Godfire

by Cara Witter

  Jaeme’s palm began to itch, and he reached down to pick up a bit of sandstone and balled his fist around it.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Jaeme said. “As far as I know, Kotali doesn’t want anything anymore. He and his stone were swallowed by the mountains long ago.”

  Saara gave Nikaenor a smug look, and the boy sighed and cast off his hood. Beneath it, his neck had returned to normal, but Jaeme wondered what his legs looked like under the soggy breeches.

  “You’re not from Vorgale,” Jaeme said. Vorgalians began their training at twelve and continued for a decade, and this boy barely looked old enough to have reached his majority.

  Nikaenor sighed. “No, I told you. I’m cursed.”

  At the edge of the path, Saara was watching them both suspiciously. Jaeme turned to her. “And Nerendal wants you dead?”

  “So it seems,” Saara said. She looked at Nikaenor. “Let’s go.”

  “No,” Nikaenor said. “He’s cursed too. I know it. And he has to come with us.”

  Jaeme held up his hands. “Whoa, now,” he said. “I was just escorting you out of town as my knightly duty. I’ve got a boat to catch in the morning and—”

  “And you won’t be able to catch it,” Saara said. “Not with the guard after you.”

  “And whose fault was—?” He paused as he caught Saara staring at his hand.

  At the stone he held between his fingers, which he’d unconsciously squished like it was clay. He’d left long marks in the stone, and his fingers fit easily into the grooves.

  “You are cursed,” Saara said.

  Jaeme paused, staring at the stone. Kotali was the god of stone, the god of mountain. But it had never occurred to Jaeme that his power might come from Kotali himself, because, well, he’d never thought that Kotali might notice him or intervene in his life. If he was going to help anyone in Jaeme’s family, surely the god would have intervened on behalf of his father.

  Nikaenor was now staring at the stone as well, and Jaeme dropped it off the sandy hill into the water with a plop. He meant to lie, say it had been a bit of softened earth all along, but if they fished it out and held it themselves, they’d know it to be false.

  And while he’d never told anyone about this, not even his uncle, for fear of what he would think, it felt wrong to lie to the two of them about this. Like a betrayal, even though clearly Jaeme owed them nothing.

  So he plucked another stone out of the dirt and squished it flat between his fingers, and then tossed it at Nikaenor.

  Nikaenor reached out and caught it, then looked at the stone in surprise. Saara watched them both quietly, but whatever her reaction, she kept it fully to herself, which worried Jaeme more.

  He forced himself to shrug it off. “It’s not good for much. Just toeholds and skipping stones.”

  Nikaenor eyed him skeptically. “So Mirilina turns me into a manfish. And Nerendal wants to kill her. And you can turn stone into clay?” He shook his head. “That’s not a curse. It’s a circus trick.”

  That stung, partly because Jaeme agreed.

  Saara was still appraising him. “How much can you shape?”

  “Not much more,” Jaeme said, picking up a larger stone from the water’s edge. He pressed it between his palms. It gave a bit, leaving hand prints, but nothing more. Jaeme cleared his throat. “Yes, well. It’s been very interesting to meet you both, but I have a boat to catch and—” Jaeme was about to turn to go, when a bright flicker caught his eye.

  A flame danced in the center of Saara’s palm, the orange plume reflected against the deep brown of her eyes. Nikaenor, too, was staring at her, aghast.

  Saara stared into the flame, not looking up for their reactions. “I thought I was imagining it back in Tirostaar,” she said. “I thought it was Nerendal playing tricks on me. But I used it in the bottom of the boat to keep warm . . . and it’s gotten stronger. It used to be barely a flicker.” She shrugged, closing her palm and extinguishing the fire. “You’re right. It seemed just a fanciful trick. But it has to mean something.”

  “It means we’re supposed to be together,” Nikaenor said, a bit of the enthusiasm perking back up in his voice. “You and me.” He shot a look at Jaeme and his enthusiasm faded. “And him.”

  Saara looked disgusted at this idea, and Jaeme took a step back. “Hey, now,” he said. “What proof do I have that you’re not a couple of blood mages who somehow put a hex on me?”

  “How would we have gotten your blood?” Saara asked. “We’ve only just met.”

  While that sounded like the kind of thing a blood mage might say if she’d somehow been tracking and manipulating Jaeme, he also felt a kind of kinship with these two. It was as if he had been close to them when he was too young to remember, but some deep part of him still knew. Jaeme couldn’t help but wonder if he was, at last, losing his mind like his mother.

  Yes, he definitely needed to get back on the gods-damned boat as soon as possible.

  “Will you come with us to Berlaith?” Nikaenor asked.

  “Yes,” Jaeme found himself saying, with barely a trace of hesitation.

  Gods. Either a blood mage was controlling them all, he was long past the threshold of insane, or Kotali had finally decided to kick some valor into Jaeme entirely against his will.

  If the god was so inclined, there were other knights he might have started with.

  “Which is insane,” he added. “This isn’t a thing I do—run off with random kids and abandon my responsibilities.” His uncle was waiting for him to report, and if the Council thought he’d abandoned his duty, he’d find his birthright stripped from him before he returned.

  “My life stopped making sense,” Saara said, “the day Nerendal began to speak to me.”

  “He talks to you?” Jaeme asked.

  “Not anymore. Not since I left Tir Neren.”

  Nikaenor stared at his own feet. “My life made a lot more sense this morning.”

  Saara gave him a sharp glance, and Jaeme was beginning to wonder if she gave any other kind. “Do what you want,” she said. “But I’m going.” She turned as if she was done with the two of them and began to walk inland down the road.

  Nikaenor stared in alarm from Saara to Jaeme, as if he were being torn in two. And Jaeme couldn’t help but admit that he felt the same.

  “Well, kid,” he said. “I can’t leave you alone with her, can I? She looks as if she might murder you in your sleep.”

  Nikaenor nodded, apparently taking little offense to being called weak, at least in comparison to Saara. “So you’ll come with us as far as Berlaith.”

  That still sounded wrong, though Jaeme was certain by now that it wasn’t a lie. He felt something calling him, not in Berlaith, but past it. “No,” Jaeme found himself saying. “Not Berlaith. Farther north.”

  Nikaenor paused and then nodded, and even Saara turned around. She didn’t argue, which Jaeme suspected was as much approval as he was going to get.

  Jaeme took one last longing look in the direction of the docks, where his boat still sat in port, waiting for him with most of his belongings and what remained of his sanity. He should go back. He knew it. But every step in that direction felt like he was walking against a strong current that drew him north and west—the opposite direction of Mortiche, Jaeme’s uncle, the Dukes Council, and everything else to which Jaeme owed his allegiance.

  But when Jaeme took a step to follow them, it felt like the first true thing he’d ever done in his life.

  Yes, he thought. If this mess comes from Kotali, it’s absolutely a curse.

  Nineteen

  The city of Peldenar felt even more like a fortress than Kenton remembered, especially in comparison to the winding, white stone streets and foot bridges of Drepaine. Unlike the Andronish capital, the Sevairnese capital of Peldenar was built for military strength and practicality, even bef
ore Diamis had taken it over and made those two traits trademarks of his rule. The city was sectioned into five distinct districts, with guard garrisons and city prisons scattered liberally throughout. For a city of this size and population, the crime rate was relatively low, the roads well tended, the markets orderly. All of which many pointed to as a sign of Diamis’ successful leadership.

  To Kenton, it was only a sign of Diamis’ successful ability to lull them all into a dangerous complacency while he went about destroying the world.

  When the doors of the iron gate swung shut behind them for the close of day, Kenton looked back at the twenty-foot wall, at the soldiers standing atop it with longbows, some looking into the city and some facing out. The hairs on the back of Kenton’s neck stood up long after he and Perchaya had slipped around the buildings and out of sight.

  Kenton walked close to Perchaya, their gait casual, hoping to seem to any observers like a couple out for a late stroll. She’d been much more capable on the road than he’d expected—doing at least her share of trapping, skinning, and cooking. Still, he knew she’d been having nightmares; he’d heard her awaken many nights with a start and a whimper. When that happened, he’d found himself wanting to put his arms around her, to hold her until she stopped shaking. But he hadn’t dared. He’d done enough. The last thing she needed was to feel like he was pushing himself on her, even if he meant it only as a comfort.

  Perchaya seemed content to stay close to him now, as if the city put her on edge, too. This late in the night, even the most enterprising merchants were shutting their doors, leaving only the brothels and alehouses open. Still, the streets were well trafficked, with both civilians and guards—the latter necessary to keep the peace after Diamis revoked the unpopular, city-wide curfew Peldenar enforced under the Drim leaders.

  The bustle suited Kenton fine. He and Perchaya made their way to the back of the cloth district—home of the largest wool and textile market in Sevairn—where a block of larger houses among the shops and the slums attracted men who liked to live in between.

  “Are you sure your friend will still be living in the same place?” Perchaya asked.

  Kenton shook his head. “If he’s still in business, he’ll be there. But men in his occupation sometimes have cause to abruptly change residence.”

  Eventually they reached a modest home in the merchant quarter. The neatly kept, drab two-story dwelling sat among larger, more ostentatious homes, squeezed blandly between them as if trying to hide in plain sight.

  “Ah, yes,” Perchaya said, surveying the sign outside Paulus’ establishment. “Booksmithing. A dangerous, underworld trade if there ever was one.”

  Kenton smiled. “Looks respectable, doesn’t it?” The shop still looked operational, though at this late hour all the downstairs lights were out.

  “It’s a front?”

  “The booksmithing is legitimate, but it’s only half the business.”

  Perchaya raised her eyebrows skeptically. “And the other half?”

  Kenton’s smile widened. “Smuggling. Imports, weapons, artifacts from before the Banishment. Drugs.”

  Perchaya shot him a disapproving look, smoothing out the skirt she’d taken to wearing again over her trousers while in the city. “And you and he were so close because . . .”

  “Because I used to run drugs for him,” Kenton said. “In exchange for other smuggled goods.”

  “Weapons?” Perchaya guessed. She seemed surprising unfazed by the revelation.

  Kenton shook his head. “Books.”

  Even though this street was deserted, he didn’t want to discuss the matter further out here. He watched the upstairs windows, but couldn’t see so much as the flicker of a candle within.

  “Maybe we should come back tomorrow,” Perchaya said, eyeing the dark windows. “Your friend will probably be more likely to take us in if we haven’t just dragged him from bed.”

  Kenton would much rather stay here with those he could trust than at an inn where—poor likeness of the wood-block printing aside—anyone might recognize him. Kenton had spent far too much time in Peldenar over his life to do otherwise. “Paulus will take us in regardless of the time of day. Trust me.”

  “Oh, I trust you,” Perchaya said. “I just don’t trust your knowledge of basic social etiquette.”

  Kenton grinned and led her toward the back of the house by way of a narrow alleyway that wrapped around the block.

  When he reached the right door, he rapped on it, causing shrill barking from inside. Moments later, the door cracked open. A gray-bearded man peered out at them over a flickering candle. His brocade dressing gown had been hastily thrown on, judging by the way he hadn’t lined up the front buttons correctly.

  “This had better be pretty damn impor—” The man stopped suddenly, and the door opened wide. “Kenton? By the Four, it’s been a long time.”

  “Sorry to bother you so late, my friend,” Kenton said, clasping Paulus’ arm in greeting. “But we didn’t dare enter the city without the cover of night.”

  “Especially tonight!” Paulus said. “Come in quickly. We can discuss social injustice over a glass of Mortichean red.”

  Kenton didn’t love the sound of that—not the wine, but that this was a night of particular importance. But before he could ask what Paulus meant, the man ushered them in, a small black dog darting around their legs excitedly. The back of the shop smelled of ink and parchment and leather. Bulky shapes of desks used for basic copy work by Paulus’ apprentices sat evenly spaced in the dark room.

  “And who might your lovely friend be?” Paulus asked, as Perchaya knelt to pet the small dog.

  “Forgive me. Paulus Quince, this is Perchaya.” Kenton pitched his voice lower as he continued. “Her father is a friend of mine, a cloth merchant who ran into a bit of trouble with his debtors and was afraid she might be in danger because of it. I promised to take her with me until the danger passes.”

  Paulus nodded gravely to Perchaya, kissing her offered gloved hand as she stood. “Sorry to hear of your father’s troubles, my lady,” he said. Then, to Kenton: “But you brought her to Peldenar for safety? Remind me to never let you mind my grandchildren.”

  “I wouldn’t anyway,” Kenton said. “Children who share your blood would only cause trouble.”

  Paulus let out a deep laugh that belied his overall slim build, the sharp angles of his cheeks over his short beard.

  “Tell me,” Kenton said. “What’s significant about tonight?”

  Paulus gave Kenton a clap on the shoulder. “In good time,” he said, with a glance toward Perchaya.

  Ah. That’s what the man was being vague about. “You can trust her,” Kenton said. “As much as you do me.”

  Paulus laughed again. “Aye,” he said. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” But he still led them upstairs to the cramped kitchen and dug around in the liquor cabinet until he found one of the better bottles in the back. Kenton didn’t observe anyone else in the house as they went, but he still kept his voice low.

  “I need to ask you to help me with something,” Kenton said. “And it’s urgent. I’d like to get started tonight if possible.”

  “No need to speak quietly. It is just me here right now. And Rumsocks.” Paulus opened a cabinet and produced three squat, wide-rimmed wine glasses that had been all the rage in merchant circles five years ago.

  The dog’s ears perked at hearing its name, and Kenton noticed that the dog did indeed have brown front legs, as if he was wearing little stockings.

  Kenton frowned. “Where’s Bridget?”

  Paulus’ sharp face softened. “My wife passed months ago. Left me alone with this yappy mutt of hers.” He spared the dog a fond glance.

  “I grieve your loss,” Perchaya said, in the traditional Andronish words of comfort.

  Kenton grieved the loss as well. Bridget was a rare kind soul in a
world that tended to darkness.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Paulus said. “But let’s drink these somewhere more comfortable.”

  He led them into the dining area, lighting a large oil lamp which would be visible only from the back of the house, and not much then, from the look of the thick curtains. Kenton and Perchaya settled into two well-used wooden chairs at a thick oak table that had gone too long without a polishing. Paulus and Bridget had always lived modestly despite the wealth Kenton knew they possessed, from both their reputable booksmithy and their less-than-reputable smuggling. Yet the house’s interior had deteriorated since Kenton had last seen it. Gone were the cheery touches Bridget had brought to every corner—bright, pressed linens on the table, fresh flowers in small colorful vases, sweet-smelling herbs hanging from the ceiling. The house was a pale ghost of itself.

  Paulus offered a glass of wine to Kenton and set another in front of Perchaya. And while Kenton noted that Perchaya only sipped hers, he took a long drink. The wine was Mortichean and timeless, and Kenton felt the tension from the last weeks begin to soothe. He noticed Perchaya’s lips purse slightly at the bitter wine. An acquired taste, Kenton had to admit.

  “So, please, tell me what can possibly be so important in Peldenar that you’d risk coming to a city under such tight scrutiny,” Paulus said, swirling the wine around gently in his glass. “More books? I’m afraid it might be some time before I could borrow anything further from Diamis’ library, times being what they are.”

  Perchaya looked slightly stunned, and Kenton shook his head. On all previous occasions, he’d come to Paulus for the Drim books Diamis kept in his personal collection in his library. A contact of Paulus’ had assisted them in ferreting the books out of the castle and then back again, so that Diamis didn’t notice a thing. No one had collected as much knowledge about the Banishment as the Drim Speaker—varying Chronicle accounts, all that had ever been written about the bearers, speculation about how to find them and how they might find each other.