He took in his cousin. Daggers still at her hips—so she had not lost her weapons, as he had. Another stab of shame at that.
She was cut. Scratches marred her face. But given the way Baraghosa had flung her aside, a network of bruises would blot her ribs for months—assuming she had not broken anything.
“Are you okay?” he asked, groping for her hands.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Are you? I—I wasn’t sure if you’d wake … Kuura tried, by the conduction rods, but you just …” She shook her head, left the sentence unfinished.
“I’m okay,” he said.
He was not. He did not know the extent of his injuries. Adrenaline had fought back the worst of it during his failed battle with Baraghosa. The drunken sway that made his surrounding tilt and pivot came from within his mind, and the fog that did it also dampened the aches and pains his body held. But they would come, he knew—and soon. He felt the start of it now: a jarring discomfort that had taken root around his bones. Maybe within them—until he had his full senses back about him, he could not know how far it penetrated. He hoped the damage he had incurred from Baraghosa was not enough to have broken him right down at the core. He’d seen men in Terreas whose injuries had been so thorough as to permanently afflict them. Rare though they were, they always drew the eye: like Wyllam Havers, who’d taken a fall before Jasen was born and still walked bowed forward. On the worst days, he couldn’t get out, and Jasen had overheard plenty of Terreas’s people lamenting what a rotten shame it was.
But then, why would it matter if Jasen was irreparably damaged? He had lost against Baraghosa. One thing he had set out to do. Alixa’s warnings had fallen on deaf ears and so too had Kuura’s, as the collision drew nearer.
Yet they had been right: Jasen could not battle a sorcerer. A legendary warrior like Huanatha had been able to clash on even footing with him—for a time. Then she had lost, like Jasen—perhaps like innumerable men and women who felt wronged by Baraghosa as he stalked foreign lands, bending people to his whims and sowing discord behind him.
Jasen had failed … and there was no Terreas left for him to retreat to, where people would remark about what a shame it was that he had been damaged so greatly he carried it with him, for all to see, for the rest of his days.
He deserved to bear that failure. If he found he could only hobble his whole life, stooped so low his nose left a track in the dirt—he deserved that, a hundred times over.
“Don’t look so bitter,” said Alixa. “We’re alive.” She sounded sad though.
“And the rest of you?” Jasen asked, turning to Kuura and Huanatha.
“Alive, as far as I c’n tell,” said Kuura.
A improvised bandage of cloth from his over-large tunic with its many folds (one less now), was tight around his forehead, angled almost jauntily so it covered his left ear. The deep blue was a shade darker where Jasen remembered, as a flash only, Kuura’s head had collided with a conduction rod.
Another flash: Baraghosa swiping his cane—and Alixa tumbling in the direction he swung, as though she were a puppet on strings only he could pull. Her shriek, as she spun in the air—and then the hard thud of her body on a conduction rod.
He felt sick.
Another gash had been torn in Kuura’s arm, apparently, for he was bandaged there too.
Huanatha’s injuries were few. A few cuts and scrapes here and there. The worst she had fared was the physical slap of Baraghosa’s cane when the scales tipped in his favor. It had left her cheek with a red welt. Already, though, it was fading. By the time she reached her apartment again, it might be gone.
Kuura still carried his axe—as did Huanatha with her own weapon, Tanukke tucked into the loop at her hip.
Another wave of guilt crashed over Jasen.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Huanatha. “About your sword.”
“You are forgiven,” she said, and no more.
Maybe she meant it. For some, this was how disagreements went. In truth, it was how it had gone in Jasen’s family. A mistake; an apology. There was no self-flagellation needed for the apology to mean anything, or to be accepted.
Here, as they climbed down the cliffside from this lost fight, however, Jasen wished he could flog himself. It would not bring the blade back from wherever it had fallen. But it might assuage his guilt.
So much of that now. So, so much.
“Where are we going now?” he asked. Still, he sounded worn, as though he had grown old before his time.
“Back to the Lady Vizola,” said Kuura.
“No,” said Jasen quickly.
“Jasen—” Alixa began.
He pushed her hands away as she grabbed for him and stepped back—away from all three of them.
Only Scourgey he allowed to follow—but she came only one step, then stopped there sadly. She held up her left forepaw like a dog begging a treat from its master … or like a wounded creature, unable to put weight on it.
“I’m not going,” he said. “I can’t.”
“You are injured,” said Kuura. “We all are. We must go back to the ship. Medleigh will see to us—to your wounds. He will evaluate if you, or the rest of us, have any broken bones. He will set them, and heal them, better than I or Huanatha can do between ourselves.”
“We gave it our best go,” said Alixa. “But Baraghosa—he beat us. We lost.”
Lost. Yes, they had, well and truly. Jasen knew this—and though he’d fight, as his instinct told him, fight against the rest of them even if they banded together to take him down this cliffside, a person latched to each limb and Scourgey carrying the last—what was the point of it? He had given it his all. They all had.
And Baraghosa had defeated them. He would again, and again, and again.
And there was nothing Jasen could do about it.
“I’m sorry,” said Alixa, reaching for him.
This time, he let her.
Scourgey nearer too. Whining sadly once more, she pressed her nose against Jasen’s wrist. He cast a look at her, thankful for the touch. It was a small comfort only, though, and he could not help thinking of one thing as he stood there, overcome with despair.
If only Longwell had been here.
If only he had not abandoned them.
Jasen hated Baraghosa, intensely. Never would he believe he could hate a man with half the fierceness that he despised Baraghosa.
Yet he could. For at this moment, he hated Longwell too. It was not the same hatred: not as harsh, or all-consuming. But he did hate him—hated him for leaving, hated him for giving him hope.
Would their battle have been different?
Perhaps.
But it did not matter because it was only a hypothetical question that even his ancestors could not answer.
Nor would he ask them. He’d failed to avenge the most recent among their number—the closest, his most beloved.
Jasen could never face his ancestors again.
The storm had mostly died down. The blasts that had racked the conduction fields had stilled the moment Baraghosa absorbed their energy into that glass, stoppered bottle. The bruised sky was turning a pale blue now the lightning had ceased. The rains were easing, though they still came down with some force. The wind had died off too, the howl giving way to a lower whistle as it swept over the Aiger Cliffs, huffing harder and softer like the very land itself were breathing. Only now and again did it gust with any real force, blowing the spattering rain diagonally. That was when the rain bit hardest. It needled Jasen’s skin—even more painful for the bruises he was covered with—like wasp stings made of ice.
So down the cliffside they went. It was slow going. All Jasen’s bones ached—the pain was blossoming now, stronger by the second—and every step of the way, he wondered: why keep going? What was the point? He had nowhere to go. He’d longed to see the whole world—but the whole world, to him, had been Terreas. It was gone now, and no city in any land would ever tempt his longing again. None of those places were home. The closes
t he had to that had been a ship’s cabin, for a few days, where he built himself up to this.
He had failed.
Why carry on?
Some survival instinct inside him kept pushing though. He hated that too, hated it like he hated Baraghosa and Longwell. Why could it have not just died when Baraghosa flung him so like a rag doll against the conduction rods?
But he was weary—too weary. He could only hate it for so long before his energy gave out, and he was only walking, tugged like a puppet on strings … then his energy for even that gave out. He fell onto his face, a quiet, undramatic fall. The noise as he landed was like him: slight.
Alixa fussed. Scourgey did too, pressing her nose against him. She whined, a long, high-pitched bay, like a hound.
She smelled of death.
Then Kuura was there, sweeping past Alixa and the scourge. He eased Jasen up in strong arms with big hands—and again, he cradled him, as he had most of the way down the cliffsides. Like a babe, Jasen lay there in his arms, breathing because he had to, watching a gradually lightening sky.
Holes had been pocked in the clouds now. The sun came through one. As its rays hit the slowing fall of rain, now little more than drizzle, it cast a short-lived rainbow across his gaze.
The sky out to sea was the color of a peach.
Evening.
How was this the same day?
How had so much happened? So many hopes been brought to life—then crushed?
Hard to think.
Hard to think of anything at all. A fog had descended, like the mists that fell at the base of the mountains overlooking Terreas.
Everything was clouded.
So difficult to think. So hard not to just … close his eyes.
He thought of the waves, lapping at the beach. For so long, he’d pictured them, never comprehending just how much water there could be, how far it stretched—like the sky curved around on itself somewhere distant, beyond the horizon, condensed into a blanket of purest, bluest fluid.
He wished to drift away upon it—away from the beaches of Terreas, away and past the horizon, and out of the world entirely.
And he did drift, for a time, upon it. Kuura’s arms were the lapping waves on which he bobbed, softly, softly. He was carried beneath clear skies, out to a place a thousand miles from here, where he was alone … where he might atone.
But when he opened his eyes again, the fog had cleared, and he realized that he did not ride the ocean waves to some eternal, peaceful abyss; instead, he saw skies filled with puffs of dark, dispersing cloud. Drizzle still came down, a fine, spitty spray that was hardly wet at all.
They were moving through the Aiger Cliffs toward the dock, and the Lady Vizola … and failure.
22
Somehow, the docks were still alive with people, even as evening began to make its slow transition to night.
Vendors had moved their stalls back to the docks. Lamps had been lit. They floated like fireflies as Jasen bobbed up and down in Kuura’s arms—or had the world gone runny again, unshackled from its moorings? The sun lay behind the ships. Still an hour or more from setting, it stained the sky progressively more orange. In the places between boats, it danced on seawaters growing more placid. And where it was blotted from sight, turning the boats into half-silhouettes cut out against a red-orange wash building softly into a looming twilight, it was as if the world had become a beautiful painting.
Kuura was large enough to cut a path alone. Huanatha, though shorter, was imposing enough that she did the same.
Between them, they made simple work of navigating the increasing dock traffic and reaching the Lady Vizola.
Jasen could pick out its sails, shorter than the boat alongside it.
Kuura stopped. Looking down at Jasen, he said, “Can yeh walk?”
“I think so,” he croaked.
“Are yeh sure? Don’t be forcin’ yourself to do somethin’ yeh’re not up to.”
“Let the boy try, Kuura of Nunahk,” said Huanatha.
Reluctantly, Kuura leaned down, setting Jasen very carefully upon his feet. He released him only partway, keeping one hand around Jasen’s hip as he took tentative steps.
Ancestors, it hurt so much. His muscles wanted to seize, locking back in the position they had been when he lay in Kuura’s arms. But he pressed against them, forcing his legs to straighten and then bend, walking alone.
When Kuura warily released him, Jasen thought he would fall—
But Scourgey was there. She pressed in close to Jasen on the right—his weaker side, it seemed, for without Kuura’s support he was sure to topple in that direction. Stinking of rot, she looked up at him sadly, lovingly, and nuzzled her nose against his bare arm. He was bruised there, too, and the slight pressure almost elicited a hiss of pain from Jasen. Somehow Scourgey sensed it, and she softened her touch.
“She is still with you,” said Huanatha softly, “just as she promised.”
Jasen nodded. He lifted a wan smile at Scourgey—then caught Alixa watching.
He turned away.
“Come,” said Kuura. “Shipmaster Burund will have missed us.”
There was something in his voice, something Jasen could not fathom.
He could not focus on it. They came back into motion, him leaning on Scourgey. Was it possible to walk on broken legs? He didn’t think so, but the pain was so great that he knew he’d incurred serious damage.
But he pushed onward, Scourgey there to help him.
The Lady Vizola came into view around the boat ahead of her.
A steep gangplank, wide enough for two men to cross side by side, had been thrown down so Burund’s people could take cargo off and on board. Steep was better than climbing the ladder, though; putting one foot in front of the other was difficult enough.
Men were upon the deck.
At sight of Kuura, they shouted.
Jasen picked out Burund’s name.
Then, when he had reached the bottom of the gangplank, Burund appeared at the edge of the deck. He looked down, expression contorted in a mask of concern and—something else Jasen could not discern, moreso with the sunlight fading behind the shipmaster and his dark skin blurring his features.
His eyes, though, Jasen saw. They flicked to him first of all. Flashed. Then they flitted to Alixa, Huanatha—another momentary flash there, but a different sort—and then they landed upon Kuura.
“I apologize for my tarrying, Shipmaster,” Kuura called. “Today I—”
Burund ignored him. He turned, barked something to men lingering nearby, watching. Jasen believed he was dismissing them, but then the pair rushed down the gangplank and ushered Jasen up, steadying him against their sides after a dirty look at Scourgey.
He clambered up—so much hurt—and then, stepping over the edge, fell again.
“Jasen!”
Alixa was behind him in an instant. Forcing her way through the legs of the two sailors, she clutched her cousin. Rolling him onto his side, fearful eyes raked over him.
“I’m okay,” he wheezed.
“You are not.” She touched his face—
Jasen winced, clenched his teeth.
She withdrew her hand as though he had snapped for it with his teeth.
“You’re burning up,” she said.
Was he? But it had been so wretchedly cold out, after the storm came in.
Kuura was upon the deck too, Huanatha with him.
“Jasen must be seen by Medleigh,” he said, looming over the boy.
Jasen tried to push them off—with his hands, or words.
No energy though.
He was back on the sea. Back to drifting.
Or maybe sinking.
He thrust out with his arms in it, fighting to keep afloat.
“I’m …” he began, in a strangled whisper.
“Medleigh is coming,” said Burund. He was crouched now by Jasen’s head, though Jasen did not remember seeing him move. “What happened to him?” Then, his voice suddenly strained:
“What happened to all of you? You have been gone all day. Do not tell me the words that have made their way to my ears are true.”
“What is it you have heard?” Alixa asked.
“That a man, a warrior woman, and two children with a strange beast searched for Baraghosa. That they were last seen climbing the clifftops, heading directly into the storm.”
Kuura did not answer.
Burund turned hard eyes upon him. “Is this true, Kuura?”
Kuura screwed up his face. But he confessed: “Aye, Shipmaster. It is true.”
One of the sailors aboard said something.
Burund said, “And you found him.” His gaze fell over Jasen again, lying almost prone upon the deck. The wood was wet—soothing, almost, against his face. “Did you not?”
“Aye, Shipmaster,” said Kuura softly. “We did find Baraghosa, yes.”
Burund pursed his lips. He said nothing—but there was a roiling anger bubbling beneath him, and his face, so often hard to read, showed it: in the set of his jaw, the way his eyebrows pushed down, low on his forehead, and by the way a fire danced in his eyes. A deck door opened, and Medleigh appeared. He squatted down by Jasen and immediately began asking questions. Jasen could not understand, but it did not take a translator to know that he asked what had happened, where he was hurt, perhaps how he felt. Burund snapped answers to these, only occasionally looking for Kuura. He added more, talking at length over some things.
Huanatha spoke too, once or twice.
Jasen let it wash over him. He let Medleigh prod. Then he lay back, listening to Alixa’s murmurings—that it was going to be okay, he would be all right, he would feel better soon. And then Medleigh was back with a wooden flask. He lifted Jasen’s head, gripping his neck with the firm, calloused fingers of a man who worked hard when he was not treating his rare patients aboard the Lady Vizola. He pressed the flask to Jasen’s lips and gave a two-syllable instruction Jasen took to mean Drink.
He obeyed.
It was unpleasant—foul, even, tasting of dead plant matter and spices that were overpowered by something similar to cinnamon, but much more bitter, and the texture was thick and milky. Had Jasen the strength, he would have gagged. But he had none so he swallowed it.
A Respite From Storms Page 20