Between the eaves of the houses, he glimpsed the spire of a temple. Eiland hurried in that direction, ducking around the carts and passersby.
Eiland turned a corner and stopped short, staring. He’d always thought the temple in Summerton a fine thing, but that was nothing compared to this. Its white stone walls shone in the sun, arching up high into the sky. The eaves of its roof were lined with what looked impossibly like gold.
Where the temple in Summerton had been a respite of cleanliness and purity among the muck of village life, this one towered over Eiland like a cat over a mouse. Suddenly and for no discernible reason Eiland remembered his father’s most disapproving glare.
The door of the temple in Summerton had always stood open, even in the dead of winter, but the great wooden door of this temple was shut tight. Eiland knocked, then hammered at it, but though he could hear the priests chanting inside no one came to answer his call. A search of the building’s front led Eiland to a side door; but the man who answered merely scowled at him and slammed the door again without a word.
Eiland stood awhile in dismay, his hands at his sides, before the passing of time pricked at him and he hoisted the game back onto his shoulder, hurrying out into the streets with a mind to beg for help. Even if the temple had forsaken charity, surely there would be someone, anyone who would give him aid.
He managed to flag down a fine-looking man on a great lovely horse. The man’s hair was black as coal and pulled back into a ponytail. The way he ran his gaze over Eiland’s worn clothes made Eiland’s words stumble over themselves.
“Please,” he managed to get out. “I need help. I’ve been taken by one of the Cursed and he’s threatened to Curse my mother and I tried to get help at the temple but its door is closed.”
“Is it? Ah, well, tha’s no surprise,” the man said in a strange accent. “Kint trust the temple for anyting these days. Here.” He dug into the pocket of his jacket and flipped Eiland a coin.
Eiland blinked at it then looked back at the man. “That’s all?”
The man frowned, affronted. “Be grateful for anyting, welp,” he growled, and spurred his horse away, leaving Eiland alone in the street.
He stood on the street, turning this way and that. People passed him on all sides. Few even looked at him, let alone stopped to help. No one here knew him, or cared anything for what happened to him. No one was going to save him.
Eiland’s breath felt tight in his throat. He set off down the road toward the river.
Wagons bumped over the cobblestones, traveling to and from the docks. Rows of booths lined the street and the air was filled with the shouting of merchants, loudly advertising their wares. A thick crowd of customers and other merchants teemed in the street, wandering between stalls and queuing at popular ones.
At first Eiland tried standing on the street with the game, calling out to the crowd in a tentative, uncertain imitation of the merchants. He managed to sell two of the rabbits, but it took more than an hour.
Eiland wanted to cry out again, to beg them to save him—yet the faces around him were impassive, and even when someone stopped to look over his wares, they did not look him in the eye.
Instead he ducked into one of the busier inns, pushed his way through the crowd—the dead animals helped to create a path—and flagged the attention of the harried innkeeper. “Where can I sell these?”
“Faugh! Get that out of here. Does this look like a hunting camp to you?”
“No, but just—look, just, please, tell me where I can sell these quickly.”
The innkeeper scowled at him. Eiland knew he sounded rude, that he should smile and charm like he always did, but it felt as though a great wad of something had lodged under his breastbone. He was aware of time ticking past, the sun moving across the sky.
“Try the butcher’s,” the innkeeper said.
That was easy enough: Eiland followed his nose down to the banks of a stream that led into the great river. The butcher’s open shack buzzed with flies and stank of death. Animal carcasses, bloody and stripped of fur, hung on racks. Eiland unsettled stomach turned even further, and his head swam under the hot sun.
“Hallo.” A short, dark-haired man approached Eiland, wearing a bloodstained apron over the front of his clothes. His smile seemed friendly enough and his curly hair hung in his eyes. “What can I do for you?”
Somewhere nearby there came the thwack of a butcher’s mallet striking home. If Eiland didn’t look directly at the hanging meat, he might not vomit.
“I have some game to sell. It’s just rabbits and squirrels and a few foxes, but I thought you might take them. I need to get across the river, but I haven’t any money. Not enough for both of us—not us, I mean, there are two that need to cross and—”
“Steady, steady,” the man said, raising his hands. “Let’s see what you’ve brought me, first.”
“It isn’t much,” Eiland admitted as the butcher took the game from him, turning the little bodies this way and that.
“Buck up, they’re worth a six-pence at least. If you bring me more tomorrow you’ll have enough for the crossing and a nice tumble on the other side.”
He tossed Eiland a smile. Something about the curl of his mouth and the spark in his eye said that he wouldn’t mind being the one who Eiland tumbled.
Eiland’s fingers curled into fists. He didn’t—he couldn’t bear to think about anything like that. His mind was filled with the possibility of what Charon would do if Eiland came back without enough money. “I need it today. Now.”
The butcher’s smile faltered but instead of becoming short he studied Eiland. “Are you all right, son?”
“I can’t,” Eiland choked. Real kindness shone in the man’s face, and Eiland wanted nothing more than to fling himself on the man’s mercy—but he’d wasted too much time earlier doing just that. “I can’t. Please. I need to have the money to cross today.”
The butcher continued to study him for a long moment then reexamined the game. “I could sell the fox skins to a merchant. That’d be worth a doublet.”
Eiland dug through his pack. “I have some herbs. You can, here’s some mustard seed, you can rub that on the meat. And some herbiva, for the smell.”
The butcher accepted these with a wry, gentle smile. “A doublet and a six-pence, then.”
Despite the blood under the man’s fingernails, Eiland gripped his hand tight in thanks.
The sun had dipped low in the sky by the time Eiland scrambled back up the bluff outside of town. Charon wasn’t standing at the crest, and for a moment the world around Eiland dipped and shivered, the ground unsteady under his feet.
Then he glimpsed a dirty blond head through the branches, and he could breathe again.
Charon looked up when Eiland approached, his grip briefly tightening on the long stick in his hand before relaxing again. He was leaning against a fallen log. The ground all around him had been covered in scratches, idle swirls, and pockmarks where he’d dug the tip of his stick into the soil.
“You’re back,” Charon said. It was hard to decipher his expression.
Eiland stared at him a moment, breathing hard, then swung the empty strands of rope down from his shoulder. Kneeling on the ground he dug his meager earnings out of his pocket and spread the coins on the ground to count them.
“Here, let me see.” Charon winced his way down to his knees beside Eiland. Eiland pulled away.
“Eiland,” Charon said sharply. “Let me see.”
“Get away from me,” Eiland said, not taking his eyes off the work of his hands.
His fingers trembled, just like they had all day. He couldn’t make them stop, any more than he could stop imagining his mother lying on the ground, screaming in pain, her limbs jerking, her eyes rolling.
He expected Charon to shout at him or say something cutting or even outright Curse him on the spot, but he did nothing. He knelt beside Eiland with his hands resting loose on his knees, and then he wordlessly pushed himself back
to his feet.
Eiland went on counting.
They had enough, thank the gods. Putting on his cloak, Charon drew the hood low over his face. They went down the hill to the crossing.
Wagons jostled at the river shore like so many giants pressing their shoulders together. A merchant argued loudly with the soldiers along the bank, insisting that he should be able to put more than his share of goods on the ferry. Small, dirty children darted here and there, hawking trinkets in piping voices at cutthroat rates.
The ferry approached their shore a little downstream. Travelers and merchants from the other side disembarked, then ropes and mules dragged it up the river to their position. More jostling ensued.
In the crowded conditions, Eiland didn’t even notice how Charon was moving nearer until he’d virtually plastered himself against Eiland’s side.
There was no room for Eiland to move away. He stood still and rigid. Charon had pulled the hood of his cloak down low but it could only hide so much and several people sent them dark looks. An exclusion zone, noticeable in the press of bodies, surrounded Charon…and Eiland. Some took out trinkets, holding them up like wards. Others turned and left the crowd entirely, clearly willing to wait the long hour for another ferry.
A familiar face appeared in the crowd: the curly-haired butcher. Eiland dug up a smile but the man only jerked his gaze away.
Something pressed on Eiland’s breastbone again, except this time he recognized it as a scream. He barely managed to swallow it down. He wanted to scream at everyone, because what was that for? Didn’t he do it for them, so that Charon wouldn’t threaten and frighten and steal from them? And now no one would even look at him. None of them had helped him.
It was Eiland’s mother that Charon had threatened; it was Eiland who Charon had taken from his family and home. But now Charon pressed close to Eiland’s side as though for protection, while the rest of the world averted their eyes.
He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand any of it.
They boarded, paying their doublets to the soldiers. Several looked askance at them, but still let them pass.
Charon immediately made for the far edge of the ferry, sitting down on the deck with his back to the railing. He looked a little wild-eyed, as if the faintest noise would send him up and over into the water. Eiland went to give a bit of meat to the ferryman, the tradition for safe passage. He was a one-eyed relic with leathery hands who took Eiland’s offering without greeting.
They pushed off from the shore and Eiland had a moment of panic himself. Not just at the sight of so much fast-moving water—Eiland was used to swimming in ponds and creeks, nothing this deep—but also at the knowledge that he had passed over a barrier more permanent and insurmountable than distance.
For a long moment he stood with his eyes closed, gripping the railing and taking deep breaths.
When he reopened him, he paused in surprise. A young girl had left the cringing crowd and approached Charon. She was a grubby moppet, selling apples from a basket half her size. She stood right in front of Charon, swaying easily with the movements of the watercraft as she gestured at her wares.
Charon listened to her sales pitch with a startled expression. The girl appeared to be talking at a rapid clip. Eiland hung back. As he watched, Charon fumbled with his cloak, finally drawing out three small coins. The girl snatched them out of his hand, biting them before tucking them away. She held out her basket.
Charon took his time making his selection. Once he did he held the fruit in his hands as if giving them a final onceover—and then of a sudden he tossed all three of them up in the air.
The girl ducked, startled, but Charon smoothly caught one apple then tossed it back up in the air before catching another with his other hand.
The apples danced in a zigzagging pattern, caught and thrown back up. The girl squealed and clapped her hands in delight.
Eiland himself was mesmerized. Not by the act, he’d seen this done by traveling clans, sometimes even with fire or knives, but by the change that came over Charon. The hood of his cloak had fallen to his shoulders; his long hair hung dirty around his face, but his expression was intent and full of life. A smile played on his lips, never quite breaking the surface. He tossed the apples higher and higher until they sailed in graceful arcs.
When they neared the far shore Charon caught them all in one hand and gave them back to the girl. Confused, she tried to return his money, but he waved it away.
The girl hesitated then darted forward and smacked a kiss to Charon’s cheek. He flinched, but when she rocked back on her heels with her head ducked down, a grin burst over his face.
Charon tucked his chin to his chest and tilted his head to one side, catching the girl’s eye. He said something; Eiland couldn’t hear his voice but the cant of his brow was teasing. The girl responded without lifting her head and Charon’s smile widened, bright and sweet.
Despite everything else and foursquare against his will, Eiland’s heart fluttered in his chest.
After the girl scampered off, lugging her apple basket with her, Eiland slowly moved to rejoin Charon. When he saw Eiland approaching the smile slipped off Charon’s face, his expression shuttered, and his eyes dulled and took on an almost hunted quality.
By the time Eiland reached him Charon had pulled his hood back on and fit the invisible mask over his face again.
Eiland took a seat on the deck beside Charon. “Who was that?”
“She said her name was Bandit, but I have my doubts. Who names their daughter Bandit?”
“Bandits?” Eiland offered.
Charon snorted then said curtly, “Once we get to the other side we’ll go immediately up-river. You’re not to tell anyone that you’re from Summerton, understood?”
Eiland’s teeth ground together. “Yes,” he said.
“Good.” Charon pulled his hood tighter around his face and pivoted his body until his back was to Eiland and the rest of the ferry.
Eiland wanted to grab him by the shoulders and yank him around again. He wanted to shake Charon, to look Charon right in the eye until he knew once and for all whether he should hate what he saw there.
He thought of his mother, and did not.
They passed the rest of the crossing in silence.
Chapter Seven
Beyond the far side of the river stretched flat, featureless plains. Once they had cleared the outer borders of Rivervale, Charon led them back off the road into the wild, and then Eiland did feel truly adrift. In every direction, all he could see was grass, void of landmarks or even the guide stones that travelers used to mark the miles.
Eiland had never seen so much empty ground, untilled and unoccupied. The grass was golden in hue and grew high, sometimes up to his shoulders. There were few trees and the sun grew warmer with every passing mile. After several days and several layers Eiland had stripped down to nothing but his breeches, slogging bare-chested through the grass.
More than once he caught Charon looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Charon said nothing, though, and he never took off his own shirt no matter how hot the weather got. The sun had already browned the back of his neck, but sometimes his collar rode down and Eiland glimpsed paler skin underneath. The scarred skin around his elbows turned red and peeled off in finger-sized flakes. Eiland wondered at that, a little—he tried not to think about Charon at all, but there was little else to do but walk and think. He realized he’d never actually seen Charon take off his tattered clothes, not even to bathe in the few streams they encountered.
Eiland opened his mouth then snapped it shut when he realized that, first, he’d been about to ask Charon why he never took his clothes off, and second, he hadn’t actually spoken to Charon since the river.
At first it hadn’t been a conscious decision. When they’d departed the ferry, the crowds had been just as thick as the far side. There hadn’t been time to speak. Once they passed out of Rivervale and left the road behind, Charon had regained his tongue, bu
t by then Eiland’s anger had taken root and festered.
He couldn’t even say what he felt so angry about. He’d known all along that Charon was Cursed, but in thinking back Eiland realized that Charon had never actually threatened to Curse anyone before. In Summerton he hadn’t needed to threaten; Eiland had gone with him because—because they’d kissed and Charon knew that about him.
Somehow Eiland had been less afraid of being Cursed than of his parents finding out that he liked kissing boys.
So he’d gone with Charon and he’d done as he was told, hadn’t he? He’d shown Charon how to make the salve and he’d won them passage across the river and he’d been good and kind to others even when they turned their backs on him and what had that gotten him?
A tighter cage.
So he stayed silent. It was childish, he knew, but it was the one scrap of defiance left to him.
Eventually the maddening evenness of the ground yielded to rolling hills. Here the insects grew more numerous, droning loudly and endlessly. One twilight evening Charon and Eiland crested a hill. A thick line of trees stretched ahead of them like a green wall and Eiland drew up short. Between them and the trees, the field hung thick with tiny lights that flared and died within the space of a single breath. There were hundreds of the lights, rising and falling just above the grass.
“They’re fire bugs,” Charon said. His voice creaked; he hadn’t spoken all day. “Have you seen them before?”
“Yes.” He had: during the warmest months a smattering of them appeared in the forest around Summerton—but never in this quantity nor this close.
One of the bugs flared near his head and Eiland darted out a hand, gingerly snaring it in a loose fist and hauling it in for inspection. It was an ugly, black little thing, curled up tight in his palm.
Abruptly Charon struck his wrist, jogging the bug free and making Eiland jump. “Don’t touch them!” Charon exclaimed. He pulled Eiland’s hand over to him, squinting at it in the dark. “Did it sting you?”
“No.” Eiland shot a nervous look at the others in the field.
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