by Kerstin Hall
Vasethe followed them inside. He felt dazed.
The interior held an eclectic mix of weapons, sheaves of paper, and embroidered cushions. A mobile hung overhead; the rusted contraption dangling heavy iron orbs on rings.
Eris flopped down on a pile of cushions. Lfae let the silk cover fall shut, blocking out the burning sunlight.
“Can we be heard?” she asked, more seriously.
“By Buyak?” Lfae smirked. “What do you take me for?”
The demon’s shining hair had fallen over Vasethe’s boot. He wasn’t sure whether moving his foot would be disrespectful.
“Oh, stop toying with him,” said Eris.
Lfae pulled their hair aside. “You spoil my fun.”
“So, it’s secure here?”
“Only my own people can hear us in here, but the realm’s rules obviously still apply, so, you know, don’t lie.”
“I’ve already learned that lesson the hard way.”
“Really? It’s unlike you to be careless.” The demon reclined. “How much do you know?”
Eris shrugged. “Hard to say. I’ve heard a few rumours.”
“So, you know about Kstille?”
“That he’s missing. And he may have had an argument with Buyak.”
“Oh, he did; I was present at that meeting. He called for a Tribunal.”
“Did he say why?”
Lfae adjusted the cushions. “Not in my hearing, but there are only a few valid grounds for a call. So, I would guess he believed God Instruments were involved. I might even guess that Kstille’s vanishing coincided with the appearance of a new trinket somewhere in the realms.”
“That’s my assumption. I am reasonably sure that a new Compass has been forged.” She scowled. “And I have heard that a Sword is next.”
Lfae’s eyes widened. “I did not know that.”
“I could have been misled, but I doubt it. Plus, there’s the return of the Ageless, just as this man appeared on my doorstep.”
Lfae’s gaze hardened. The weapons on the walls gleamed, and Vasethe suddenly had the sense that something invisible, sharp, and poisonous was pressed to his throat.
“Stop that,” Eris snapped.
“My apologies,” Lfae said, although their eyes did not move.
“I trust him. I think he is being used, but I trust him. Lfae, don’t make me tell you again. Stop.”
The demon paused for a heartbeat longer, then the atmosphere inside the caravan lifted. “Whatever you say.”
Vasethe tried to control his face and breathing.
I trust him.
“But I lied,” he said softly.
“Sethe?”
“I didn’t want to tell you, because I needed you as my guide. I was scared you would withdraw your aid.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You asked whether I saw anyone in the minor realm. There was a woman. She knew who I was.” He spoke quickly. “She knew that you would come for me.”
“What?”
“Eris, I was wrong—”
“‘Eris?’” Lfae interrupted. “You call her ‘Eris’? Why would you do that? No wonder the Ageless have returned.”
“What does her name have to do with anything?”
“We are not discussing that,” Eris said.
Her voice was raw. The wagon fell silent.
“Go on,” she said. “What else?”
Vasethe tried to meet her eyes, but she stared past him. “The woman said that I was exactly where she wanted me to be.”
“I don’t follow.”
Her coldness cut him. “Doesn’t it seem like we’ve been pushed into following a certain path through the realms? I think Buyak wanted you to talk to Tiba. I think he wanted you to know about Kstille. And I think he’s working with this woman.”
More than anything, he wished she would look at him.
“I think we’re walking into a trap,” he whispered.
“Are you finished?” asked Eris.
Her eyes shone, and she would not look up.
“Go back to Ahri,” she said.
Before he could protest, she leaned over, pressed her hand to his chest, and sent him from Mkalis.
Chapter Fourteen
VASETHE WOKE. His heart beat slow and calm; Eris’s hand on his chest was light as air. Everything seemed weightless. He felt he could drift right off the bed, rise into space. Golden dust motes floated through the doorway. They hung in the still air, slow as the movement of stars.
“Eris?”
Her breath stirred the fine hairs on his arm.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Eris’s breathing changed as she returned to her Ahri body. Her fingers twitched and air escaped her mouth in a low sigh. When she sat up, he thought she would speak. Instead, she rose from the bed in a rustle of sheets and left the room.
Vasethe rubbed his eyes. He stood, tied his hair up, and straightened out the covers. In the mirror, he looked younger, more innocent, vulnerable in the afternoon glow.
Eris was not in the house or the yard. The desert beyond her fence stretched away to eternity. Vasethe moved from room to room, but she was gone.
He sat beneath the awning. For a long time, he waited, staring out to the horizon. So quiet. It struck him that his old professors had been wrong; the edge of the world was not an ocean.
When it grew dark, he lit the lantern in the front room. He found his chisels and, within the ring of lamplight, he carved. He worked fine details into the rich, gleaming wood of the table and smoothed away rough edges with a mixture of sand and oil. The stars shone bright; the dust of other universes drifted unobserved above the house.
He completed it. It should have been varnished, but her words lingered in his mind. Bodies decomposed slowly around here. Let it rot if she wanted it to rot; he would not drag out the decay. Let her forget him sooner.
If she wanted it to endure, it would.
Vasethe set the table beneath the lantern and collected his pack. His gourds were full; the water would last until he reached Shanan. He only took dried meat from Eris’s cupboard, and even that felt like an imposition. The taste in his mouth was bitter and gritty, like he had breathed in sawdust while carving. He closed the door behind him but did not extinguish the light.
The latch on the gate was stuck. He worked it free. The waning moon had risen above the saltpan, lighting his way. The more distance he covered before sunrise, the better. Vasethe rolled his shoulders, refusing to look back.
The wards shivered. The moon dimmed.
He turned towards the shadowline.
Seven figures stood on the saltpan, grotesque scarecrows outlined by moonlight. All still as death, all staring towards the house. The eighth Ageless was a distant silhouette.
“Leave her alone!” shouted Vasethe.
They did not react. He pulled the knife from his boot. The creatures reminded him of something, but their presence made it difficult to think. The shadowline hummed, a high-pitched whine that made his ears ache. The wards thrummed along Eris’s fence.
Vasethe threw his knife. His aim was perfect; it should have hit the centre Ageless right between the eyes. But the blade disappeared the moment it crossed the shadowline, evaporating in a shower of salt crystals.
Vasethe blinked and the Ageless were looking at him. He stumbled forward—was pulled forward—catching himself a few feet from the line. This close, he could smell them, crypt dust and rotted flesh. Their white eyes did not move.
He felt sleepy, even as his brain screamed for him to back away. There was a majesty, almost an arrogance to the Ageless. Before them, he was nothing, a fleeting life, already dead, decomposing, a small, passing thing.
Something unseen coiled around his chest and yanked him backwards. He landed hard and the air whooshed from his lungs.
“You idiot,” said Eris.
She stood above him. Her arm was bloodied and her shift torn. Although her eyes were red, she looked calm. Blood d
ripped from her fingers onto the sand.
“Get inside the fence. Now,” she said.
Another wound opened on her leg, the skin peeling away like a flower blooming.
“Eris—”
“Now.”
She sighed as the latch on the gate clicked shut.
“My wards will hold here,” she said wearily. “He has a limited ability to warp the space close to the shadowline, but he can’t cross it without a direct and sustained assault.”
“Your wounds . . .”
“So, you’re going to walk away from Raisha, then?”
He flinched.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I just wonder why you bothered to waste my time in the first place, if you’re prepared to quit like this.”
“I was never looking for Raisha.”
Silence.
“She died six years ago,” he said.
“You . . . what?”
“It wasn’t that I lacked the desperation back then. And I knew it might be possible.” His throat was tight. “It was her research project: Interpreting Non-Pol Accounts of the Incarnations of the Border Keeper following the Demonic War. I took it over after her death.” He looked away. “I knew that resurrecting her was possible.”
Eris stared at him.
“She—she wouldn’t have wanted—” He shook his head. “It’s done now; I’m leaving. I swear that I never meant you any harm.”
“Sethe, stop.”
Eris reached out and steadied herself against him. Her fingers were slick with burning blood.
“Help me inside,” she muttered. “Please? I can’t stand.”
She was heavier than he expected. He shouldered the door open. His skin blistered where it pressed against her injured arm and leg, the fabric of his shirt disintegrating.
He set her down on the ground and hurried to the kitchen. He filled a large bowl with water, retrieved a bottle of brandy and rolls of bandages from the trunk in the corner.
Eris was lying flat on her back when he returned, staring at the ceiling. He knelt at her side and carefully pressed a damp sponge to the gash on her arm.
“Medicine,” she said. “You said you studied it for a while.”
He rinsed away the blood. There was little risk of infection, but he did not take chances. To her credit, Eris did not even wince when he poured a measure of the brandy over the wound.
“High pain tolerance, huh?” she said, watching him.
Vasethe riffled through his pack until he found his needle. His hands steady, he dipped it in brandy then threaded it.
“The worst part is that I had just told Lfae I trusted you.” She watched as he pushed the needle through her skin. “So embarrassing. There will be centuries of ridicule to look forward to.”
He wiped away blood and brandy, continued stitching. His fingertips seared, but he did not pause.
“From the moment you arrived, I knew that you were testing me, manipulating me. And yet I let you get away with it.” She laughed. “I suppose this is really my own fault.”
He shook his head.
“Come, don’t look so sad. You’re much prettier when you smile.”
“You’re hurt,” he said quietly, “and I’m responsible.”
“You give yourself too much credit,” she said. She peered at her arm to check his progress. “Very tidy, though.”
Vasethe finished and cut the thread. He sponged the wound and pressed a strip of gauze over the cut. Then he unwound a bandage with his other hand and set about wrapping up her arm.
“After Raisha’s death,” he said, voice barely louder than a whisper, “I moved from Utyl to Kisfath. I needed a job, so I applied to the St. Hsa Avatarium. I was accepted into the trade.”
She said nothing.
“Three years later, I was sent to Chenash. It’s a small community, and I was the only avatar there. The place was unusually conservative, but I managed; I had regulars, including a woman named Nialle.” He pinned the bandage, lifted her arm to ensure she could still move it easily. “For about a year, everything was fine. I hoped to earn enough to travel, maybe go north to join the survey crew on the Miame border. But then Nialle’s baby went missing.”
Eris caught his wrist when he moved the needle towards her leg. “I’ll do it.”
“No, I can manage.”
She took the needle and thread from him. “Your fingers are burnt enough. Wash your hands.” She pushed the bowl of water towards him. “And refill that.”
He did as she said. The Ageless were gone. He let his hands rest in the kitchen sink and stared out at the moonlit desert.
“When Nialle’s husband summoned me to his forge, I went. He was the ordained ysfer of Chenash and crafted all the temple’s sacred ornaments. Well respected.”
Vasethe returned to the front room and put the bowl down by Eris’s side. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, struggling to find the words. Eris washed blood away from the ugly wound on her leg, much rougher than he had been.
“He—well, I hadn’t expected trouble. I assumed that he condoned Nialle’s attendance to the St. Hsa house. It was stupid of me.”
Eris bit off a piece of thread and slipped it through the needle.
“I think I managed to throw one punch before he overpowered me. You know the worst thing? He was crying.”
She paused in her stitching.
“Crying the whole time.” Vasethe’s breathing was shallow. “He had the crucible ready. Molten copper. He was an artist, really; from what I could understand, I’d seduced his wife with a silver tongue. He’d forge something similar in my mouth.”
Eris finished with the needle. She dipped her bloodied hands into the bowl and washed them clean. Her sutures were nothing like Vasethe’s; the loops of thread were loose and untidy, but the wound was closed. Vasethe dressed her leg with gauze and unrolled another bandage.
“Nialle must have heard the fight. She caught him by surprise and smashed his skull with a hammer. He spilt the copper. Missed my mouth, splashed my neck instead.”
His breath caught when Eris reached up and touched the scar on his throat.
“Here?”
He nodded.
She traced her fingertips over the damaged skin, then withdrew her hand. “And then?”
“It’s hard to remember. I was fading in and out.” He pinned the bandage. “Is that too tight?”
“Not at all.” Eris flexed her foot. “Thank you.”
Vasethe slipped an arm around her waist and helped her to her feet. “Nialle was there. She had her hands on my chest and kept saying that I needed to find her daughter. I remember that I couldn’t speak. There was a hole, I could feel it; I was breathing through it.”
“But you survived.”
“I shouldn’t have.” He guided Eris into the bedroom. “When I woke up, I was in the mayor’s house. Nialle had performed a leech bond to save me, and killed herself in the process.”
“Oh.”
He helped her onto the bed. “I still can’t understand why she did it.”
“So, you want to repay your debt and bring her back?”
“No.” Vasethe shook his head. “No, I promised I’d find her daughter.”
Understanding dawned on Eris’s face.
“Nialle left the cradle unattended, and when she returned, the baby was different,” he said.
“Sethe—”
“She swore it wasn’t hers anymore,” he pressed on. “That someone had taken her child and left another behind. And her husband noticed the change too; not that he came to the same conclusion. He just knew it wasn’t his daughter.”
“Sethe, listen to me. She was wrong.” Eris gripped his hand. “That type of thing, it doesn’t happen. I don’t let it happen. Unless through death, no one crosses the shadowline, not gods, not demons, and certainly not stolen infants.”
“Then why was the questing successful?”
She stiffened.
“When you performed the questing y
ou found her in the disconnected realm.” Vasethe sat on the bed beside her. “She was there.”
Eris closed her eyes. For a long time, she did not move. She still had Vasethe’s hand; he could feel the calluses on her palms. Then she exhaled slowly.
“I have two questions,” she said.
He kept quiet.
“Why didn’t you tell me all of this in the first place?”
He tried to smile, but his voice came out ragged. “What, tell the all-knowing border keeper I’m a whore?”
“It’s not like that. Why should I care?”
“I’ve learned that some people do. I would also have had to tell this story, and I really didn’t want to. But now I have. Your second question?”
“The obvious one.”
“Ask.”
Eris frowned. “Sethe . . .”
“Go on.”
She sighed. “Is it possible?”
“I took professional precautions, and I don’t think so. But it’s always possible. Not that it should matter.”
“Of course it matters,” Eris said.
Her voice was almost gentler than Vasethe could stand.
“I would have come to you, even if there was no chance,” he rasped.
“I know.” She pulled his arm, drew him closer. “I know you would have.”
“I would have still come to you.”
She hugged him.
“We’ll find her.”
Chapter Fifteen
THE WAGON WHEELS BOUNCED up the rock-strewn incline; the beetles strained and hissed. Light filtered through the pale green silk above Vasethe’s head. He rubbed his eyes and sat up.
He had tried to dissuade Eris from returning, but she had been adamant.
“Apart from anything else, my influence in Mkalis stems from my reputation,” she said. “The rulers need to see me as infallible.”
“You’re going to gain a reputation for madness. Or stupidity.”
She grinned. “They already think I’m mad. But they’ll never think I’m stupid.”
Outside the wagon he heard shouting and the blasting of a horn. The air was cooler than it had been on the steppe. He peered through the gap in the silks.
They were still inside the fissure, but the exit was ahead—a lightning bolt–shaped crack in the rock. Only one wagon fit through the gap at a time. D’wen riders moved around the wagons, assisting the beetle drivers and keeping watch. Vehn barked orders from the front of the train.