by Kerstin Hall
While he spoke, she pitted the peaches and basted them in cinnamon, thyme, and pomegranate molasses. Vasethe cut the peppers and scraped away the tiny white seeds. He recounted the intrigue surrounding the assassination of the crown prince of Pol, laying out the factions and rumours. The light fell; Eris lit a candle and roasted the peaches in her oven. When the fruit turned brown, she emptied the oven tray into a single bowl and gave it to Vasethe. She started searing the peppers with a handful of brown grains and cashew nuts.
The dolls’ legs rattled.
Vasethe stopped speaking midsentence. With a soft hiss, the fire inside the stove went out and the kitchen was suddenly quiet and cold. Clack, clack, clack, the wooden legs hit the post.
Eris flowed out of the room, gone in an instant. The candle flame wavered and died.
Vasethe got up and took the skillet off the stovetop. Through the window he could see the wards trembling along the yard’s fence, their clattering loud in the stillness. The moon gleamed above the southern horizon. He leaned over and checked the knife in his boot.
She stood in the middle of the yard, perfectly still, staring out at the saltpan beyond the shadowline. Her back was to Vasethe. He watched her from beneath the deeper shadows of the awning.
As before, it appeared without warning. Much closer this time, only a few paces from the line. The creature’s eyes were the colour of old milk left in the sun. It gazed unblinkingly at Eris.
A moment later Vasethe saw the second creature, farther off, trailing its brother.
The moon rose. Like a children’s game, no one moved while they were watched. The creatures’ presence radiated through the cold air, keen-edged and contaminated.
Then, as abruptly as they appeared, they were gone. The wards stilled. Vasethe let out a long, slow breath.
A shiver ran across the border keeper’s shoulders, the first movement she had made since the creatures appeared.
“Eris?” Vasethe called.
“Don’t say that name.” Her voice was like the wind over dead leaves.
He stepped out into the moonlight. “Are you . . .”
“Four hundred years. Then you arrive and it starts again.” Eris turned. Her cheeks were wet, and her eyes shone bright and furious. The air crackled with power. “Why?”
He stumbled backwards. “I don’t know.”
She took a step towards him and his knees buckled. Blood trickled from his nose.
“I don’t know,” he gasped. Pressure pounded against his chest in waves; he struggled to speak. “But I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
A moment longer. Then the pressure abated. Vasethe sagged back onto his heels, breathing heavily.
“I will take you to Mkalis.”
There was blood in his mouth. He raised his head to look at her.
“I will find out what you want and who you are and then I will destroy you.”
“I—”
“What was her name, the dead woman you loved?”
He shook his head.
Eris gestured, a quick twist of her wrist, and Vasethe flew backwards. The air left his lungs as he slammed into the ground.
“Her name.”
“You don’t understand.” He coughed, clutching his ribs. Eris walked closer, each footfall a threat.
“But I will. No more lies. Tell me the name of your woman.”
The desert fell quiet; the whole world held its breath.
“Raisha,” Vasethe whispered.
Chapter Three
ALL WAS AMBER BEYOND THE HOUSE, the late afternoon seeping into evening.
Vasethe waited in the yard. A slight frown creased his forehead. On the fence, the new ward hung like a feathered star.
Inside, Eris stalked circles around the front room and muttered to herself. She had not spoken since the night before, and Vasethe had kept his distance. As she paced, the hair on his arms rose. Whatever she was weaving, it was powerful.
The dryness of the saltpan had left his lips cracked and swollen. He ran his finger over the rough skin and his frown deepened.
“Enter,” commanded Eris.
The floor inside the room glowed with a faint purple light. In the corners of Vasethe’s vision, vague shapes moved through lazy spirals.
“I’m going to perform a questing. It will reveal the location of your woman,” Eris said. “When that’s done, I’ll find a vessel for you. Unlike me, your soul is single-aspected, so you won’t be able to move through Mkalis without a surrogate form to house your consciousness.”
Vasethe nodded.
“Sit. Novices tend to become disorientated.”
He moved to where she indicated. Eris took up position opposite him and extended her hands to touch his knees.
“This shouldn’t be difficult,” she said. “Picture the person you are looking for. Hold their smell, image, touch, voice in your mind. Whatever you remember most clearly about them, think of that now. I’ll do the rest.”
“I think we should talk about this.”
“I’m giving you what you came for, so stop wasting my time.” The whites of her eyes darkened to black. “Close your eyes, stranger.”
Vasethe scowled and did as he was told. Eris’s lips moved through unvoiced syllables.
The light of the floor strengthened and turned red. Around them, the walls dissolved into a haze of bloody shadows, and the sky above gleamed like pewter. Eris leaned closer to Vasethe, closing her hands around his wrists. He opened his eyes.
“Strange,” she muttered.
The passing silhouettes of huge birds threw deeper shadows across the scene.
“Does this tell you where we need to go?” Vasethe asked, twisting to see what lay behind him. Massive animals, rolling indistinctly through maroon fog. The clank of chains, the crunching of wheels, growing louder. Strange far-off cries.
“It’s disconnected,” she murmured, “which can’t be right; rulers always have connections. And yet . . .”
A powerful metallic smell, boiled coins or a bubbling crucible, rose from the ground. Vasethe jerked his hands free and found his feet. The scene evaporated like mist and the room reappeared, orange and cool.
“Why did you do that?” Eris asked, tilting her head to one side.
Vasethe swallowed. His hands were slick with cold sweat. “Sorry, I didn’t realise I would break the connection. Should we try again?”
“No need.” Eris’s eyes retained their curious light, even as the whites resumed their usual colour. “I know roughly where she is, and I can use you to track her the rest of the way. Like a compass.”
Relief was plain on Vasethe’s face. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re in luck, actually,” she said. “It seems that your lover is in a realm with a negligible population, which will make finding her easier. I’m not sure who the realm belongs to, but they have a tenuous connection to Kan Buyak. I’ve dealt with him in the past; he’s a bastard but largely harmless. We’ll need to traverse his realm to acquire permissions to enter theirs.”
“When can we begin?”
“Eager?” Eris stood and smoothed her clothes. “Have something to eat. I’ll find a vessel for you.”
“If the Ageless return tonight, will your wards be enough to hold them?”
Eris’s fingers twitched. “Don’t worry; my wards are enough, unless the whole contingent makes an appearance.” Her lip curled. “Leave me before I change my mind.”
Vasethe gave her a mocking bow and backed into the kitchen. Once out of her sight, his hands began to shake. He opened her cupboards and crouched to inspect the lower shelves. A couple of black bottles with peeling labels, some of the corks rotted through. He opened a muscatel and took a deep swig. The sweet, cutting wine spread warmth down his scarred throat.
He stopped shaking.
Sounds of movement drifted out from Eris’s bedroom, a part of the house he had not yet trespassed. He found her rummaging through her closet. Of all the rooms in the house, this was the only one to hin
t at any kind of sentimentality. A battered stuffed rabbit flopped over the top of the wardrobe and a paper-crisp orchid stood in a glass vase on her writing desk. Dead and frozen in time. An old painting hung opposite the foot of her bed, capturing a waterfall beneath autumn trees. Although the colours had faded, the edges of leaves still glowed gold, and the spray was pale and diffuse. Every time she woke up, she would see that painting, and judging by the dust coating the frame, it had hung there for a very long time.
“Here.” Eris tossed Vasethe a black bundle of velvet. He caught it.
“A blindfold?”
“You are familiar with them?” She raised an eyebrow.
He chose not to reply, running a finger along the edge of the musty ribbon.
She sighed and returned to the closet. “There are a few special threads woven into the seam. They will allow me to find you in the event that we are separated. They also help to calm nerves.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You should be.” With a grunt, she pulled a crate from the back of the wardrobe and set it on the ground. “Just wear it.”
“As you wish.”
“Exactly. Lie down.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.”
He sidled around her, eying the line of intimacy he needed to cross. Eris was delving into the crate, oblivious to his discomfort. Vasethe sat on the corner of her rumpled, unmade bed. Her sheets were yellow with age.
She lifted a bone-handled ice pick, held it up to the light to check its sharpness. “How much do you know about Mkalis?”
“Follow the rules, get consent, don’t eat or drink.”
“And about crossing?”
“Less.”
She snorted. “That’s fine; I’ll do it for you. For Buyak, the most important realm rule is to always speak the truth. Opinions are fine as long as you phrase them with care, but no figurative language and no lying. This will be difficult for you, so I’d recommend speaking as little as possible.”
He smiled.
“Follow my lead and we’ll pass through his realm within a night.” She straightened. “Buyak shouldn’t pay us any heed; much too busy with social warfare.”
“Social warfare?”
“He’s a schemer,” she said. “Ruthlessly ambitious, impeccably polite. Which brings me to rule two: Trust no one beyond the shadowline. The rulers will kill you for sport; the dwellers are little better.”
“You intend to kill me.”
“Yes, but at a specific and agreed-upon time.”
“I don’t remember agreeing.”
“Well, you can’t have everything,” she said. “Lie down, stranger.”
He shifted backwards on the mattress. Although dishevelled, her bed smelt like oasis flowers and lingering warmth.
“You appear tense,” Eris said, with wry amusement. “Are you sure you aren’t nervous?”
“To be fair, that is a sharp implement in your hands.”
She twirled the pick between her fingers. It caught the gleam of the butane lantern through the doorway. “Put on the blindfold.”
Vasethe lay back, tying the blindfold behind his head. The heavy velvet blocked all light; he could see nothing. He was suddenly aware of his own breathing, of the small sounds of Eris moving, his pulse. He flinched when she touched his jaw.
“Open your mouth,” she said.
“Why?”
“No questions.”
Blood burnt his tongue, the salt drops scalding his mouth. He choked, surprised, and tried to sit up, but Eris pressed a hand flat on his chest.
“Stay still,” she said.
“Eris, what—you’re bleeding.”
“Time for you to fall asleep, stranger.”
“What is going on?” He reached for the blindfold, but she restrained him.
“Hush,” she whispered.
“Why is it so hot?” he slurred.
“Don’t ask so many questions.”
“Witch’s blood—acid?”
Her nails dug into his skin. “Of course it isn’t, you imbecile.”
“Burning . . .” he murmured. Bright yellow stars darted across his vision. “I can’t move.”
“That’s the idea.”
She said something else, but he could not understand the words.
Chapter Four
VASETHE’S EYES REMAINED CLOSED, and yet he could see.
He lay on Eris’s bed. He also stood on a hillside beneath a sky of wispy clouds, long platinum grass grazing his knees. Rose-coloured spheres bobbed overhead like giant dandelion heads, and craggy ironstone mountains hemmed the western horizon.
His body had changed too; his hands were unscarred and his skin a few shades lighter than in Ahri. Younger, this new body; within it he felt unbalanced. He wore a high-collared vest, like those favoured by the courtiers of the Pol Imperial Assembly, and loose green pants. His boots, however, were reassuringly similar to his usual pair.
“Eris?”
His voice emerged hoarse. Vasethe touched his throat. Wet. An oily yellow liquid glistened on his fingertips. The wound on his throat—long-healed and scarred over—had reopened, and the blistering, swollen gash festered with infection.
And yet, this vessel was not his body. This wound had no right to exist in Mkalis.
Something small and wriggling dropped from the gash and squirmed into the grass. He grimaced and crushed the maggot beneath his heel.
“Eris?” he called again, louder.
Far-off laughter. He turned on the spot and scanned the landscape. No one. At the base of the hill, the vegetation thickened where a copse of trees filled the valley.
He made his way down the slope through the rustling grass and the pungent smell of vanilla rose from the soil. The spheres rotated slowly.
Down the hill and into the valley. Something about this place reminded him of a children’s song, or a holy chant, but he could not remember what came next. There was a part about a house, and hidden waters, but no, that still wasn’t quite it. A thin path led into the shadows beneath the silver-leaved trees, and sweet yellow blossoms bordered the trail, petals shining in the dappled light.
A dull sense of dread had settled in his bones. Familiar. He knew this place, yet when he tried to grasp the memory, it dissolved into darkness.
He needed to find Eris.
The trees grew denser, closer, more secretive. Darker. Vasethe kept his steps feather-light and made no sound. The breeze carried a faint odour, like overripe fruit, but more foul, sweeter. Leaves trembled and then fell still.
The sound of running footsteps in the trees behind him, gone in seconds. Silence again. Vasethe’s breathing came sharp and fast. A bird sang in the distance, serenading the evening. He stood for a moment, listening. The small grove he had seen from the hillside had warped into a forest of glinting steel leaves and grasping boughs. Roots curled up from the earth at the base of the tree trunks, ink-black and sticky with an oozing residue.
On the other side of the saltpan, beyond the shadowline, Vasethe moaned aloud.
Up ahead, a gap in the trees beckoned. He stepped over a tangle of roots and his heel struck stone. The cobbles were so overgrown that Vasethe could hardly see them through their coating of soft dark moss.
Down the hill and into the valley, where the sun cannot shine, down the hill and into the valley . . .
The words of the song looped over and over in his mind, wheeling out of reach.
The trees parted. In the centre of the wild, weed-choked clearing stood a ramshackle stonewall house. The windows were boarded up on the ground floor, the front door shut tight. Ivy crawled the sagging walls. On the wide porch, a swing seat creaked back and forth, as if someone had just gotten up from it.
Vasethe circled the house, keeping close to the tree line. The roof was steep and tiled, a soot-stained chimney visible above yellowed gables. Built for colder climates, he thought. Out of place here.
Straggly grass rambled across the yard, snarled with
devil-thorns and brambles. A crumbling well sagged beside the rear wall of the house. He leaned over the edge but could not see the bottom. He dropped a pebble. It clattered against dry stone.
When Vasethe rounded the side of the house again, the front door stood ajar. Like a sly smile, an invitation. He hesitated, then climbed the steps up to the porch. The door knocker, shaped like a lion’s head, grinned at him from beneath a layer of orange rust.
He pushed the door. It creaked and swung open.
The house’s exterior had suggested a rundown cottage, but inside it looked more like a manor. A glass chandelier hung above a wide staircase, cobwebs draped over the candles like streamers. Yellowed wallpaper curled from the skirting boards. Vasethe allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom before he stepped inside.
“Eris?”
His skin prickled. He walked through the door on the left into a shadowed parlour. Dust coated every surface; this place must have stood abandoned for years. From the wall above the fireplace, a painted hare watched him with wide black eyes. Four wingback chairs faced one another around a squat table. Their orientation struck him as oddly conspiratorial.
The front door locked with a click.
Vasethe froze for a second, then moved towards the boarded-up window. Thick wood, but rotten, holed by termites. Dull evening light filtered through the cracks. If he hit the boards hard enough, they should break off. He made no effort to be quiet now, and the floor groaned under his weight as he examined the rest of the room.
A shushing sound from the foyer—silk sliding over skin, flesh stripping from bone. A sound that was meant to be heard.
Vasethe stepped through the adjoining door into a derelict study. Books were scattered across the floor. They gathered in mounds of folded spines and torn pages, and the shelves lining the walls were bare. In the midst of the chaos hunkered a mahogany desk. A message was scrawled across its dusty surface.
A single word. Impossible, ancient, compound, invented, a secret joke loaded with affection and unspoken yearnings, a parting gift. The word on the desk matched stroke for stroke the tattoo inked across Vasethe’s shoulders. A tattoo that wasn’t on the shoulders of his surrogate body.