by Heidi Heilig
“I’m sorry . . . can you . . .” I blinked and shook my head. “Sorry, I . . .”
“Amira?”
Suddenly the roar of the ocean was loud in my ears—confusing. We were not on the water. But the bakery was spinning around me, and my vision narrowed to a small point. My chin dropped as my head grew incredibly heavy. A wave of darkness washed over me, so gently, and I floated on it, arms out, face to the sky, rocking on this strange sea.
When my eyes drifted open—why had I closed them?—I was looking up at a yellowed plaster ceiling and two concerned faces.
“Don’t move,” Kashmir said to me.
“What happened?” My tongue was thick; I reached back to touch my head—it was throbbing—and found a tender spot. I tried to roll to my side; had I fallen?
“You fainted, Miss Song.” The words were distant, echoey.
A wave of dizziness hit me again, not as gentle this time. When it passed, I struggled to sit up. Kashmir put his hand behind my back to support me. “Slowly, slowly.”
I shook my head—the roaring sound was still there, rising and falling. But it wasn’t only in my ears. “Are people . . . cheering?”
There was music too; the sound of drums and some kind of wind instrument, a flute or a fife, distant but coming closer. Kashmir helped me to my feet, and I tottered over to the window; through it, I could see a press of backs as people lined the street outside. The shopkeeper was standing in the open doorway, her attention split between her strange customers and the excitement outside.
“Pardon,” I said to her. “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a là bas? What is it, out there?”
“C’est Grand l’Un,” she replied, giving me a once-over, her eyes suspicious.
“Grand l’Un? The Great One?”
“Oui,” she said slowly, as though it should be obvious. “Le roi revient!”
“The king?” I asked, unsure that I’d heard her correctly. “What king?”
But Kashmir cocked his head. “The king of Ker-Ys, amira.”
For a moment I thought he was joking, but he didn’t laugh when I did. Then Blake nodded his agreement, and my knees went weak all over again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We stood outside the bakery in a thick scrum of people. Adults lifted toddlers onto their shoulders; children were ushered to the front where they could see. It was warmer now, or perhaps it only seemed so in the crowd. I swayed on my feet, still weak, but in the press of bodies, there was no way we could make it back to the ship.
Kashmir supported me on the left and Blake on my right, and they were pushed even closer as the crowd surged forward. The excitement rose around us and people started to chant. “Grand l’Un! Grand l’Un!”
My skin went cold, but the cheering reached its peak, ringing against the clear blue sky. Petals rained down in the crisp winter air—cherry, and gourdon, and lily of the valley; where had they come from, so early in the season? And then, there he was, waving from the wide window of a gilded carriage, the king of Ker-Ys: Donald Crowhurst.
His livery collar caught the afternoon sun, as did the golden crown on his head, and the red satin sash around his shoulders was very dashing. His eyes glimmered with joy as they swept across the faces of his people. He smiled down at the crowd, every inch a king; it struck me, then, that this was the welcome he would have had if he’d returned home triumphant from his race around the world. But this was a far greater feat. I willed him to look at me, but he did not glance my way, and my voice, shouting his real name, was lost in the roar of the crowd.
As the carriage passed us, I saw her—Dahut. She wore deep red velvet, her black hair bound with gold, and she sat beside Crowhurst like his shadow. But unlike the king, she did not wave at the crowd. Her eyes were fixed on a point above our heads, and there was something hard in them. I didn’t blame her—as she passed, the cheering faltered, and a few in the crowd surreptitiously made the sign of the fig. Why?
“Kashmir,” I said softly. “Do you recognize her?”
“The princess? We saw her in New York, yes.”
I turned to him, incredulous. “Kash. She wasn’t a princess then.”
He tilted his head in confusion. “She’s always been a princess.”
“What makes you say that?”
Kashmir took in the parade, the crowd, the huzzah. “Everyone says that.”
“Not everyone! Not me.” The carriage passed from view on the way toward the castle, and the crowd flooded the narrow street behind them, turning from spectators to participants in the parade. People streamed by, pushing, jostling, and then they were gone. Petals stirred on the cobbles; it felt like a dream.
“I don’t understand, amira.”
“There is no king in Ker-Ys,” I said. “I mean, there was no king. This morning.” My voice faltered as I heard the echo of my own words then, reverberating in my head, along with the cheering of the crowd fading up the street. “You don’t remember.”
“Miss Song.” Blake took my arm gently, leading me back toward the docks. “Perhaps you hit your head when you fell.”
“We were just inside the castle, Blake! It was abandoned!” I put my fingers on my temples and pressed, trying to soothe my aching head. “There was a . . . a wolf in the great hall. You shot it dead, and it was eating the man’s body—”
“A wolf?”
“This morning everything was different. I swear!” I tore away from them, crushing the petals under my heels to pace, trying to make sense of it all. “He did it. He changed the past. But the world hasn’t been unmade—only the memories of it. But how on earth—” I staggered, and Kash caught me.
“Amira, please.” In his eyes, a worried look—a look I recognized. I’d looked at my own father that way many times.
“I’m not crazy,” I said. “I’m not.” Only when he nodded did I let him take my arm.
They led me toward the docks, and my heartbeat drummed at the base of my skull. In my head, a litany: he’d done it, he’d done it, he’d actually done it.
By all the gods, how? My father had never gone so far. If he had, would he have erased memories of me as easily as Crowhurst had erased the memories of the townspeople? Was this the sacrifice Joss had mentioned? I leaned on Kashmir, drawing comfort like warmth from his closeness. When I squeezed my eyes shut, I saw the madman’s pale face above the red ribbon at his throat.
When we reached the ship, Rotgut hailed us from the quarterdeck. He was on watch, lost inside a massive coat of mangy fur and oiled leather that made him look much fiercer than he actually was. His brows dove together as Kash helped me up the gangplank. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I’m fine,” I insisted. “I just feel a little dizzy.”
“You should have had some pancakes,” he said, tut-tutting.
I shrugged free of Kashmir’s grip. “Rotgut . . . what do you remember about this morning?”
“Aside from your lack of appreciation for fine cooking?” He folded his arms, the fur coat bristling around his shoulders. “The motorboat sticks in my mind.”
“The what?”
“Pretty flash.” Rotgut pointed his chin toward the starboard side. There, docked beside the Temptation, a sleek black powerboat was moored where the Fool had been. “Definitely fit for a king.”
“So you know he’s the king?”
“Was it supposed to be a secret? Because the people chanting ‘Hail to the king!’ might have spilled the beans.”
I rolled my eyes and went to look at the boat: a gorgeous thing of wood and fiberglass, completely out of place and time. “Wasn’t there anything odd about that, to you?”
“No.” Rotgut cocked his head. “Why?”
But I didn’t answer; my focus was on the yacht. Her name was painted in gold on her stern: Dark Horse—the name the newspapers had given Crowhurst, back in the race. “The dark horse and the wayward saint. That’s what the dead man said to me.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blake and Kashmir glance at each
other, and a flash of irritation shot through me. But Rotgut jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go make her some lunch.”
He squeezed through the hatch as Kash took my arm, his hand very gentle. “You should rest.”
Swallowing my annoyance, I let him lead me below, drifting behind him as though he was a tug. Rest was a good idea.
Kash ushered me into his cabin, his face a mask of concern. I curled up in his nest of pillows; he knelt at my side, arranging the cushions around me, tucking a blanket around my shoulders, brushing my hair back from my face. The silk smelled like clove and copper; I was warm and suddenly so tired, but I tried to connect one thought to the next. “It makes sense if you think about it,” I murmured. “If Navigation can actually change reality, the original memories of that old reality would have to change too.”
“My memories.” Kash sat back on his heels. “Mr. Hart’s memories. The people’s memories. But not yours.”
“Perhaps the fainting is a reaction to that.”
“You had a headache in New York,” he said. “Just before we met the princess. Is that what happens when another Navigator arrives?”
“Maybe so. Slate had one too. I wonder if he remembers the same past I do. Are Navigators immune somehow?” I bit my lip; the thoughts were started to flow together, like clouds massing before a storm, but Kashmir did not seem to share my excitement. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, amira. Or perhaps I just don’t remember. But there are some things that should not be stolen.” He stood then. “I’ll go. You need your sleep, if you’re going to get us out of here tonight.”
“Tonight?” I sat back up. “No, Kash. We can’t leave, not yet. Not till I know how he did it!”
“You think he’ll tell you?”
“He has to—I have to know. And his letter said he would.” The letter I had given him, I did not add.
But Kashmir laughed, low and rueful. “You’re the smartest person I know. Surely you can see this. People do not offer great things without a great cost.”
“That’s not always true, Kash. Sometimes . . . sometimes people give freely without asking anything in return. Like you and me.”
He shook his head; he couldn’t meet my eyes. “Amira. We may not ask. But there is still a cost. You pay it too.”
I stared up at him—at his jaw as it clenched, at the memory of sorrow in the curve of his lips. But before I could respond, a knock came at the door. Kash opened it, and Rotgut handed over a little plate of cold pancakes, sandwiched around some raspberry jam.
Kash nodded his thanks and passed it over to me; I ate in silence. Kashmir’s hand was still on the door, but he lingered on the threshold. Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted him to stay. The words bubbled in the back of my throat, like the start of a laugh, but he spoke first. “What was mine like?”
I swallowed the bite I was chewing. “Your what?”
“My map.” Kashmir stole a glance at me, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look. “You and the captain must have used a map to travel to Vaadi Al-Maas. I looked for my city once, in an atlas at the Brooklyn library, but I was never able to find it. Do you remember the one you used?”
“I do.” It surprised me, how quickly it came back to mind. I’d last seen it nearly three years ago, as we’d sailed away through the briny waters of the Persian Gulf. Had I known somehow, even then, how much it would change my life? “It was from the early eighteenth century. Lamp black and walnut oil on vellum. A Frenchman made it.”
“A Frenchman?”
“He’d read Scheherazade’s tales—they’d just been translated from the Arabic—and went to visit. He was . . . inspired by reality, rather than constrained by it.” I put the plate down on the wooden box beside his bed, nestled beside tiny treasures—a silver pillbox, a perfume bottle, a scattering of coins. “You won’t find Vaadi Al-Maas on any modern maps.”
“Because it was a myth.”
I bit my lip. “Yes.”
“Then what am I?”
“Kashmir—”
“If you can create a myth, why not a man? Am I merely a figment of some cartographer’s imagination? Or did you make me up when you arrived?”
“No, Kash. I . . . No.” I stood and reached for him, taking his shoulders in my hands; they were warm and solid, as they always were. Could I have ever imagined anyone like Kashmir? “Don’t say that. You are . . . you’re very real to me.”
But it wasn’t what he needed to hear. He shook his head. “I need to be more than what is reflected in your eyes. Otherwise . . .” For a moment, he was at a loss for words, and the confusion of it made him look so young.
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise what am I without you?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KASHMIR
An old story had crept into my head. It was a story about a rogue, like me. But he was a marionette carved from crooked timber. He longed to be a real boy, and so he learned to be good—whatever that meant. He had been a myth: an Italian allegory only meant to scold the poor.
Nix had taught me that.
Out in the hall, I leaned against the door. Behind it, she slept. She’d been sapped, the coals of her eyes burning low; she needed to rest. And I needed to think. It was hard to do with her near.
I tried to clear my head. Still questions stole in. What was I made of? Who had carved me? All my life, I’d clung to the fact that my mind and body were my own—after all, I’d had nothing else to my name. But I’d never dreamed that someone else might be holding my strings.
And what of the memories Nix had claimed to have? The memories I was missing? Was my mind so malleable a stranger could change it? Were all of my thoughts now suspect? The wounds and the wonders I’d carried from my youth—the dreams and desires I’d fostered for my future . . . the love and longing for the girl who’d stolen my heart? My hand went to the lock at my belt, a comforting weight: solid, real. I’d worn it since the day on the bridge. At the memory, I sighed, catching the scent of her hair. It was sweet as water—fresh, not salt. Why did it make me weak in the knees?
No—no. Of all things, I would not doubt my love. I told myself that as I climbed abovedecks.
The angle of the sun surprised me—it felt later than midafternoon. The harbor gates had shut again. Petals spun on the still water, tumbled down from the street. The Dark Horse lay in the harbor, sleek as a seal; a suspicious group of townsfolk had gathered on the wharf to stare at the king’s steed. I shook my head grudgingly. Crowhurst was bold, I’d grant him that.
Mr. Hart was waiting at the starboard rail, stiff-backed as any gentleman. “Is Miss Song . . . well?”
I knew what he meant, but I wasn’t going to answer such a roundabout question. I pushed the clove I’d been chewing into my cheek and gave him a wide-eyed look. “Well, what?”
He grimaced, adjusting his grip on the brass; in the cold, his knuckles were white. “What do you make of her claims about the king?”
There it was. I considered my words. “Her memory is unquestionable, and she doesn’t lie often.”
“Oh?” Mr. Hart’s face was bland but behind his eyes . . . was that pain?
“And when she does, she does it poorly. Many tells.” I sighed. “You know this. You watch her nearly as closely as I do.”
The corner of his mouth turned up, his expression rueful. “She’s better at keeping secrets.”
“Ah, yes.” I spat the clove into the water and drew a fresh one from my pocket. “That, I can agree with.”
“Hmm.” His eyes flicked to me, then back to the harbor. “She really did fall, you know.”
I threw back my head and laughed; did he think me jealous? “I know.” For a long moment, we were quiet. I watched a young boy on the pier as he took a daring step toward the Dark Horse—and another. He got within spitting distance before he ran back to the safety of the crowd. A few of the men tittered, but not many—and no one else made a move toward the strange yacht. Out of th
e corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Hart shift from foot to foot; the boy was troubled about this business with Crowhurst. Or was it about Nix? No matter which it was, I shared his concern. “Want a drink?”
“What?” He turned to me, his eyes incredulous. I nodded at the wharf.
“Well, I need one.” I stepped down the gangplank without waiting for him to follow. I set a quick pace, making the lock swing, and soon enough I heard his footsteps behind me.
The tavern at the top of the wharf was a long building with a roof made of flaked stone. Small windows squinted suspiciously at the windy harbor. Inside, business was brisker than it had been last night; the red-faced fishermen had gathered for a late lunch after beating the tide home, and many were drinking to one another’s health. “A la vôtre! A la vôtre!”
The benches were full, and the air was close with the smell of people and ale and the smoke from the fire. The decor might be convincingly called “charming” by only the greatest of liars: the walls were nailed with chipped shells and twisted driftwood, and the bar was built out of the yellowed jawbone of a great fish. I leaned against it and signaled the girl at the spigot. She looked hard at me with her washed-out eyes, but she took my coin and pulled two mugs of cider. I pretended not to notice her scrub the pennies on her apron before she put them in her pocket.
Still, as I took the cider back to the table, I let myself sigh. It was almost as bad in this little town as it was in modern New York City.
Mr. Hart and I sat across from each other at a wide wooden table. He watched me over his mug, his expression calculating. We drank for a while in a bubble of silence, and I did not fight it. Around us, conversation swirled. Men roared their toasts; others whispered in corners. They used an older dialect—different from the way I spoke it, but there were words that caught my ear: dangereux . . . magie noire . . .
Black magic—I traced a scar on the wood of the table. Did I speak French because of the man who drew my map? Was the suffering of my early years only some foreigner’s fantasy?
