Floodpath

by Emily B. Martin

  Veran goes to turn up a street only to find it blocked with wooden barriers. A few city guards lounge on the far side, their weapons idle. Veran reins in his horse while I come even with him.

  “Huh,” he says. “Main causeway’s blocked. Must be a parade today—is it Starfall? What day is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Between the Moquoian calendar and the bubble of the Ferinno Desert, I’ve lost track of organized time.

  He shrugs. “Oh, well. We can use the side streets. This way.” He guides his horse away from the barricade and down a series of narrower alleyways, cut with sharp shadows and canopies of hanging laundry. We run into one more barricade, necessitating a dismount and awkward passage through a cramped covered market—our Moquoian guards still in tow—and then we arrive at a tidy row of adobe houses all squashed together and fronted with colorful courtyards. Hedges of brush willow and marigolds swallow wrought-iron gates, and strands of bells tinkle in hand-molded archways.

  “There,” Veran pants, a note of irritation in his voice. We got fussed at for bringing the horses through the market, but there’d been no alternative. He starts toward a gate standing open in front of a house with a bright turquoise door. Just as we reach the entrance, an almighty shout splits the air. My tired nerves fray.

  “Blazes, Sedge, Lila, Sedge, Sedge—they’re here!”

  A figure barrels across the little courtyard and hits me like a crossbow shot. It’s Saiph, unhurt, intact, and laughing like a maniac. He throws his arms around me and squeezes. Following him is Andras, his eyes shiny with ointment and his face split into a smile. And past them—

  I waver on the spot, my heart dissolving in my chest, unwilling to believe my eyes. Saiph and Andras are the only things holding me up.

  “Rose?” I gasp.

  An astonished smile spreads across her face. “Lark! Hot damn—I knew you’d make it!”

  She’s sitting in a wicker chair with big wooden wheels, with her trouser leg knotted neatly at her knee. On a bench beside her are a line of beautiful faces—Lila, Sedge, Hettie . . . blazes, Arana is here, beaming. And beside her . . .

  Veran sags against the archway, clutching his chest in relief. “Eloise.”

  Rose wheels forward as I stumble through the gate, leaving the arms of Saiph and Andras. I stop in front of her, hardly daring to breathe, afraid I’ll blink and the scene will change, afraid I’ll wake up.

  “How?” I croak again, my throat full of dust and scratches. “I thought . . . I thought for sure . . .”

  “I hung on,” she says with a grin. “Thanks to the supplies and the wagon your dandy friend sent. I don’t think I’d have made it otherwise.”

  “But I saw . . .” I begin. “Up in Three Lines, there was a cairn. I saw it, and I thought for sure . . .”

  Her face falls, her bright grin replaced by dark clouds.

  “It was little Whit,” she says softly, reaching out and linking her fingers through mine. “She didn’t make it. She died in her sleep two nights after you left.”

  The rising wave of relief in my chest plunges into a freezing pit. My gaze flies to the others getting up from the bench. “Whit?” I whisper.

  Rose nods, her eyes shining. The old, barely-mastered grief over losing Rose that I’ve carried since Three Lines cracks open again. I squeeze my eyes shut. Little Whit. Her cleft lip, her pale cheeks, her frail body . . . she’d been sick. I’d always known it, I’d watched her slip away bit by bit, and still I’d kept her out in the merciless desert, because I couldn’t bring myself to send her to an orphanage or the poor house.

  I’d kept her too long.

  “You couldn’t have saved her,” Rose says, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. “Even if you could have gotten her into town, we didn’t have the money to pay for the care she needed. She’d have died all the same in a public orphanage. At least this way we were with her. None of us blame you—you shouldn’t, either.”

  A hand touches my arm, and I open my eyes to come face-to-face with Eloise. My breath, already fighting its way through my throat, sticks entirely.

  She looks miles better than she did when we last saw her in Pasul—there’s a healthy flush in her cheeks and brightness in her eyes. Her hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, the dark golds catching the sun amid the smoky browns.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” she says softly.

  Oh no—she’s crying. Panicking, I realize she’s turning into me, her hands sliding past my sleeves—she’s hugging me.

  Oh no.

  Her shoulders hitch under a soft white shawl. “Bless the Light,” she whispers into my shoulder. “I’m so relieved you made it.”

  I flex my hands at my sides, unsure of what to do with them. I cast a panicked look at Veran, who’s doing his best to keep sympathy on his face despite clearly wanting to laugh. Hettie—the girl we first called Moll, the girl from the Silverwood Mountains just like Veran, with his jeweled firefly pin still winking on her shirt—is in his arms, clinging to him like a baby opossum.

  I clear my throat and pat Eloise once before considering the dirt I’m going to leave on her shawl. I drop my hand back to my side. Rat noses my fingers, and I pull them away so he doesn’t make mud out of the road grime on my skin. Still, Eloise doesn’t let go, her arms linked around my neck. Her curls smell like honeysuckle.

  The others have crowded around now, all dressed in clean clothes in pretty colors, wearing new shoes that fit. I stare at them each in turn, taking in the flushes and roundness in their cheeks. Lila’s dark blond hair is shiny and pinned back, and she’s wearing a white nurse’s smock. Saiph—Saiph is alive—is wearing a gray jacket with the emblem of the university on the chest. I stare at Sedge, wondering what’s so unnerving about him—his sandy beard has been shaved, and his hair’s been trimmed—but then I realize the iron collar around his neck is gone, leaving a discolored band of skin in its place.

  And Arana—my gaze lands on my old friend again. She’s nowhere close to the stringy, sunburned knife fighter who lived with me in Three Lines. Her bunched muscles and knobby joints have softened, and her various battle scars have faded against smooth, glowing skin.

  She grins the same grin, though, and waves at me.

  Always knew you had to be some kind of princess, she signs. All that attitude.

  My knees go watery again, and Eloise stands back, keeping hold of one of my hands. Rose takes the other, smiling at my shock. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I could say anything at all. I feel like a ghost, floating a few feet above my body, watching this all unfold. Rose is alive. Saiph is alive. Little Whit is not. Lila and Sedge and Andras and Hettie are here, in one piece. Arana is here. Eloise is here, and she’s my sister—we share blood. I look down at our linked fingers, hers delicate and soft, somehow impossibly made of the same stuff as mine. My ears ring.

  Somewhere in the distance, a horn blares a fanfare, and filtering over the sounds of the city comes the rattling of heavy wheels, the clop of myriad hooves. Shouts ring out. Our Moquoian guards, gathered outside the gate, suddenly spread into a defensive formation. Beside me, Saiph leaps with excitement.

  “Oh, is that them?” he exclaims, racing back to the gate. “It must be them!”

  “Must be who?” Veran asks, echoing my own numb thoughts.

  Eloise finally looks away from me and out past the gate. “It must be the procession—I’m not surprised. Papa left with Uncle Colm and Aunt Gemma two days ago to meet them in Parnassia.”

  “Meet who?” Veran asks.

  Eloise looks back at him. “Our parents, of course. And probably an honor guard, if I had to guess. Didn’t you see the roads closed? They were putting up barricades all yesterday.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Ours. Veran, come on. Mother and your parents.”

  His eyes widen. “My parents? They’re not—they’re not coming here, are they?”

  “Of course they are,” she says in surprise. “Papa sent a rush letter
as soon as we arrived. We got their response a few days ago, saying they’d reach the city today.”

  I blanch, my insides turning to stone. Where before I felt like I was floating, now it feels like I’ve slammed back into my body, with every sense on high alert. The ambassador? The queen? They’re here—now? Right now? I’m not ready—I’m filthy, I’m upside-down. Rose, little Whit . . . I haven’t even greeted Arana . . .

  Veran gapes at Eloise. “Your mother, too?”

  She gives him a look of incredulity. “Our mother especially, Veran, honestly. Why would she not?”

  He shifts Hettie in his arms. “I thought—with her and Alcoro, you know . . . she never travels here. The war . . . ?” He trails off.

  Eloise shakes her head. “Veran.” Her fingers still linked through mine, she holds up my hand, as if offering me as evidence. “Veran, you found my sister. The entire East is in an uproar.”

  There’s clattering up the road now, and our Moquoian guards have their weapons drawn. Veran sets Hettie down with a pat and hurries out into the road. With the clamor of the oncoming vanguard, he has to shout to be heard, first in Moquoian to our guards, and then in Eastern to the oncoming ones. The front cadre comes even with the courtyard, the horses all tossing their manes and pawing in the cramped space. Behind them rolls the coach, a thing of gleaming wood and gold trim, with a matched six-in-hand. Braces groan. Tack jingles. The driver calls to the guards; a guard shouts back. Rat starts to bark.

  It’s chaos. The second coach and team stop a little too close to the first, and the cadre in between has to mill around, trying to find a way to establish order in a street meant for little more than donkey carts. Neighbors begin to peer out of windows and doors. A woman driving turkeys around a corner gives a cry of dismay—her flock scatters in panic at the commotion.

  Rat is still barking, his tail wagging. I scoop him up and clamp him in my arms, my stomach roiling. Everything in me is screaming for me to get out, to get away—slip over the garden wall and start putting streets between me and this growing mess. The courtyard feels like a trap, with the house behind me and walls and people on all sides. I back slowly away from the gate while Rat wriggles excitedly in my arms.

  A piercing, two-fingered whistle shrieks through the air. Some of the clamor dies down.

  “Eyes up!” shouts a voice.

  On the roof of the second coach, rocking slightly with its movement, is a woman in a green uniform, with copper skin and dark brown hair pulled into a curly knot. She can’t be over five feet tall, but she draws in a breath and shouts for the whole canyon to hear.

  “I need all cadres to dismount, save one junior officer from each,” she bellows. “Mounted officers, take the horses and both coaches and stage them in the plaza. I need an Alcoran captain on that detail.” I stare up at her, recognizing the twang in her voice, the shade of her skin, and the thick fringe swinging on her buckskin boots. I’m looking at Veran’s mother.

  “I need the Lumeni cadre in two files from the road to the house,” she continues, pointing, “and the Silvern cadre in a perimeter around the property. I need the Cypri honor guard and each standard bearer in a parade block in the street. Anyone not expressly needed is to stage with the coaches in the plaza. Fall in!”

  The crowds of people rush to do her bidding. Boots hit the ground and horses are trotted away. Soldiers in blue uniforms scramble through the gate to form lines on either side. Soldiers in green organize themselves along the walls and around the corners.

  “Let’s get inside,” Eloise says, waving us toward the door. “It’ll make things simpler.”

  I tighten my grip on Rat. I don’t want to go inside. Inside is even more of a pen than the courtyard. Rose wheels forward and beckons to Hettie, who’s clamping her little palms over her ears at the noise.

  “Come on,” she says, patting to her lap. “Why don’t we all go down to the fountain for a while? We’ll come back when things have quieted down.”

  I lock eyes with her as she pulls Hettie onto her lap.

  “Don’t leave me,” I whisper.

  She shakes her head, smiling. “You’re fine, Lark. You’ll be fine. We’re just in the way. We’ll see you later. Also . . .” She checks to be sure Eloise has gone in the house, and then she says, “For your information, your sister is a be-damned delight. Don’t be difficult.”

  She beckons to the others and they move in a little knot through the gathering soldiers. Soon they’ve passed through the throngs organizing themselves in the street and are gone.

  “Come on,” Veran murmurs, pulling my elbow. “Once we get inside, the soldiers can finish forming ranks, and they’ll let our parents through.”

  “Veran . . . ,” I begin hoarsely.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, sliding his arm through mine. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”

  Still clutching Rat, I let him drag me through the turquoise door. My breath seems to only be able to travel to the base of my throat and back up, without actually making it to my lungs. I barely register the room inside—rounded adobe walls, colorful rugs over dark tiles, timber beams and plants in windows. Eloise is shifting chairs and plumping pillows, readying the space for all the people it’s about to receive. I circle around the low wicker furniture and gravitate toward the back of the room, putting my back to the wall like I’m about to be jumped. Rat squirms in my arms, whining.

  There’s a tromp of boots outside, and the door opens. The first to come in are a handful of soldiers, who spread out into the corners of the room. Next is a woman with dark brown hair and a dark purple mark covering the skin of her left arm. Veran greets her as the provost, and when the golden-haired man comes in after her, I realize these two are Gemma and Colm—the woman who was queen, and whose name I borrowed for my horse, and the man whose stage I wrecked all those months ago. Whose money and shoes I stole. Whose face I hit with the handle of my knife.

  The man who’s my uncle.

  Their eyes both sweep the room and land on me, now pressed flat against the back wall. Colm’s beard twitches, and I want to believe it’s a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. A maid enters behind them, and Gemma breaks her gaze away from me to accompany her through another door, murmuring about refreshments and extra chairs.

  Shadows play on the door, and in comes the woman from the top of the coach, and two men—an older one with Veran’s crow-black hair, and a younger one about our age.

  Veran’s mouth pops open. “Vynce?”

  The older man locks sights on Veran and sweeps toward him, the hem of his emerald cloak billowing behind him. He closes his arms around him, pelting him with urgent questions. Veran’s answers are muffled in his shoulder. His mother, though, doesn’t go to him right away. She stands alongside Colm, and does what he does—stares hard at me.

  There’s thumping on the threshold.

  “Please, move—aside, please, aside.” A pair of approaching servants suddenly splits apart to let another figure through. It’s the ambassador, the man from Pasul, the man who, if all this is real and true and not an impossible weeks-long dream, is supposed to be my father.

  He looks terrible. He was wild-eyed and crying in Pasul, but now he looks wrung out and ragged. Both his brown skin and black hair look grayer, and his eyes are bleary. He fixes on me the moment he crosses the threshold, and he freezes, while the two servants wait patiently in the doorway.

  He swallows. “Moira.”

  Oh fire and dust, there’s that name again. I should have expected it, but it only adds to the sense of being upside-down and backward, like this moment isn’t actually mine. When is someone going to stop and say, Hang on, are we sure this is really her? When is someone going to get a closer look and say, No . . . there must be some mistake?

  He shakes off his paralysis and heads toward me. Eloise starts around the couch, perhaps to intercept him and soften the impact. I press my back against the wall so hard I can feel the uneven surface of the adobe through my shirt and vest.r />
  As they close in, I catch sight of a final shadow in the doorway. Over the shoulders of the oncoming ambassador and princess, a woman appears, tall and slim, in a traveling gown that just brushes the ground. The sunlight from outside lights up the edges of her blond hair, cropped short, and flashes off the pearls in her earrings and cloak pin.

  Everyone is looking at me, and everyone is moving and talking. Veran’s father murmurs to his mother. His brother Vynce whispers to him. Colm calls after Gemma, asking if he can help. The servants mutter apologies as they sweep through the house, opening windows. And the ambassador is talking to me, and Eloise is talking to him, and I can’t hear anything they’re saying. Rat twists in my arms, whining—he desperately wants to get down.

  I know what I’m supposed to do in this moment. I’m supposed to move forward and let them all look, let them ask, let them touch me and probably cry. But my feet are glued to the floor, and my back to the wall. Without meaning to, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Colm.”

  Her voice isn’t loud, not like Veran’s mother’s, but it cuts through the clutter in the room all the same. I slit my eyes open.

  The queen in the doorway doesn’t look away from me, but she addresses the blond man—her brother—again.

  “Is your study available?”

  Colm gives her an affirmative and crosses the room to open the door next to me. The queen glides after him, stopping short of the ambassador and the princess.

  “Rou,” she says. “Eloise. Give us a moment, if you please.”

  The ambassador’s voice escapes in a rasp. Eloise clasps her fingers together. “Oh, but, Mother . . .”

  “Only a moment, Eloise. Not long. We’ll open the door when we’re ready for you.” She lays her slim, pale hand on the ambassador’s arm.

  The breath seems to go out of him, and he steps back. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek, and then one for Eloise, and then gestures for me to enter the study.

  I draw in a breath and glance desperately at Veran. He nods encouragingly.