The Wound of the World

by Edward W. Robertson

  ~

  They took the pass early the next morning. The snows were worse than Dante had expected, forcing him to tunnel through a short stretch of rock. They emerged into a blizzard so thick that he would have been lost if not for the dim shapes of the mountains around him.

  There was nothing to do but press on. After two miles forward and a few hundred feet of vertical descent, the winds eased back. The snow changed from a stinging curtain to slow, cottony blobs that landed with little whispers.

  After a quick shadowalk ahead, Blays returned to the group, mounted up, and maneuvered next to Dante. "Were you ever going to explain what you figured out yesterday?"

  "Why would the wise master reveal all his secrets?"

  "If I ever meet one, I'll have to ask him. Besides, the only thing you like more than being seen as wise is being seen as clever."

  Dante smiled. "Typically, nether is visible in both the physical world and the netherworld, right?"

  "As far as I know. But you can write everything I know about the nether on a husk of corn."

  "Can you think of any forms of nether that aren't visible in our world?"

  "No?"

  "Funny, considering one such form repeatedly tried to eat you."

  Blays tipped back his head. "Traces. What Gladdic used to make the Andrac. The little bits of you left behind when you die."

  "That's the only type of nether I know of that would explain this."

  "That would mean the original Cycle is full of dead souls."

  "It's like the nether inside it is circulating through those who read it. Especially those who are talented with the shadows. I wonder if it's taken pieces from everyone who's ever read it. Then it mingles those bits with you, and takes a few from you to it, and this opens a channel."

  "Sort of like the loons?"

  "Sort of," Dante agreed. "This would explain why, when I read it, it seemed like I just learned to wield the nether out of nowhere. The Cycle was altering me—I just couldn't see it happening."

  "You know what would be amazing? If the ink was made from traces. Now that would be style." Blays glanced over his shoulder. "This channel-opening, you think that's what showed Raxa how to make her pile of bones sit up and squeak?"

  "Putting her in contact with my skills—and those of everyone in the traces—might have shown her how to do it. It could even have enhanced her own skills."

  "Now that's interesting. If you and I tapped into the book, think it'd finally teach you how to land a wife?"

  "Hilarious. The book's ability is exciting on its own, but there's something more going on here. I can't see it manipulating the nether at all. Only shadowalkers can—and as far as I know, the only people who can shadowalk are the People of the Pocket and their refugees. If I can figure out how to replicate the Cycle's source of nether, I could hide my attacks from other sorcerers."

  "Replicate it? You mean by taking people's souls and putting them into a staff or something?"

  "Traces aren't souls, per se."

  "We don't know that!"

  "I'm just saying that we could do this," Dante said. "Apparently whoever made the original Cycle did it."

  Blays gave him a crooked look. "Yes, and some others in your vaunted institution once raised a mountain range that nearly killed an entire civilization. Last time I checked, everyone still considered that a regrettable move."

  They dropped out of the mountains and into the patchwork of plains and forests that made up the sparsely inhabited reaches of northern Mallon. Sorrowen was already versed in basic healing, but Raxa was unfamiliar with the techniques. Keeping the Cycle spread next to them, Dante had her healing small cuts by the end of the night.

  Using the last of her energy, she sealed a nick on her palm, turning her hand back and forth. "How much can you do with this? If I cut Sorrowen's throat, could you stop him from bleeding out?"

  Sorrowen scowled at her. Dante grinned. "I've saved people from worse wounds than that. Ether's better at this—it wants to restore things to the way they were—but the nether likes to grow things. Like veins, and flesh, and bones."

  "Can you cure disease?"

  "Everything I've run into. Well, almost everything. It's trickier than sealing up a wound, but a skilled priest can cure a lot of common ailments."

  She sucked on her upper front teeth. "What about death?"

  "We're still working on a cure for that one. As far as I know, once you pass into Arawn's hands, you're his for good." Next to him, Blays coughed. Dante kept a straight face. "Although people always like to tell crazy stories about people coming back from the dead."

  A few days later, they spotted uncovered grass for the first time since leaving Narashtovik. Now that Sorrowen and Raxa were capable of raising mice by themselves, Dante had them use their undead minions to scout ahead for patrols, highwaymen, or other sources of potential unpleasantness. He had the two of them describe what they saw along the way. Raxa had a natural eye for detail. Sorrowen didn't—though he could sustain his mice for upwards of three hours while Raxa struggled to keep hers going for an hour.

  As they neared Whetton, a column of black smoke climbed from the horizon. Dante took them close enough for a glimpse of the city. It now bore wooden walls, the gates closed tight. Something inside them was burning, but the fire appeared to be under control.

  Wary of patrols, they traveled a good mile off the road before making camp. Dante used a spark of ether to light the firewood the rangers gathered.

  He sat close to the fire, steam rising from his wet boots. "Have you figured out what you're going to do in Bressel, Raxa?"

  She pulled her hair loose from the string she'd used to bind it back. "Thinking of hiring on as a messenger. They get sent to all kinds of important people. Nobody pays them much attention, either." She grinned. "Or maybe I'll find an outfit like the one I just left. Thieves know more about the comings and goings of the nobility than everyone but the courtesans."

  Blays picked something from his teeth and spat it into the fire. "Try the Red Ghosts."

  "Red Ghosts?"

  "They're Bressel's version of the Order. Flash a few of your skills at them, and I'm sure they'll be happy to take you aboard. Only show your mundane skills, mind you. Show them you can shadowalk, and they're apt to drink your blood to try to absorb your power."

  Dante raised an eyebrow. "How do you know about the operations of Mallish brigands?"

  "Robert Hobble used to work with them, that's how. Any organization smart enough to work with the esteemed Mr. Hobble is going to be a great fit for our friend here."

  As Blays and Raxa fell into a detailed conversation regarding the customs of outlaws in Mallish society, Dante took the opportunity to pull Sorrowen aside.

  Dante removed a piece of mouse skull from his pocket. "Give me a dab of your blood."

  Without missing a beat, Sorrowen got out his knife, scratched the back of his arm, and held it out for Dante. Dante smeared the piece of skull with a drop of blood, then sealed a layer of nether into the bone.

  He extended it to Sorrowen. "Do you know what this is?"

  The boy glanced at Dante, then down at the bone, then back at Dante. "Uh. I didn't know you made jewelry, sir. I'll wear it with pride."

  "It's not just jewelry, you fool. It's a loon. It's linked to this one." Dante dangled his half. "Put it in your ear, and activate it like so—" He paused to illustrate. "And we can speak to each other from hundreds of miles apart."

  Sorrowen gave it a try. When Dante's voice sounded in his ear, his jaw dropped, completely awestruck. Dante couldn't help laughing: there were few things funnier than a sorcerer who acted like he'd never seen magic before.

  "Keep it secret," he said. "Don't even tell Raxa. And when you enter the priesthood, don't wear it around them—they might be able to sense it. You'll have to hide it somewhere. Only use it when you or Raxa has something to pass along."

  Sorrowen bounced the loon in his hand. He licked his lips. "Are you sure this is g
oing to work?"

  "You just heard it for yourself."

  "I don't…" Sorrowen pocketed the loon. "Nevermind. It's stupid."

  "You're worried about your mission. You should be. You're about to be dropped into the lion's den. If you have a problem with that, you need to let me know now."

  "But…I mean…what would it matter now? We're hardly two days from Bressel."

  "Which gives you two days to decide you'd rather go back to Narashtovik."

  "You'd let me do that?"

  "I would," Dante said. "But first, I'd tell you that this will be dangerous. You could be hurt. You could even be killed. But I think you can do this. You're quick on your feet. That's one of the only two skills you need to survive anything."

  "What's the other thing?"

  "Resilience. The ability to take a punch, get back on your feet, and throw one back."

  Sorrowen frowned. "You think I can do that?"

  "You can find out in Bressel. Or you can return to Narashtovik, rejoin the monks, and never have to find out. Which life do you want?"

  The boy was quiet for a few seconds. He glanced through the trees at Raxa and Blays, who were still laughing next to the fire, as if they'd burned all their worries along with the kindling. Sorrowen drew a wisp of shadows to his fingers. For a moment, he looked older.

  "I'll go," he said. "It's what Narashtovik needs from me, isn't it?"

  "Actually, I'm hoping you turn out to be worthless, because Mallon doesn't intend to do anything more threatening than wear those ridiculous pants of theirs."

  Sorrowen laughed. They returned to the fire. Dante felt pleased with himself until it occurred to him that he'd never really believed that Sorrowen would have given up the mission to return to Narashtovik—and that if he had feared that outcome, he might never have asked at all.

  Two days later, with the sun fading from the overcast sky, they gazed on the spires of Bressel.

  "From here, you're on your own," Dante said. "I wish I had some final trick or lesson to teach you."

  Blays shifted in his saddle. "I've got one: 'Never get in a fight with someone who can turn you inside-out.'"

  "Try not to get in any fights at all. Especially not with their priests. Even if you think you're stronger, next to the nether and the ether, we're nothing but watery, helpless flesh. If you make a single mistake, you won't get the chance to make a second one."

  Raxa sniffed. "Are you always this inspiring before you send your troops into battle?"

  "This is why I encourage him to shut up and make things explode," Blays said. "Much better for morale."

  Raxa grinned, gave the mounts that had carried her all this way one last pat, and walked onward toward the city. Sorrowen followed. When he was twenty feet from them, he turned and gave a hesitant wave.

  "We're not sending them to their deaths, are we?" Blays said.

  "Don't worry, this one's all on me," Dante said. "Although if they do wind up caught and executed, you really should have done something to stop me here."

  He called the rangers over to him. He'd wrapped the Cycle in an oiled leather bag to keep it dry. He handed it over to Echels, who would lead the four escorts home to Narashtovik.

  "If the pass isn't clear, wait for it to thaw," Dante said. "In fact, if there's ever a choice between getting the book home sooner, and getting it there safer, choose the safer option. If you run into any trouble north of the Dundens, the norren will help you. Otherwise, don't stop for anyone. Not even to help them. This book can't be replaced. Unless you're faced to decide between saving the book and saving the world, always go with the book."

  "All right, Mother Dante," Blays cut in. "If you're ready to part with your precious child, perhaps we can get on with our job?"

  Echels smiled, eyes crinkling. "We'll take perfect care of it, sir. We are aware that if we didn't, you'd use our skin for your bedsheets."

  Echels secured the book in a pouch in his saddle next to his sword. With a clipped, birdlike call, he ordered his men to turn about and ride north. Dante tried not to think about how the Cycle would be on the open road for at least the next month. Anyway, safer with the riders than where he was headed.

  They backtracked to a ferry they'd seen a few miles up the Chanset and crossed to the eastern bank. Once they were oriented southeast, meaning to hit the shore and ride straight along the coast and into Alebolgia, Dante sent a pulse to Jona's loon.

  "Hullo?" It wasn't yet sundown, but Jona sounded well on his way to a good night. "That you, Dante?"

  "In the voice," Dante said. "We're a few days outside of Collen, but we'd like to get to Tanar Atain as fast as possible. That means heading straight to Cavana. Can you ask the Colleners to meet us there?"

  Jona chuckled roughly. "Wish all my jobs were so easy. The basin's already got a delegation in Cavana."

  "Really? What are they doing there?"

  "Diplomacy or some shit. You think they tell me anything? To them, I'm just a sailor who forgot which way the ocean is."

  "Right," Dante said. "I'll let you get back to your rum, then."

  Many miles east of Bressel, they came to the coast. The wind off the ocean wasn't as cold as it had been inland, leaving the way free of snow. They trotted along the pathway all the way to the inland sea Dante had created to block off the Mallish.

  The Colleners had already established a small fort on the other side. They sent over a flat-bottomed sloop to transport Dante, Blays, and the horses to the other side. The Colleners were in high spirits, offering them food and drink, congratulating them in having secured the basin's freedom at last. Never one to pass up a feast, Blays talked Dante into staying overnight.

  In the morning, they made all haste for the Strip of Alebolgia. After a stretch of desert, the starkness was textured with grape trellises and fields of low green winter wheat. They passed through the hills of Poloa and came to Cavana. Securing lodging at an inn, they sent a messenger to the Collenese delegation, who were apparently being quartered at House Itiego.

  Within an hour of their arrival, a fist hammered on their door. Dante glanced at Blays, who shrugged and loosened his swords in their sheaths. Dante bit his lip until he tasted blood, gathering nether in his hands.

  He opened the door. Lady Vita Osedo barged inside, her face clenched in wrath. She jabbed a thin, curved sword against Dante's chest.

  "There's the liar from the north," she said. "Time to answer for your betrayal."

  17

  Raxa had always thought Narashtovik was the pinnacle of a sprawling, potent city. The kind of place you could get lost in. In her line of work, you couldn't ask for more.

  But as she neared the capital's gates, she was starting to think you could fit Narashtovik into a single quadrant of Bressel. The city was big. Bigger than big. People scurried everywhere, tan and dark-haired, supplemented by a goodly number of others with light brown faces and hair as yellow as corn silk, and speckled by citizens and visitors who seemed to be from every limb of the world: pale, black-haired Gaskans; tall people with skin as reddish-brown as chestnuts; others with short orange hair and faces that were nearly as dark as charcoal.

  Ahead, blue-shirted guards examined the flow of people coming through the gates, stopping everyone who hit their eye the wrong way. Her mission felt suddenly real in a way it hadn't during the long ride from the north. She'd taken Galand up on his offer for many reasons. Including a few she didn't fully understand. What she knew for sure was that she was tired of being hunted. Of feeling like a rat who had to dash for cover whenever one of the sharp-eyed and sharper-clawed agents of the Citadel came prowling by.

  And maybe after Gaits, she'd been pushed away by disillusionment with what Narashtovik's underclass liked to call the "brotherhood of scum." Not that she was walking out on the Order. More like taking a break. While seizing the opportunity to learn how to not just walk in the shadows, but to kill with them. When she came back home, not only would the Citadel no longer be their enemy, but she'd be equipped t
o protect her people and her kids from anything short of a barbarian horde.

  She passed through the gates. A pair of guards moved in front of her, eyes roving up and down her body. Maybe they were inspecting her for swords, or maybe they were just enjoying the benefits of a job that allowed you to look at whoever you wanted for as long as you liked without being criticized for it.

  The shorter of the two guards raised his eyes to her face, then her hair. Unimpressed with what he saw, he said something, but it sounded like a foreign language.

  Oh shit. It was.

  Raxa tried to reconstruct the words in her mind. Something about…doing? No, about business. Was she here on business?

  "Yes," she said in Mallish. "Business."

  The guard looked at her like she was trying to stick her tongue up her own nose. He repeated himself, slowing the words. "What's your business?"

  Raxa smiled, buying herself a few moments. Despite weeks of lessons with Dante, hearing Mallish spoken in real time and in a full vocabulary threw her for a loop. It was like she'd been taught to swim in a knee-deep pond and then been tossed into the ocean during a winter squall.

  She took in the scene around her. They were letting almost everyone else through without question. Including a number of men whose clothes were as tattered as the Lady of Whispers' maidenhead—obvious vagabonds, if not highwaymen. Why were they being allowed inside? They looked like…

  Mallishers. Like they belonged.

  "Here to serve," she said, or tried to. Her grammar was awful, slapping words together like a drunkard hammering wooden cut-offs together in the hopes they'd form something chair-like enough to sit on. She smiled at the guards, playing up her naive innocence. "Family in the church."

  They exchanged a look, then stepped aside and waved her in. She was well past them before she allowed herself to smile.

  For there was one more reason she'd agreed to come to Bressel: to see new places, and cause them trouble.

  The spires of temples jabbed at the gray, late winter sky. Blocky towers squared their shoulders against the city below them. The roofs weren't half as steep as in Narashtovik, and everything was so whitewashed it made her eyes hurt. Even so, while the forms were different, the function was the same. Tenements and public houses, markets and churches, makeshift buildings that had started as a cottage or barn and grown into an unholy mishmash of additions and expansions.