VII
“So, what do you think?” Azelie’s eyes gleam in the early afternoon sun as she slows the horses in front of a stable across from one end of the market. Ever since we returned to the city’s outskirts, she’s been her usual, bubbly self. “This place claims to be the world’s largest flower market. I don’t know if it’s true, but it has plenty of rare plants.”
While Azelie talks to the stable girl, I lead Nipper out of the cart, onto the worn stone street, and take my first good look around.
The market occupies several city blocks, stretching south from the stable as far as I can see. Vendors are arranged under tents with colorful roofs and open siding to better allow the throngs of basket-carrying shoppers to move about. Flowers of every shape, size, and color, many that I don’t recognize, hang from baskets and cover display tables. There are plenty of herbs and even some vegetables for sale, too.
As the breeze shifts, the scent of the place finally hits me: like diving nose-first into a fragrant rosebush. Sure, there’s a faint undercurrent of hay and musk from the stable, and a hint of whatever Nipper smells like—which definitely isn’t flowers—but there’s no question that people come here to be immersed in a giant garden that’s all for sale.
Meredy would love this place. If she were with us, she’d already be across the street, filling up a basket, buying flower crowns, and petting every cat and dog in sight.
Turning away from Azelie so she can’t see the hurt in my eyes, I spot several flyers tacked to the side of the stable and hurry over for a closer look.
IF YOU SEE ME, CONTACT THE QUEEN’S AUTHORITY AT ONCE! The four flyers say the same thing, but the pictures drawn above the words are different. The faces of the men and women in them are all as pale as Valoria, as if they come from somewhere with little sun, though it’s hard to tell at first because of the smudgy charcoal symbols drawn on some of their cheeks and foreheads. I think the smudges are supposed to be blood.
Something about them is vaguely familiar. Their pale hair, their scars, and their fur-lined clothing tugs at the corners of my memory. One of the drawings shows a hard-eyed woman with small, intricate white-blond braids running along the sides of her head.
Suddenly, I remember that night at the tavern in Lyris as clearly as if I were standing there again. I only saw her for a moment then, but I’m sure that the woman who lingered in the shadows, watching us face down the crowd with interest, had the same hairstyle, the same fur clothes, and as many scars as her fellow warriors on the flyers.
My stomach drops. We’ve seen an Ezoran without realizing it. Though what she was doing in Lyris, apart from her kin, I can’t say. If she was a scout, she should have realized pretty quickly that Lyris is too tiny and too poor to be worth conquering.
Karthia, on the other hand, with its new queen still figuring things out . . .
“Awful, aren’t they?” Azelie appears at my side and links her arm through mine, apparently ready to leave the stable.
I shrug. “They don’t look so tough, those four.” Aside from their many scars, their sneers, and the hungry looks in their eyes, that is. Mind still reeling at how close we came to one of them, I mutter, “Bet I could handle them.”
“Not me!” Azelie declares, guiding us toward the market at a steady pace. “Even their portraits scare me. People were handing out those same flyers everywhere last month, because a couple of Ezorans somehow snuck past the border—we think they wanted to kill Queen Jasira. The soldiers who chased them back couldn’t even capture them.” She shivers. “Everyone says they fight better than us, even though they aren’t used to the heat here. That they’re as clever as they are cruel.” Lowering her voice to a whisper, she adds, “I’ve even heard they like to experiment with magic. Dark magic. That they push the boundaries of mages’ powers to do terrible things.”
I have so many questions on the tip of my tongue—namely, what sorts of magic the Ezorans could possibly be doing when I only know of five types—but Azelie’s expression encourages me to change the subject instead.
“So, what kind of flower are we looking for?” I ask, shortening Nipper’s lead as a woman and her child stop in their tracks to stare at our passing. “And what’s gotten into them?” I nod to the onlookers.
Azelie grins, flicking her high ponytail over her shoulder. “Most people here have what I call ‘dragon fever.’” She shrugs, steering us along the walking path opposite the market, where there are fewer people. “The fever’s never gotten me, since my uncles have the dragon nursery and I can see them anytime I want. But most people are fascinated. You’ll find all kinds of touristy stuff when we get inside the tents—speaking of which, you and Nipper should do some exploring. I need spirit orchids, and there’s only one vendor, but it’s going to take me until sunset to wear him down to the sort of price I’m comfortable with.”
We step through the rolled-up side of a long blue tent. The woman nearest the opening waves, trying to draw our gazes to her display, and I can’t help but take the bait. Silver dragon brooches, earrings, and necklaces glitter on her table.
“You’d be a tough sell,” the woman murmurs, her wide brown eyes on Nipper. “Seeing as you have the real thing.” Feeling suddenly protective, I step in front of my little dragon, shielding her from the woman’s view.
“I’ll meet you back at the stable at sunset. Oh, and don’t spend all your gold in one place.” Azelie winks and disappears into the fray, leaving me and Nipper alone among the curious shoppers.
Shortening Nipper’s lead, I move through the tables with my head bowed to avoid the notice of overeager vendors. When a not-so-lovely-smelling flower wafts in my face, I sneeze, and a few tables down, I wince when the scent of fresh vanilla pods tricks my senses into thinking that Meredy is nearby.
I lead Nipper toward the far end of the market, drawn to the smaller crowds and a sense of quiet. Clouds of dust and pollen dance lazily in beams of sunlight streaming in through the sides of the last few tents, and Nipper flicks her tongue at them.
“You there.” The gentle rasp of an older man’s voice forces me to look up. His shoulders are hunched, perhaps from the weight of carrying so many years, and his dark clothing covers everything but his head and his gnarled, waxy hands.
I pull Nipper to a stop—she’s more interested in the roses behind me than this old man’s display of carved stones, copper dragon statues, and jewelry boxes.
“Can I help you?” I ask, my free hand trailing over my heart as I check to make sure my master necromancer’s pin is still stashed with my things at the boarding house.
The old man’s smile is gentle. “I believe I can help you.” He reaches toward a small cabinet on one end of his table, turning it so its glass front faces outward. Inside is a large chunk of pale blue crystal, a little bigger than my fist. Nodding to Nipper, he adds, “You look like a lady who’s interested in the rarer things in life. Dare I say—the priceless things?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. This guy wants all my gold for some stone? “Sorry, but no thanks. You picked the wrong girl to swindle today.” I turn to leave.
“I see. So you’ve never lost anyone?” The man doesn’t raise his voice, but it somehow carries.
I glare at him, thinking of Evander, Master Cymbre, and Master Nicanor. I’m even afraid I’ve lost Meredy, in a way, but he doesn’t need to know any of that.
He continues to press. “There’s no beloved spirit you wish you could speak to without ever having to set foot in the Deadlands? No absent voice you’ve been longing to hear?”
I pause and turn back to him, shivering despite the sunlight pouring into the tent. We seem to be alone in here now, except for Nipper and two other vendors who have already started packing up for the day.
Thinking of Evander, Master Cymbre, and Master Nicanor, whose spirits would have simply disappeared after their untimely deaths, I say firmly, “No. No one
I love is in the Deadlands, and that’s the truth.”
“You’ve lost someone with blue eyes, then,” the man says quickly. “Someone whose spirit you’ve feared you could never reach. Well, with this, you can.”
As I watch from the corner of my eye, he picks up the pale blue crystal. “This was stolen—not by me, of course—from the Temple of Rella, and infused with the magic of one of her priestesses.” He cradles the crystal against his chest almost reverently. “It will allow you to talk to any spirit, even those who don’t move on to the Deadlands after their body dies, and hear their voice as clearly as if they were standing beside you . . .” He lets the words trail away, no doubt for effect, then adds, “If you can afford it, that is.”
I stare at the crystal, trying to keep my face blank. It’s probably just a hoax. Some junk this man sells to tourists, drawing them in with his little story about Sarral’s death goddess. But I’d give up all my gold and more for the slightest chance to talk to Evander, even one last time. For another chance to memorize his laugh, and to hear that he still loves me, too, after everything I’ve done.
“How much?” I say, feigning boredom by picking dirt from under my thumbnail.
The old man looks hopefully at Nipper.
“Not a chance.” I pull the dragon closer. For the first time, I realize just what having Nipper beside me means: I have a companion again, one I can rely on, and that’s even more important now that Meredy seems content to pretend I don’t exist. “You can’t sell me anything that’s worth a life.”
The old man’s eyes harden. “Fine,” he grumbles, clinging to the crystal as though he thinks I’ll snatch it away without paying. “Make me another offer, then.”
When all is argued and negotiated, I’ve barely got enough money left to buy a couple of cheese-covered snacks to share with Nipper.
As we amble back toward the busier part of the market, a hot feeling of shame spreads up my neck and face. I just spent a good portion of my savings on a lame stone. I don’t even know if it does anything, let alone what the old man swore it could. Glad it’s hidden in a bag, I vow not to tell anyone what I’ve done.
There’s no way the crystal works, besides. If there was some chance I could talk to Evander, I’d have heard of it before now. Or would I? I hadn’t heard of dragons until we landed in Sarral. Still, if it really worked, wouldn’t this old man be rich by now, not haggling in the back of a market with people who might not have a copper to their name?
By the time I hurry back to the opposite end of the market to return the blasted thing, the old man is gone, along with all his wares.
I slam my fist on the empty table.
He’s probably at a tavern right now, raising a glass to the foolish girl who just paid his wages for the next few years.
* * *
* * *
I’m not the only one who stays quiet on the ride back to the coast the next day. Azelie’s silence is much stranger than mine, as she normally never shuts up, but today she just sits in the back of the cart beside Nipper, looking thoughtfully down at her milk-white spirit orchids wrapped in paper. I suspect the gray sky, which reminds me of the ruined valley, has something to do with her mood—unless she, like me, was an idiot and spent all her money on a crystal that came with a good story.
“Kasmira said she wants to leave Sarral as soon as you’re back, provided the repairs are finished,” Azelie murmurs as the city of Skria Flor becomes a blur on the horizon behind us, still gazing down at her flowers. “That could be as soon as tomorrow.”
The reminder makes my shoulders tense. “I’m not surprised” is all I manage to say. Kasmira always gets restless quickly, but I like it here. I don’t want to think about leaving right now. I especially don’t want to think about facing Meredy and her sudden coolness toward me again so soon. What will sharing our too-small cabin on the ship be like when she’s so determined to ignore me?
“I’m going to miss you,” Azelie adds, drawing my attention back to her. “The older healers never talk to me this much. And your life is so interesting.” A shadow of a grin crosses her face. “Assuming it’s still standing after the Ezorans have their way with it, do you think you’ll ever come back to—?”
She chokes back a shout of alarm as I pull hard on the horses’ reins.
A large fallen tree blocks the narrow road. As the horses stop, I turn in the driver’s seat to gaze in all directions. There’s no one around trying to remove the tree, no houses or farms within view, and no noise of other carts rumbling down the road in either direction. For a moment, I consider just guiding the horses around it. But the ground here is swamp-like, with more mud and puddles of standing water than dirt, and I’m afraid we’ll get stuck.
I smile reassuringly at Azelie. “I’m sure someone will be along to help soon. At least this one didn’t fall and hit me in the head, right?”
A faint crease appears between her brows. “Someone will come eventually. But we can’t be sure when, since this isn’t a main road. I—I took a shortcut before we switched seats, and . . . this is wild land, where the wolves hunt.”
“Wish you’d mentioned that before we started down it,” I say through gritted teeth, jumping down from the driver’s seat into a puddle. Nipper coos, blowing smoke at me as I splash mud everywhere.
I start toward the tree. “If this thing’s dry enough, maybe I can have Nipper burn it with her fire breath.”
Nipper coos again, louder this time.
The baying of something wild answers.
Branches crack and rustle in the distance to our right, somewhere beyond a thicket of trees too dense to see into.
“Death be damned,” I groan, gooseflesh rising on my arms at the sound.
“Get in the cart, and get your daggers ready just in case this doesn’t work,” Azelie mutters tersely as she jumps down beside me. “Hurry. Get in the—”
“What are you going to do?” I blink at her, completely at a loss as to how a girl of her size could move a tree that big before whatever’s crashing through those trees comes out. “I’m strong, let me help—”
Another howl cuts me off, louder this time, as Azelie’s eyes flash a warning.
“I have to do this alone. Just trust me!” she calls as she runs toward the fallen tree just a few paces away. Crouching beside it, she lays her hands on the trunk.
Climbing back into the driver’s seat, torn between training my gaze on the rustling trees and watching Azelie work, I pull out my daggers. Hopefully I won’t need them. After all, I’ve got a dragon on my side now—a fire-breathing, poisonous, biting dragon. Wild bears or wolves should run from her.
The fallen tree groans, rolling to the left. Azelie rubs her forehead with one hand but keeps the other on the bark. There’s no way she has enough strength to push it, but somehow, the tree keeps rolling until it’s almost completely off the road, giving us enough space to pass. Azelie looks ready to collapse. Either she’s way stronger than she looks, or I just witnessed something like magic.
As Azelie staggers back to the cart, Nipper imitates the howling, and the wolves—definitely wolves, I can’t mistake their calls now that they’re so close—answer. Nipper’s scaly tail swishes from side to side as the sounds of unbridled hunger shiver past our ears. I think she likes them.
So much for having the dragon on our side in a fight.
Gathering the horses’ reins in one hand, I take aim with one of my daggers in the other, my gaze trained on the thicket. “Whatever it was you just did to that tree—thank you,” I murmur shakily as Azelie jumps in beside Nipper.
I flick the reins, and the horses charge forward just as the first sleek, dark body bursts from the trees. The wolf snarls, stumbling in a deep pool of mud.
The dagger still in my other hand, I hesitate. The last life I took was Hadrien’s, and I hadn’t really wanted to kill him. He forced my hand, but he h
ad a choice. This poor beast is acting out of necessity. I can’t bring myself to end its life just because it’s doing what all wolves do. I can’t even bring myself to wound it, knowing the only help it might receive from a passerby is a swift end. I drop the dagger and urge the horses faster, until white foamy sweat flies from their hides and the wolf and his friends are far behind.
Only once the horses have slowed, and there’s no more distant baying, do I turn to look at Azelie over my shoulder.
The fallen tree seemed to move of its own accord, and it reminds me of a story Meredy told me once, about a man with amber eyes who could change his shape. But Azelie’s eyes are the darkest brown. According to the rules of Vaia, the Five-Faced God, her gift should be inventing, like all brown-eyed mages. Yet . . .
“What exactly did you do back there?” I ask softly.
As she raises her gaze to mine, an errant ray of light breaking through the clouds spills into her eyes. For the first time, I notice that while one of them is blackish-brown, the other is a green so deep it’s almost black, too.
“Now you know,” she murmurs, seeming to brighten with the sun’s touch. “I see colors around plants. I figured out when I was little that I could make them do whatever I wanted, if I touched them and spoke just the right way. I made flowers dance in my mom’s garden. I made carrots grow faster. I made night-blooming jasmine open in daylight. It scared the few friends I showed, and even my family.” She bows her head. “It’s why my parents never liked me as much as my brothers. They taught me to hide what I can do, because there’s no one to teach me how to control it. If anything, I—I’d wind up as an experiment or something, studied to see how my gift works. And of course I wouldn’t want—”
“Azelie!” I take a quick glance at the road, just to make sure there aren’t more obstacles in our path, then turn back to her. There was a time when witnessing a strange new gift would have terrified me—after all, my entire life, everything new and different was forbidden in Karthia—but the part of me that was paralyzed by newness died about the same time King Wylding did, taking his fear and hatred of change with him. “Calm down. I’m not afraid of you, and I’m not going to tell anyone about your gift, all right?”
Song of the Dead Page 8