jolts up my legs. Part of me relishes the pain. Next to the dungeons, I’ve never been so glad to be leaving a place behind.

  Nightmares plague my sleep when we make camp – stinking ichor and black mandibles closing over my face until I burst awake, skin clammy in the night air. Then my eyes find Ash’s silhouette in the moonslight, prowling between the trees on silent feet.

  I try to take the first watch every time, because he never wakes me if I’m second.

  He insists he’s trained to need less sleep.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t exhausted.

  Worry is wearing me down. What other beasts does this strange land hold? Do the Rangers still hunt us? How does Father fare and did Luz speak the truth about the Order keeping him supplied, because if not…

  And through it all: where to next?

  Shivering, I draw Lil’s saddle blanket to my chin. Beyond the last embers of our pitiful fire, Ash guards a perimeter around me.

  I fall into another fitful doze.

  Ash is subdued as we descend into the river valley. I’ve learned he’s usually quiet in the mornings, sitting tall and cross-legged at the edge of camp, greeting the dawn as prayer incense curls around him. But this is different. At first, I figure it’s because he’s on alert for more cocoons – even I’ll admit I wasn’t much help in that fight. When we’ve cleared the forest for cultivated land, quiet lanes criss-crossing terraces of kormak plantations, I begin to suspect it’s more than that.

  Up in the mountains, I let my mouth run away with me, exposed myself more than I wanted to. Does he think less of me, now he knows I’m the daughter of a disgraced provincial military hero?

  I try to distract myself from brooding by concentrating on the remaining clues as we walk, repeating lines from the manuscript over in my head in time with my steps, trying to make sense of them.

  When Riker’s heart faced the eternal plight…

  Esiku’s first children were turned to stone …

  When Azered’s bones danced in the breath of blight…

  Curse the ancients for being so cryptic.

  Or just curse the Scent Keepers, ancient or otherwise. Because the way Sephine used to speak, this probably wouldn’t even have been a riddle to her at all.

  The sun is high overhead when Ash stops and points. A breeze blows from behind us, so that all I can smell is the humus-covered earth and the sun on the kormak – just as the drink, it’s like pepper and orange blossom had a love child. I shield my eyes with one hand. Yes, there. Buildings.

  “Let’s take a break.” Ash lowers his pack on to a fallen tree trunk, shrugs out of his cloak. He stretches, and scents-be-damned I can’t look away as the muscles ripple under the tattoos running down his arms. Then his leather vest creaks. “Tro’s stones, I cannot wait to get some oil for this.”

  I wrinkle my nose. I’m glad we had the sand soap, but there’s only so much you can do with freezing mountain water. What I would give to be clean, to smell like myself again.

  I squint towards the valley. “Do you think that town’s big enough to have a public bathhouse?”

  “Don’t get too hopeful. Just because we haven’t seen any Rangers since the sandstorm doesn’t mean we can relax.”

  “We need supplies,” I say flatly, planting my hands on my hips.

  “If the gods smile upon us, it’s a bathhouse for you, and first stop for me is something to eat. But I’d rather stay filthy and hungry than walk into a Ranger trap.”

  Imaginary sky friends or not, he’s got a point.

  We set off down the hill, the air and earth drying out, the plots of land getting smaller as we near the town. A herder and his flock of black-and-white goats block the lane and we stop to let them pass, newborn kids trotting along to keep up with their mothers – their warm, hirsine scent an unexpected comfort after the dank forest and its horrors. Nearer to the town walls, we pass through a pomegranate orchard. Ash snatches two crimson fruits from the tree as we walk.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Finally taking to some of my ways?”

  He looks taken aback. “Hardly. Emperor’s Rule. Anyone can take as much fruit from a roadside as they can carry in their bare hands.”

  “You wouldn’t want to get caught doing that in Aphorai.”

  “Aphorai isn’t exactly the pinnacle of civilisation, is it?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “What a civilized response.” He holds out a pomegranate. “Hungry?”

  Before I have a chance to react, Lil swings her head around and snatches the fruit from Ash’s outstretched hand. It crunches loudly as she chews.

  “Hey!” I ruffle her mane.

  She replies with a self-satisfied snort.

  Ash throws his head back and laughs. It’s the most uninhibited thing I’ve ever seen him do, and I smile despite myself. “Emperor’s Rule,” he manages between guffaws.

  I reach towards another pomegranate tree. Maybe there are one or two good things to say for the Empire after all.

  The town proper is much smaller than Aphorai City. Leading Lil through the gate, I’m mindful of what Father would say about its defences. They’re rudimentary at best – four wooden towers, ditches bristling with stakes. The air is thick with aromatic wood smoke – Hagmiri commoners b
urning in their hearths what only the rich could afford in Aphorai. Not that I envy them – flame is the last thing I’d want if my house was made of timber.

  Strings of crystal beads hang in almost every doorway we pass, splaying tiny shafts of afternoon sunlight across the buildings.

  I jut my chin towards the nearest of them. “What’s with the door jewellery?”

  Ash shrugs. “Wards. The Hagmiri ambassadors gift one to Nisai every time they come to court.”

  “Wards? Against what?”

  “The armies of the Lost God. The Children of Doskai.” A pinprick of light dances across his face and he flinches like he’s embarrassed – a believer who has just blasphemed.

  “Shadow warriors? That’s cute.”

  Ash raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

  “You’re not serious.”

  He keeps walking.

  “You are serious. Nobody actually believes in any of those ‘beyond the edge of memory’ legends, do they?” I put on my best storyteller voice for the phrase that begins all the old tales.

  I mean, warriors with the strength of ten men? Who couldn’t be touched by blades?

  Everyone bleeds, Father says. You just need to know where to stab them.

  Ash hitches his pack. “Some do. Ever heard of the Brotherhood of the Blazing Sun? They’re fringe – zealots who’d walk through fire if they thought it would resurrect the Lost God.”

  I whistle through my teeth. Even if you’re not strictly religious, acknowledging Doskai isn’t the done thing. Worshipping him? Outlawed. Taboo. And whatever superstitions people may have, wanting to invoke him is even more incomprehensible to me than placing faith in any of his siblings.

  “Others,” Ash continues, “find more accepted ways to hold on to the past. Tradition helps them feel less lost in the present. What do you think my tattoos are for?”

  “So you look fierce?” I hold up my hands, curl my fingers into claws and make a noise somewhere between a meow and a roar.

  He ignores that. “Partly, yes. But they’re also a reminder. A symbol of what had to be conquered for the Empire to come into being.”

  I stop in the middle of the dirt road. “Do you believe in all that…” I twirl my fingers in the gesture for smoke, “Shadow Wars stuff?”

  He squints towards the nearest doorway, where faceted beads glitter as they sway in the breeze. “I believe in the true gods. Magic belongs with our shadows. Behind us.”

  I’m about to tell him where he can stick his proverbs when a figure emerges from inside the house. A man about Father’s age leans against the door frame, arms crossed. The unveiled suspicion in his expression reminds me we’re strangers here. Strangers who don’t want to become familiar faces. I keep Lil between me and the houses and continue into town.

  It doesn’t take long to find the marketplace – a modest square with fruit and vegetable sellers displaying their wares on rough-hewn trestles. Artisan stores border them. There’s a smith, an apothecary that doesn’t look much more than an incense vendor, a potter with the smallest of kilns, and our destination – armourer.

  Ash tightens his cloak and adjusts the linen head-wrap I fashioned for him, pulling it down to make sure his scalp tattoos are covered. Then he enters the shop.

  The armourer wears a stout belly, broad smile, and his own wares – he’s dressed in bronze-studded leather from head to heel. He wipes his hands on his apron as he greets his new customer. Within moments, Ash and he are debating the contrasting qualities of various leather treatments.

  “Best amber oil you’ll find either side of Ekasya,” the storekeeper says, proffering a strip of calfskin soaked in the stuff. “Pure Midloshian.”

  I haven’t worked with amber before. Never really needed to. Barden always sourced his own, and I prefer cedar oil for my satchel, boots and Lil’s tack.

  I drag the strip of leather across the counter and give it a sniff. “Midloshian?”

  “From the Midlosh Sea. Off Los. The largest and best source in Aramtesh.”

  Ash nods and the armourer retreats to the store’s annex to fill us a measure.

  “Amber comes from the sea?” I murmur to Ash.

  “The bottom of the sea,” the armourer calls.

  Got a pair of ears on him, that one.

  He returns to the counter, sizing me up as if I’m simple. “Not any sea. Only where there used to be forests.”

  Forests? Under the sea?

  Esiku’s children grew only to drown.

  I throw Ash a sidelong look. He glances back, realization clear in his eyes.

  The armourer sticks his thumbs in the sleeve holes of his vest. “But the Losians guard their sources and methods as close as the Aphorains guard dahkai. Cagey lot, you northerners.”

  He looks pointedly at me. I tense. I should have known my accent would give me away. Should have let Ash do the talking.

  Ash keeps his expression pleasant. “How much?”

  “Decent lad like you? Let’s call it a hundred even.”

  “Silver?” I snort. “Were you huffing dreamsmoke back there?”

  The armourer keeps his eyes on Ash. “Thanks to your mouthy friend, the price has gone up. One twenty.”

  Ash clenches his jaw, the tendons in his neck going taut. He pulls me aside. “I’m short.”

  I look him up and down. “Above average, I’d say.”

  “I mean I can’t cover it. Your mouth just cost me what I had left.”

  I scowl. “Surely you’re not thinking of giving over that many zigs to this gouger?”

  “What price do you put on your freedom?”

  My scowl turns blacker, but I hand him the purse Luz gave me.

  Ash pays for the amber and bids the armourer farewell. I follow him to the door, waving goodbye with the crudest hand gesture I know.

  “What stink got up your nose?” Ash asks when we’re walking away.

  “You. Letting us get swindled worse than a widow at a soul candle stall.”

  “We needed that ingredient.”

  “And we don’t need to eat?”

  “There’s still enough in your purse to resupply for the next few days.”

  I could strangle that even-toned voice out of him.

  Then he cocks his head to the side in that disarmingly boyish way of his. “It’s not just the money, is it?”

  Some of the anger seeps out of me. “When things seem to fall into place, at least for me, it usually means there’s something else going on. Something lurking below the surface.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, could the next ingredient really be amber? Something so common? What if we’ve got it wrong?”

  “What if we’ve got any of it wrong? You said yourself we can’t dwell on that. I know you’ve had to scrap and fight for a long time now. That doesn’t mean something is less valid because it was easy. The world isn’t constantly setting you a trap.”

  “You believe that?”

  He glances sidelong at me, eyes giving away a barely hidden smile. “For a start, you’re not that important.”

  I punch him not-so-lightly in the bicep.

  He makes out as if I’ve dealt him a killing blow, doubling over with an exaggerated oof and a mock pained expression.

  I shake my head but can’t keep the smile from my lips.

  When he straightens, his eyes turn serious. “Don’t underestimate your own abilities.”

  I wave that away.

  We continue browsing the stalls, Ash taking a moment to pick up the scrappiest of second-hand maps, chatting amicably with the seller about local crops and politics. I leave him to it, passing on replenishing my stores in the name of spending some of our last zigs on food. By the time I’ve noticed Ash has disappeared, he’s exiting the apothecary.

  He joins me, drawing near. “I can’t be sure, but I think we’re becoming a little too interesting.”

  I rummage in my satchel while I sneak a glance across the square. Sure enough, we’re getting a
ttention from other sellers, several of them murmuring to their neighbours.

  I sigh. “Does this mean no bathhouse?”

  “Is it worth the risk of finding out where the nearest Ranger might be?”

  Of course it’s worth the stinking risk, I want to tell him. All I can smell morning and night is the remnants of killer caterpillar sludge. But even though I want to wash away my nightmares, I need my nose attached to my face. Or my head attached to my neck.

  “Let’s go,” I grumble.

  That night, we make camp in a shallow basin some ways off the road, concealed by a copse of myrtles, their astringent tang the cleanest thing I’ve smelled for days.

  Ash spreads his newly acquired map on the grass before us. “Aphorain dahkai. Losian amber. The butterflies of Hagmir. Each of the ingredients comes from a different province. If the pattern continues, that leaves Trel and Edurshai.” He jabs a finger towards a small dot. “That town was Koltos. We’re close to the Hagmir-Trel border.”

  “So Trel, or Edurshai?”

  “Unless you’ve figured out any more of these ingredients and haven’t told me, we’re going to need help. We may not be able to consult Nisai, but we can do the next best thing. Word in the marketplace was that Lord Mur has called his son home to fulfil his duties as heir. There’s to be a wedding.”

  I gape at him. “Hardly the time for a party, Ash.”

  “We’re not going to the wedding; we’re going to see the future bridegroom. He’s a friend.” He scans the valley as he rolls up the map. “At least, after what I’ve done, I hope he’s still a friend.”

  The kormak terraces give way to rolling, crop-covered hills. Grape vines for Trelian wine. Row upon row of fragrant silver-blue lavender. Groves of oranges, the sun coaxing the fruit’s zingy sweetness into the air. Each field is divided by lines of slim pines reaching towards the sky.

  During those days of travel, I realize Ash and I have settled into a rhythm – hours where I’ll ride and he’ll lope along beside me, keeping pace with Lil’s rolling trot. Other times he’ll ride at my back, and at some point I realize it no longer feels like I have a stranger behind me. Then there’s occasional spells where we’ll all walk. At those times, like now, it seems companionable, like we’re simply friends going for a stroll to enjoy the countryside.