Until another figure appeared.
Tala was flanked by two Guardian captors and her keshu was conspicuously absent, but without a word, she crossed the ground toward Koryn’s body and Nolaan made way for her.
Our eyes met. I opened my mouth, longing to speak, to call out to her, to explain Breta’s death and absolve myself. But she shook her head. Silence was the language of the dead, and our vigil had begun.
I obeyed, and in silence, we carried our dead to the South Grounds, through crops wilting beyond their harvest, through haunted eyes, through cracked and empty streams. Light to dark, life to death. We laid the bodies in their grave and answered the singer’s cries. Yl’avah guide thee. We echoed the words of the Al’kah. May it be so. We tossed lumps of clay over the bodies of the dead. And when it was finished, we walked away into darkness.
Tala’s guard allowed us a brief and painful moment. We held each other in silence. I felt the rhythm of her breathing, the steady pulse of her, only strengthened by her imprisonment.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered after a moment.
The word twisted inside of me. I killed her.
Tala could never know. Never.
The thought slid between us like a shield—I was hungry for her, desperate to be with her, yet her nearness seemed incapable of reaching me, my fears and secrets dulling me to her presence.
“What’s wrong?” she said in my ear.
I shook my head. “They’re making me head of the third.”
“And the sixth. Umaala told me.” She paused. “I’m proud of you, Ishvandu.”
I groaned. “No. Don’t . . . don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve done nothing to . . .”
“Ishvandu.” She touched my face. “Breta’s death is not yours to carry.”
“Isn’t it?” I whispered.
She just looked at me, loving me—challenging me. Speak, Vanya! Be free.
I opened my mouth to explain, but her Guardian escort tapped her on the shoulder.
“Let’s go,” the woman said softly. “You know the rules.”
Tala nodded. We clasped hands, and she was led away, back to the Hall ahead of us. I watched her go, burning inside.
“Is she going to be okay?”
I turned to find Kulnethar hovering nearby. The bruises had become dark and vivid, one eye still bloodshot, jaw swollen. I frowned. “I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry, Vanya.”
“I know. You tried.” The words came out with a bitter edge.
Kulnethar looked away. “I shouldn’t have. It was a foolish idea. Even the suggestion I might have been involved—they’re starting to look at me differently, to second guess me. Maybe for just going on the expedition. Do you know what they’re saying?”
“I don’t care.”
“That you killed Koryn, then beat me and forced me to take the blame.”
I snorted. “Of course they are.”
“You don’t understand, do you? It might not be true, but people know something’s off. Too many lies. And now I’m being pulled in after you.” He shook his head. “No more.”
I glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. I’m done. I won’t lie for you again.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” I snapped. “That was your stupid idea.”
“And weren’t you glad I came up with it?”
His words cut too deep. I frowned. “Then that’s it? Are you against me now?”
“Yl’avah’s might, Vanya!” He grabbed my arm. “Don’t you get it? No! I am for you, and I always will be, and right now that means ending these lies.”
I turned away. He didn’t understand. It was already done. Nothing could save Tala but my own freedom.
But he ran after me, not even bothering to keep his voice down.
“Don’t you see what she’s doing? Right now they could accuse you of anything because you have no truth to stand on. Do you want to prove them wrong? Then open your blasted mouth and give them a reason to trust you!”
I stopped, tempted to hit him again just to shut him up. I noticed a few of the straggling Guardians glance at us as they passed.
“Listen, Kulnethar,” I growled. “I don’t care what they whisper about me in the Temple. That’s your problem. And if you think my name is starting to sully your precious reputation, then drop it for all I care. You think your Temple is so blameless? You want me to speak the truth? Really? How about asking your Chorah’dyn why she dragged us out here to die, to sacrifice ourselves, to chain us to this useless hunk of rock.” I swept my arm towards the emptiness of Shyandar. “Look around you, Kylan! Our city is dying. Our people our suffering. And the truth of the Avanir is even more horrible than you could fathom—not that you’d believe me if I told you.”
“Vanya . . .”
“At least I’m trying to do something to fix our problems. So don’t you stand there and wag your self-righteous finger at me.” I prodded him in the chest. “Your Chorah’dyn has failed us.”
“Vanya, look!”
Something in his voice had changed. I stopped. He was looking past me. I blinked through the dark. And then I noticed the shift, the silent transformation in the Unseen even as I shouted my accusations. The emptiness had vanished. The pulsing bruise at the heart of Shyandar was gone. The Avanir glittered in the moonlight, alive with fresh and potent water.
As if sated at last, Kaprash had come to an end.
Chosen
The Desert and the Forest
Year 457 and 799 after the fall of Kayr
Listen to me, my child!
The darkness is coming. Soon the Seen and the Unseen will crack, and the emptiness will grow out from the Chorah’dyn, unchecked.
But the world is not without hope. You carry it inside you. It has been given to you, the last seed of the Greenwater.
What happens next is up to you . . .
Spirit-Seer
The Watch-House was a square, stone building with locks on the door and a banner hanging down its side. It faced a wide, busy street, and, as far as Balduin could see, it was nowhere near the market road where his bread was waiting for his coin.
Another ache twisted through his stomach.
Bread would have to wait.
Keeping to a shadowed alley, the dark-coated men ushered Balduin into a door at the back of the building. They brought him down a narrow, bare corridor into a narrow, bare room. He was given a wooden stool next to a small wooden table. The floor was cold under his recently bootless feet, and the window was high and small.
He shivered.
“Stay here,” said one of the men in Imo’ani.
The door closed, and Balduin was alone. He clutched his stomach and swallowed. He felt faint. The walls seemed closer than they had before, and for a moment, he wondered whether he would throw up.
Father, where are you?
Before he could gather his courage to test if the door was locked, it opened again.
A Manturian man came in. He had a short moustache and a small patch of beard on his chin. He had short, dark hair and dark eyes and a dark coat like all the others, except for a small white border around the symbol of the winged eye.
He closed the door behind him, grabbed another stool, and perched on the end of it, leaning down towards Balduin with a serious gaze.
Balduin shifted, uncomfortably aware of how much shorter his stool was.
“My men say you might be able to help.” The man’s voice was flat, only a hint of accent over a slight hoarseness.
Balduin licked his lips. “I…I think there’s been a mistake.”
“How do you know Garrick?”
“Who?”
“The thief, Garrick. He was last seen at Yol’s, and so were you.”
“I don’t know anyone named Garrick,” Balduin replied, worry growing in his empty stomach.
“My men say you’ve been asking for someone of his description. A little street-ru
nt mongrel, babbling around the market looking for a Southerner.”
The bright-haired man from Yol’s.
Balduin’s breath tightened. They thought he was looking for this man. Did they suspect him too? Would they take his coin away, accuse him of being a thief? He wanted to explain, but suddenly he couldn’t quite get a lungful of air. “I don’t know him. I’m looking for…looking for…someone else.”
“But you know who I’m referring to.”
“I don’t know anyone named Garrick.”
“But you’ve seen him.”
Balduin swallowed, feeling the man’s eyes. He wanted to shake his head. Just shake. But he couldn’t will himself to lie, even silently. He struggled for another breath.
“Through the nose,” said the dark-coated man.
“What?”
“Breathe. Through the nose. No need to gasp like a fish, I’m not going to hurt you.”
Balduin pressed a hand to his chest, nodding. “Who…who are you?”
“Captain Ernsted of the Calton Watch. Ellendi primitives are welcome in our city, so long as they follow Honan Law, of which I am a steward.”
“Honan Law?”
“The laws of the Manturian settlers from Hon.”
“Manturians,” Balduin murmured. “People of the Northern Isles. But this is the Ellendandur forest.”
“This city is on the Road.”
“A Road that cuts through the forest.”
“Boy, does this look like the forest to you?”
Balduin met Captain Ernsted’s gaze. “Take away your stones, and the forest would grow back.”
“Maybe it would, Ellendi.” The man’s mouth twitched. “That’s not my decision to make. I keep order: for the sake of those who live in the city—and the sake of those who live near it.”
Balduin shook his head. “I don’t understand why I’m here. I…I have nothing to do with you or your laws. I’m just trying to find…” He trailed off, hating the weakness in his own voice, how it cracked and grated against his parched throat.
The Manturian captain nodded, rose, and left the room. A moment later he returned with a cup of water.
“Drink.” He held it out.
Balduin hesitated, remembering the Cay-et woman’s offer of a drink—and the wild visions that followed, rolling over him like a storm.
Captain Ernsted struck him as a simpler man.
Balduin drank. The water was clean: the first clean thing he’d experienced since climbing over the walls. It was so good, he almost wept.
Ernsted took the cup from him before he could finish, and the water spilled down his chin, barely enough to coat his thirst.
“Calton is home to some six thousand souls,” Ernsted continued, ignoring Balduin’s empty, grasping hand. “Six thousand mouths and bellies and anxious feet who through one means or another ended up here, speaking Manturian, Imo’ani, Aethen, all clamouring for their cut of meat and their pull of water. Should I let them fight each other like dogs for it? Because they would, if I left. There would be blood in the streets instead of shit, and their violence would boil out from here like poison. I enact order by force—so others do not have to.”
Balduin wiped his mouth. “Please,” he whispered. “I don’t know this man.”
“You know something.”
“I don’t—”
“The eyes speak truth when the tongue doesn’t. Whatever you know, however small, will help. And will earn you clean water and meat both. A fair wage for fair work.”
Balduin clutched his hands together so they wouldn’t shake. The man saw the truth—he knew Balduin had some vague idea, and he wouldn’t be happy until he’d heard it.
“Garrick,” Balduin said at last, testing the name. “A Southerner with bright hair. If…it’s the man I saw, he stands a head taller than most. He wears a dark cloak. Weapons. He was at Yol’s. But I don’t know who he really is.”
“An enemy of the law.” Ernsted’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Not so great that he threatens my city, but a notch against justice nonetheless. Did you overhear him at Yol’s?”
Balduin said nothing.
“Tell me what they spoke of.”
Balduin met those keen dark eyes. He’d never been very good at lying.
“Something about a missing shipment,” he whispered. “I don’t understand, but this man, Garrick, was upset. And Yol mentioned how some Manturians had threatened him, then were later attacked outside the city. Killed.”
Ernsted sat up a little straighter. “Yol had knowledge of this?”
Balduin nodded. “A little, I think. But that wasn’t the point. Garrick was angry at Yol for not keeping his part of the deal. Yol promised…coin instead.”
“Did he.” Ernsted’s voice was sharp for the first time.
“That’s all I know.”
“And then what happened?”
“And then…then I followed Garrick. Or tried to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. A…a feeling. He looked like my—he reminded me of…”
“The other man you seek?” Ernsted raised a brow.
Balduin nodded, feeling foolish and young. He stared at his hands. Then realized that Ernsted was holding out the cup again. “There is a kind of sense to it. I trust your words. Drink. The men will give you food on your way out, and if you learn anything new of Garrick Aelfricson and his dealings with Yol An-nod, there will be even better wages should you speak truth to us again. Do you understand?”
Balduin did.
Still, despite the paper-wrapped strip of smoked meat that was later shoved into his hand, Balduin couldn’t fight off a deep sense of unease. What had he to do with these matters? His place outside Yol’s shop that day was happenstance.
Yet here he was, standing outside the front of the Watch-House. With food.
He glanced at the meat. It was dark and thick, like venison, and smelled like wood-fire and spice. His stomach twisted and saliva broke into his mouth.
No. Hungry as he was, he wouldn’t show his desperation in sight of the Watch any more than he had to.
Clutching the package, he hurried up the street, dodging the people, carts, and horses that passed in every direction, even as the weight of the smoked meat grew in his hands. He rounded a bend and shoved a corner of the meat into his mouth.
But no sooner had the warm spices filled his mouth than his unease began to grow. He chewed, swallowed—and the meat stuck in his throat. What had he done? He’d said things that would compromise the shop-owner, perhaps even get him into trouble. And did he know what the Watch would do because of it?
Balduin swallowed and felt himself walking more quickly, as if to get as far from the Watch-House as he could, the package starting to burn in his hands.
He’d done nothing wrong. He’d only spoken the truth.
Yet what if he’d brought harm to Yol because of his words? Or to this Southerner?
He was hungry. The meat was good. He hadn’t asked for it. He’d had no choice at all.
So why the sense of shame? His stomach rumbled and he looked at the single missing bite. Regardless of how he’d acquired the food, he had it now. He couldn’t let it go to waste. It would be foolish, meaningless—
He slammed into someone coming the other way.
“Bunta chet!” the man snarled, shoving Balduin and hurrying on. Balduin staggered.
“Esatch!” The huge, dark body of a horse barrelled towards him.
He leapt back, tripped on a stone, and fell. His paper-wrapped meat skittered across the muck, while he landed in something wet and stinking. Laughter bubbled around him, strangers noticing him for the first time, people stopping to stare and point and snigger.
His face burned. He tried to wipe his hands on his pants. Horse-shit—that’s what it was. Huge, thick piles of manure.
He clenched his jaw. Something started to build in him like anger. He struggled onto his knees, reaching for the meat—and a passerby kicked it into
the street, laughing.
He wanted to jump up, tear after the cruel stranger, and—
No. He thrust down the burst of violence. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t him.
Rat. Street-runt mongrel. How quickly would the city swallow him? How soon till he became like the alley shadows—the ones that lurked in the corner of his eye?
Balduin hoped he didn’t have to stay long enough to find out. He stared after the paper-wrapped meat—his ill-bought prize—and the feet that passed between them. He’d probably get another kick for further attempts. He hesitated.
He needed the sustenance. Even if it meant crawling through more shit.
Then a pair of heavy boots stopped at the package. The figure bent and picked it up. Balduin’s gaze followed.
Clear blue eyes studied him. They belonged to a tall man, clothed darkly, with bright, neat hair. It was the first time Balduin got a good look at his face, though he’d seen the back of him before. Garrick. It was a proud face, stern and furrowed. Strong-jawed, though with a surprising softness around the mouth.
“Yours?” asked the man.
Balduin swallowed and nodded.
The man handed it carefully back to him, then without a word, straightened and carried on.
Balduin glanced down. The meat was still there—and next to it, tucked into a crevice of the paper, winked something hard and round and bright.
Gold. Ignorant as he was, Balduin knew the value of that.
His heart skipped. He leapt up and dashed into the crowd.
He found himself hurrying after the disappearing Southerner once more. The man had long legs, and he moved so quickly Balduin had to run to catch up.
Oh, Great Tree, guide me! He desperately hoped he was doing the right thing. He probably wasn’t. And yet there was something stirring in him. This man was connected to him—somehow.
The bright head turned to the right, and so did Balduin. He went a few blocks, then turned to the left. Balduin ran, winding between the crowds.
A cramp seized his belly, a sudden burst of pain. He cried out and fell against the side of a shop, clutching himself and breathing hard. Maker above, what was that?
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