by Giles Carwyn
The weight of his disappointment slowly transformed into a crushing hatred. She hadn’t even looked for him after the fire. Not once in the next few days had she cast out her magic, seeking to find him where he sat watching from a distance. All she cared for was that boy and the city he was born in. Her compassion for these Ohndariens was a black cloth pulled over her head. She could never stop the Summer Fleet. Arefaine’s plan was too perfect. The hurricane was coming, no matter what Shara did. The Zelani had courage, no one could deny that. Her will could take her long past the point where others would fail, but she didn’t belong here. This was not her fight.
It was not his fight either. His ship was waiting for him just beyond the Windmill Wall. So why did he linger?
Taking a deep breath, he walked over to a worktable. He fingered an old scroll then moved to her wardrobe. He opened the double doors and looked at her clothing. Dresses hung from a rod. Jewelry boxes and face powders were stacked neatly on a shelf. He slid open one of her drawers. From within, he pulled a sheer, silky piece of cloth. He pressed the white undergarment against his cheek, filling himself with the scent of her.
He closed his eyes, and his mind flew away to that moment when Shara had straddled him, her body pressed against his as she strove to take him. He’d glimpsed something in that moment, something beyond her straining muscles, her excited breathing. For one glorious moment, he neared it, but it had been snatched away. It had ripped a gaping hole in him, a hole that needed to be filled.
He’d tried to reach that place on his own, tried to follow where she’d led him. But he could barely find the path. He needed her. And she needed him. He licked his lips, remembering her hanging limp from his silk scarves, the heat of the fire caressing her body.
Jesheks took the undergarment away from his face, and it slid between his fingers.
He should have killed her, should have driven the rod through her heart and watched the dark blood run along the steel as she looked at him, wide-eyed, her light slowly fading as she died. She was a blade in his soul that needed to be yanked out and tossed aside.
Jesheks put the white silk back into the drawer and slowly closed it. His hands lingered on the wood, squeezing tighter and tighter.
Where was she? He couldn’t go on like this. He had to find her. He had to be done with her. Had to burn her face from his mind’s eye.
With a wrenching effort, he forced himself to let go. Backing up, he slammed the wardrobe doors. One of them swung back open. He slammed it again. Both of them swung open. Jesheks punched the door, shattering the thin wood and slicing open his fist. He grabbed the other one, and yanked it off its hinges. The entire wardrobe tipped over and crashed to the floor. Jesheks hissed, reveling in the pain, drawing it into himself, burning himself clean.
In a few moments he was calm again, and he watched with fascination as a stream of blood ran across his knuckles. His heart pounded, and his chest rose and fell like the sea, but he was calm.
He would be free of her. One way or another, he would be free. He and Shara had been cheated of their reckoning, and he meant to have it back.
“Oceans cannot separate us any more than deserts, my lovely Zelani,” he said. “We will finish what we started.”
He turned to go, but paused when he saw a faint glow between the fallen wardrobe and the wall. Looking closer, he found a bottle of wine filled with lights. They swirled around the inside of the cut crystal, casting a shifting rainbow of colors upon the wall.
Jesheks reached down and plucked the bottle from its hiding place. He could instantly feel the power within, and a slow smile spread across his face.
“Well,” he said to the empty room. “What have we here?”
Chapter 2
Ossamyr pushed herself to the front of the rain-soaked crowd to get a better view. Lush green mountains loomed on either side of the narrow channel that led to the Opal City. The Ohohhim capital clung to the sides of those mountains like sea foam washed up on a mossy shore. A single black ship with triangular sails tacked slowly into a headwind through the narrow waterway. Arefaine Morgeon was on that ship, the girl Ossamyr had come to kill.
Ossamyr had never been squeamish about violence. She had grown up with bloodshed; it was an everyday part of Physendrian life. In a pit of scorpions, you stung any who came near. But that was long ago, in a different land and a different life. Before Brophy. Before Ohndarien. Before Reef. She was not that woman anymore, and the poisoned dagger strapped to her thigh stung like a badge of shame.
Thousands of black-robed Ohohhim had crowded the docks, waiting for the return of the emperor’s body and their new regent. They were eerily silent as they waited for the ship to land. The constant drizzle seemed to reinforce the perpetual hush as if Ossamyr were lost in a fog of black robes and cowled faces. Every moment she spent in the Opal Empire made her feel like she was being punished, like she was a child forced to stand in a corner and think about what she’d done wrong.
Even though she was constantly in a crowd, she had never felt this isolated, this cut off from other people. It had been two weeks since Reef had dropped her off at the far edge of the city under the cloak of darkness. She longed to have the Islander’s calm, reassuring presence next to her, but he was far too large to ever pass for an Ohohhim. Even Ossamyr was conspicuously tall in the Opal Empire. Fortunately, the constant rain gave her a good excuse to keep her cowl up and a subtle glamour did the rest.
She had been amazed by the city when she first arrived. The vibrancy of the vegetation still seemed unreal to her desert-born eyes. Waves of green flowed down the mountainsides like waterfalls, pouring around the buildings and flooding the city with life. Black wooden structures rose from the forest like obsidian giants, lacquered to a mirror finish, glistening in the constant rain. Many of them were five or six stories tall, but they did not come close to the height of the tallest May Dragon trees. The intricately carved buildings were all linked by arching causeways high above the ground that created long queues of structures running parallel to the shore. The city was shocking in its uniformity. Every building, every street, every shop, sign, and flower box had been built in the exact same style. The entire city seemed to be frozen in one perfect moment, unchanging and untouchable.
Even the people seemed frozen in time. The streets were constantly packed with the ebb and flow of humanity going about their daily business, but the city always seemed calm and tranquil. There was never a harsh word, never a shout. Neither were there any smiles or heartfelt meetings between friends. Even the children played deliberately and quietly in small groups. It was almost as if they were painted dolls instead of people.
Two days ago, though, all of that changed. Ossamyr was returning from scouting the palace for possible entrances. She was crossing the Dragon Bridge when a crying woman bumped into her, mumbled an apology and ran on. What would have been an everyday occurrence anywhere else felt like an earthquake in Ohohhom. Moments later she saw an old man huddled against the railing, hugging himself and rocking side to side like a child. The streets were soon filled with hordes of anguished Ohohhim, hoods pulled back as they stared up at the sky, crying into the rain as the white powder washed from their faces. A ship had arrived from the Cinder with news of the emperor’s death. The shops were closed. All work halted as the black-haired, black-robed people gathered together in the street in silent sorrow. Everywhere she walked, the once-emotionless Ohohhim were weeping, consoling one another.
Word quickly spread that the Opal Advisor had died alongside His Eternal Wisdom and the Awakened Child, Arefaine Morgeon, had been named regent. When the twelve official days of mourning were over, the priests of Oh would form a great queue and begin their trek across the empire looking for the next Incarnation of God on Earth. Until that child came of age, the Opal Empire would be in the hands of a tortured girl with the power of a god.
Ossamyr had eavesdropped on mumbled conversations about the new regent. “I will not bow to that girl,” one old woma
n said. “His Eternal Wisdom would never choose a child of Efften to lead the divine queue. She suffered for the light. That is true, but she does not hear the voice of Oh. You can see it in her eyes.”
For the past two days, Ossamyr had been trying to decide if this sudden turn of events made her task more or less difficult. It probably didn’t matter. She still needed to get the girl alone in a confined space. The rest would be easy. She already had a few ideas of how it might happen.
She watched Arefaine’s ship as it glided up to the docks and sailors jumped ashore to make it fast. The silence among the Ohohhim was so complete that she could hear her own heart throbbing in her temples. An unexpected fear twisted in her belly. Suddenly her task seemed painfully real. Simply imagining Arefaine’s death had been easy. Now she had to actually do it.
A few soldiers in black robes and helmets that looked like shark fins appeared from belowdecks and marched down the gangplank. They spread out on the docks and waited, still as posts. Ossamyr had seen the Carriers of the Opal Fire before in Ohndarien. There should be twelve of them. There were only four.
Once the dock was secure, twelve women with black veils over their faces emerged from within the ship. Upon their linked arms they carried a body wrapped in white silks.
The thousands of people lining the shores of the Opal City bowed as one. Ossamyr joined them as they pressed their foreheads to the ground. There was no sound. No birds called out. Not a single baby cried.
Ossamyr intensified her glamour and looked up from the rain-soaked cobblestones where she knelt. The ten women in mourning veils walked across the deck. A young woman with straight black hair and a powdered face followed the corpse, holding a strand of silk trailing from his shoulder. Ossamyr gritted her teeth, staring at the cold beauty in the distance. She remembered her night on the island, the images she had been shown by the Siren’s Blood. Once again she felt like someone was ripping her soul out of her chest. She closed her eyes against the hazy shared memories given to her by that magical liquid. The tears of the countless indentured flashed through her mind, so that she could almost feel the black tears streaming down her face.
She opened her eyes and stared at the young woman. The girl intended to unlock a cage that should never be opened. She would turn those black tears into a flood, setting loose the voices and sending them screaming across the face of the earth. It could not happen again. Ossamyr would not let it.
The procession turned to go down the gangplank and she was finally able to see who stood behind Arefaine. Ossamyr took a sharp breath, which almost turned to a whimper in her throat. His blond hair shone like a spot of sunlight in a black-and-white world. His face was unpowdered and unguarded. He took in the sight of the city, the ten thousand kneeling faithful with unabashed amazement. He looked just the same after all these years.
Ossamyr forced her head back to the ground. Her body ached to leap forward and run to him. She wanted to snatch him up, fly away with him back to his cell in Physendria with the round bed suspended from the ceiling.
She pressed her head against the wet ground, feeling like she was being torn to pieces. One part of her was still kneeling on the arena floor begging a young man for forgiveness. Another part was back on Reef’s ship, cradled in his arms and rolling with the swells as she slept. The rest of her was lost in a howling darkness, feeling her heart being ripped from her chest.
She squeezed her legs together, pressing the sheath of the poisoned dagger painfully into her thighs.
First things first.
She could only hope Brophy would forgive her after it was done.
Chapter 3
Brophy felt an uncomfortable knot in his stomach when he first laid eyes on the Opal City. He gripped Arefaine’s sleeve tighter as he followed her and the emperor’s body down the gangplank and onto the dock.
As far as he could see, robed and cowled Ohohhim filled the streets, their faces pressed firmly to the ground. The prostrate hordes extended along the shore until the haze of rain obscured them. It was more people than he’d ever seen in his life, far more than the Nine Squares arena at full capacity. And they were all eerily silent.
The only color in the city of gray skies and dark robes was the vibrant green of the trees that seemed to press on the buildings from all sides, trying to push them back into the ocean. There was no denying the beauty and grandeur of the glossy black city, but it was a cold beauty, as chilly and depressing as the constant rain.
Arefaine continued along the dock. The crowd had left a narrow passageway for the procession to follow. The people on either side could have reached out and touched Brophy’s feet, but none of them moved. They didn’t even look up as the body of their emperor passed.
The place set Brophy’s teeth on edge. The oppressive clouds and unnatural silence reminded him of his nightmares. He kept expecting the kneeling figures to rise up with the glowing red eyes and ragged claws of the corrupted. The Fiend would emerge from their midst with the Sword of Autumn in his skeletal hands.
Brophy patted the pocket that held his father’s heartstone, but Brydeon’s soul light did not emerge.
It’s worse than I feared.
He started, hearing Arefaine’s voice from behind him and turned to look at the Ohohhim man following him, who kept his head bowed. “What—”
Don’t speak, Arefaine’s voice said, again from somewhere behind his head. Keep your eyes forward.
Her voice wasn’t coming from behind him. It was within him, emerging inside his own mind. He groped for the ability to respond, but it was like trying to move a limb that didn’t exist.
Whenever the emperor returned from Ohndarien, the city was filled with flowers. His feet never touched the ground for all the petals strewn before him, she spoke to him.
Brophy glanced at the ground. There was nothing but rain-slicked cobblestones, not a single petal to be seen.
They might as well be spitting in our faces.
Brophy took a deep breath to calm himself. He looked at the endless crowd of kneeling Ohohhim and was suddenly struck by the enormity of Arefaine’s task. The emperor had left her in a terribly precarious position. Her own Carriers had defied her succession. This entire city could be on the verge of doing the same. She was vulnerable here, alone and hopelessly outnumbered. Brophy released her sleeve for a moment to give her shoulder a squeeze. He wished he could do more, but the entire city was dead silent. Any supportive words he spoke would be easily overheard.
I’m glad you’re here, she thought to him as they continued forward, leaving the dock and turning onto a vast street that wound along the shore. We walk a dangerous path. They do not trust me. Perhaps they never have. And they don’t know what to think about you. They know who you are, but I think they’d prefer if you lived only in their stories. It frightens them to see a foreigner with an unpowdered face in the Opal Advisor’s place in line. They fear change above all things. They fear it like other people fear death.
During their journey, Arefaine’s attendants had politely offered to powder Brophy’s face and dress him in long, black velvet robes. He had declined, despite their repeated requests. Though Arefaine had never spoken of the issue, he suddenly realized that resisting their customs might have a far more profound effect than he intended. He was coming to learn that every nuance of behavior had meaning to the Ohohhim. He was going to have to pay more attention if he intended to get the two of them to Efften safely.
They proceeded forward, and Brophy noticed their line was getting longer. People from the crowd rose and attached themselves to the end of the queue, each knowing exactly where they belonged in the divine order.
The buildings seemed to mimic them. Arched balconies connected the upper levels, creating long lines that ran parallel to the shore. The meticulously crafted symmetry was impossible to ignore.
All will remain peaceful during the twelve days of mourning, Arefaine thought to him. But after that, things may get difficult. I must move quickly to solidify my pow
er as regent.
Brophy thought back to the conflict over the Ohndarien prisoners on the docks of the Cinder. Could Arefaine have maintained control if he hadn’t been there to kill that Carrier? Would she be forced to resort to violence again? Would he?
“Let’s just leave,” Brophy whispered.
No. We already discussed that.
Toward the end of their voyage, Brophy had argued many times that they didn’t need the Ohohhim if they were going to Efften alone. But Arefaine had refused, and Brophy had come to realize that she wanted to be regent. People who had ignored her for years were suddenly hanging on her every word. She reveled in the acceptance and attention. She craved it like a starving child craves food.
“But—”
No words. We are being watched at all times.
Reluctantly, Brophy held his silence as the procession continued on. There would be time to talk later, but he doubted it would do any good. Despite her promises, despite the danger she faced, Arefaine was already rooted to her newfound throne. It was going to take something drastic to pry her free.
This street is called the Path to Oh, she continued after a few moments. Brophy wondered if the silence bothered her as much as it did him. Roads from the far corners of the empire converge into this one. It leads across the bridge and through the palace up to the Cave of Oh. It is said that no single person has walked its entire length.
Brophy looked ahead and saw where the path turned onto an immense bridge between the mainland and an island so tall and steep its summit was lost amid the gray clouds. The bridge was built to look like a giant black dragon spanning the narrow channel in a series of arches. The path started on its tail, wound up and down a series of hills along its sinuous back and emerged through its jaws on the far side. The surf rolled and crashed fifty feet below, pounding ceaselessly against the thick stone pillars that supported the arches. He counted them. Twelve, of course.
