by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 55
“Don’t be foolish,” Qatal said. “You have no idea where she is.”
Abass tied the pouch of dew to his belt and grabbed the dagger from the table beside his bed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Abass said. “It’s been hours. She should have been back by now.”
Qatal, lying in Abass’s bed, shifted and tried to sit up. Pain flashed across his face, and he collapsed back against the pillow.
“You shouldn’t be moving,” Abass said.
“I heal fast,” Qatal said drily. “I’ve been Renewed, in case you didn’t know.”
“Didn’t seem to make much of a difference tonight,” Abass said. Tonight. Last night. He wasn’t sure anymore; it was the early hours of the morning, he thought. Steely dawn had replaced the purple-white horizon of dew-light. “You got tossed around like a doll.”
“I overextended myself,” Qatal said. “I just need time to rest.”
“Now’s your chance,” Abass said. He opened the door.
Qatal twisted again. “Stop,” he said. “Today’s our last day to find Isola.”
“Our last day to find Isola without Maq interfering, you mean,” Abass said.
With a nod, Qatal glanced at the door. Abass shut it again and leaned against the wood.
“He means what he says,” Qatal said. “He’ll kill us rather than let us upset his plans; he won’t let anything stand in his way.”
“I don’t intend to stand in his way,” Abass said.
“He won’t see it that way. You’re a tool, a weapon. If you don’t do what he wants, he’ll get rid of you and find another.”
Abass tapped the brachal. The material—something close to ivory, but not quite—was smooth and warm under his trembling finger. Dew still surged through his veins, but exhaustion, hidden under the nervous energy of the dew, made him shaky.
“Maq is Renewed,” Qatal said. “And he has Serhan. And Eyl. And tair only knows where Fadhra will come down. But more than that, you’re exhausted. And I’m worse. He could truss the two of us like a pair of hens without batting an eye.”
Abass did not answer; Qatal’s words hit too close to home.
“You need to rest,” Qatal continued, “not spend your strength looking for Fadhra. She’s got dew; she’ll be fine.”
“I’m fine,” Abass said. “I’ve been through worse when I was on the streets.” Qatal shook his head, but Abass spoke over him. “Get some rest, or I’ll be doing the searching for Isola on my own.”
Qatal rolled over, turning his back to Abass, and Abass left the room without another word. The dew made him want to dance, fight, fly through the sky, but underneath his lightning pulse, Abass felt weary. He had seen worse on the streets—days without food, night after night of quick, stolen moments of sleep—but not by much. Still, Fadhra was out there, somewhere, and she hadn’t come back for a reason. If the temple had gotten hold of her—tair fend, Abass did not know what they would do to her. The High Harvest seemed the most merciful thing he could think of.
He hurried down the stairs, pulled open the front door, and his mouth dropped open in amazement.
“Well?” Fadhra asked, her voice tight. Blood stained her arm where she had cut herself, but worse were the deep gouges across her left shoulder—the talons of a wight—and a single, even slice across the hollow of her neck. Her deep, dark eyes were flat, different. She grabbed his arm and pushed, trying to force a way past him, but before she could step inside the house, Fadhra doubled over. Coughs shook her until her knees gave out, and Abass caught her as she fell.
Blood, warm and fresh, speckled his bare arm as coughs continued to rack her.
With the strength from the dew, Abass lifted her easily, carried her inside the house, and kicked the door shut behind him. He sprinted, using the speed of the dew to race upstairs and to her room. Within heartbeats he was setting her on her bed. She still coughed, and red-black blood glistened on her lips. Her breasts rose and fell, rapid and strained, as she sought to breathe.
Abass held her hand until the fit ended. Slowly, her dark eyes half-closed, she pulled her hand free and wiped it across her mouth. Fadhra drew her legs up, shivered, and said, “Wake me in an hour.”
He laughed, trying to mask his nerves. “You’re not leaving that bed until you’ve had a chance to heal. What’s wrong with you?”
“How should I know?” Fadhra said. “And Father take you if you think you can tell me what to do. I’m going with you tonight. I think I found where they’re holding some of the people for the High Harvest. An old lumber mill, owned by one of the lap-eses, north of the city.”
The mention of the lumber mill tugged at a memory, but in his excitement, Abass did not pursue it. “What?” he said. “That’s amazing. How did you find out? Where have you been? I was worried about you.” He reached out to take her hand, sticky with drying blood.
Fadhra flinched. She pulled her hand free and pulled a blanket over her. It was like a slap in the face, a kick in the gut. “Wake me in an hour,” she said.
“What’s wrong with you?” Abass asked. “What’s going on?”
“This is your fault,” she snapped, eyes opening, full of anger and something else. Hatred. “I got torn up by those wights because I was trying to help you. Father take you, it’s just like you said. Anyone who comes near you gets hurt.”
Abass let his hand drop to his side. It was all happening again. He could hear his father saying the same thing. He could feel the blood gumming his hand, the way it had all those years before. The dew pounded in him, but not even its frenetic pulse could distract him from the old pain that washed over him. The self-loathing. The knowledge that she was right.
“I have things to worry about to,” Fadhra said. She was shouting now. “Like killing the bastards who took my family. Did you ever think about that? I can’t spend my life worrying about everyone else.”
Abass shook his head; it didn’t make sense. She had found where Isola was being held, but now she was shouting at him. He staggered to his feet and to the door. Holding on to the frame, only his grip keeping him on his feet, he looked back at Fadhra. She turned away from him.
“I love you,” he said. He should have said it all those years ago. Maybe things would have been different.
Fadhra shook her head, still not meeting his eyes, and pointed to the gashes in her shoulder. “Now I know what that means.”
Everything spun around Abass. Somehow he found himself outside her room, the door shut behind him. He made his way toward his room, eyes burning, the knife like a coal pressed against his back—a reminder of everything he’d done, of who he was. He stopped. Not his room—he couldn’t go there. Qatal was there.
Nothing made sense; he couldn’t think straight. His breath came too fast and too thin, his heart beat like an open wound. Abass followed the hall to its end, where a small window looked out on a patch of thousand-glories and tangled fire-bells. He leaned up against the wall and slid to sit at the base. It was all happening again.
He pressed both hands against his mouth, as though he could hold himself together, as if he could keep out the rising tide of memory.
“Abass.”
Abass jerked awake with a start. He lay, half-slumped against the wall, in the hallway. A slender ray of burnt orange sunlight still came through the window. His cheek, damp with sweat, was pressed against the dusty floorboards.
Neck and back protesting at cramps, Abass sat up. Memory crashed over him, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to look down the hall.
Qatal stared at him. Washed and dressed in new robes, blond hair immaculate, Qatal looked like a new man. “What’s going on?” Qatal asked.
“Nothing,” Abass said. He wanted to wipe his face, or rinse out his mouth, or something. Dive into a lake, perhaps. Qatal was a bastard; no need to give him something else to hold over Abass. Especially not after what Abass had seen the night before—Qatal’s display of unadulterated
violence.
For a long moment, Qatal did nothing but watch. The handsome blond man walked over and sat down across from Abass, legs stretched out.
“What’s wrong?” Qatal asked.
Abass shook his head.
Silence hung between them as the ray of light narrowed and slid along the wall.
“I never could understand why Isola still talked about you the way she does,” Qatal said. “Your mother weeps every time she hears your name, and your father turns pale or gets angry. Or both. But Isola—she smiles. And she tells me silly stories about when you would play together. Sometimes those stories were so boring I could rip out my hair.” He gave a tight smile. “Tair fend, I miss her.”
Abass straightened, caught by Qatal’s words. His sister had still talked about him. She had smiled.
“When I first saw that scar,” Qatal said, “I asked her what had happened. It was our wedding night. She had cried for hours because of what you said.” Abass felt his cheeks heat. The angry words with his father; the awful things he had said about Qatal, before he tried to punch the blond man. “When I asked her about the scar, though, she stopped crying, and she told me what had happened. She said to me, ‘I’ll never forgive him.’”
The words crashed over Abass with all the pain of memory.
Qatal said, “I just nodded and kissed her hand, but she took me by the chin and said, ‘I will never forgive my father for making Abass leave.’ I’d never seen pain like that in her eyes. She would never speak of it again, but I saw that look more than once. I couldn’t understand it. All those months she hovered near death. The long recovery. She was so frail for so long, fell ill so many times. And she smiled when she spoke of you.”
Blue eyes fixed Abass. “I understand now, in part,” Qatal said. “You’ve saved me twice now, and I’ve not said a word to thank you. But I do thank you. And I’m sorry for what has passed between us. And I need your help tonight, to find my wife. To find your sister.”
Abass nodded. No words came. It seemed impossible for Isola to love him still, impossible for there to be a way back across the distance that had fallen between them. But she smiled. She loved him. A small smile crept onto his face. She was out there, hurt, in need of help. Abass had saved Qatal twice; now it was time to save his own sister.
“Good,” Qatal said. He stood and helped Abass to his feet. “Go get something to eat and clean yourself up.” Qatal turned and started down the hallway.
“Where are you going?” Abass asked.
“To figure out where to search next.”
“Fadhra said she found her,” Abass said. “Or at least a place they might be keeping her. An old mill, owned by one of the lap-eses. To the north.” Memory stirred again, but it was distant under the newfound purpose, the elation the Abass felt.
Qatal froze. Slowly, he turned. “How did she hear about that?”
Abass shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Something’s not right,” Qatal said. His blue eyes were wide. He looked terrified. “I need to speak to someone. Now.” He ran toward the stairs.
“Wait for me before you go to the mill,” Abass shouted after him.
Qatal waved one hand and then, with a flicker, disappeared, moving too fast for Abass’s unenhanced sight. Abass hurried downstairs, determined to find food, and then a bath. The main floor of the house was empty, aside from the long, slanting rays of fading sunlight. He scavenged a quick meal in the kitchen, polishing off a loaf of bread and a pair of goldheart apples, and heated water as he ate.
When the water was hot, he filled the tub in the adjoining room, stripped down, and started to wash. Most of his wounds had closed, but were still tender; the dew healed fast, but it took more than a few hours. Abass plunged his head under water, soaking his sandy hair. Happiness bubbled up inside him. Memories he had pressed back for too long came swimming up—climbing the hickory tree that lightning had split with Isola. Hiding the well-bucket and making her search until she promised him her share of sweetbread. How beautiful she had looked, how happy, on the day of her wedding, when he had watched his former home from the hickory.
He gasped, choking on water, and sputtered for air as he broke the surface. The wedding. Old Tevde telling Abass how happy his father was with his new son-in-law. Came from a rich family with lumber holdings to the north. Mills.
Qatal’s look of surprise. Of terror.
Tair protect me, Abass thought. He’s had her this whole time.