by Dawn Cook
Bailic knelt before Strell with the narrow table between them, pulling Strell’s hand into the air and leaving it to hang. “The plains and hills need to suffer,” he said lightly as he arranged Strell’s fingers so they were in his unmoving line of sight. “As I suffered. They treated me as if I was nothing. They forced me out. Showed me what I couldn’t have, then laughed at me. What’s left after Ese’ Nawoer has been at them will beg me to save them. I expect there won’t be many, but then, I don’t need a lot.”
Without warning, there was a small pop and a flash against Alissa’s thoughts.
A strangled groan slipped from Strell, and Alissa stared, horrified. The first segment of Strell’s smallest finger was gone, as if it had never existed. The smell of burnt hair came to her. There was a strong pull upon her awareness, and she was free. Strell shuddered. A cry of pain seemed to tear from him as Bailic broke his ward. Curling in on himself, Strell clutched his hand to himself and took a rasping breath. “Go away!” she cried, rushing to Strell. “Just go away!” Horrified, she wrapped an unsewn collar around his hand, half covering Strell protectively with her body. There was no blood, but she had to cover it, to hide it. To make it go away, as if it never happened.
Bailic blinked, clearly surprised. It was as if he had forgotten she was there, so enraptured he had been in his butchery. “He won’t die of infection, my dear. It’s cauterized. I think I did quite well—for being out of practice.” He rose from his crouch and slid the book from the table and back into his arms. “You have two, almost entirely whole hands,” he said to Strell. “You only need one to open a book. Please. Feel free to give me your opinions any time you like.”
Alissa alternated her shattered attention between Bailic and Strell. His hand, she thought. Bailic had done worse than kill him. He had taken away Strell’s music, his livelihood, now that he wasn’t a potter. Her resolve thickened, tempered by a new hate. She rose to stand between Bailic and Strell. “The Navigator’s Wolves will hunt you, Bailic,” she said softly, her voice shocking her in its intensity.
“I’ve been cursed by Keepers and Masters, girl. Your words don’t mean anything.” Satisfaction in his every movement, Bailic headed for the door, clearly thinking his dominance had been reasserted. He was wrong, Alissa thought.
At the threshold, he turned to Strell, huddled about his hand, and shaking in pain and shock. “We’re leaving as soon as I find my boots. Be ready, Piper, or you’ll both walk it barefoot.” He paused. “I’m going to have to start calling you something else, aren’t I?”
Alissa caught back a sob of hate and frustration as Bailic vanished into the hall. “Oh, Strell,” she said, turning to him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have woken you. It’s my fault.”
“Not your fault,” Strell said raggedly, still not looking up. “I pushed him too far,” he almost panted. “My fault.” He took a shaky breath, looking up at her. Alissa drew back, frightened at the hatred and pain in his eyes. “We have to get out of here.”
8
Her toes were cold, her nose was frozen, and her knees felt like they would never thaw again. The bright sun was deceiving. It was frigid. With each labored breath, the chill burned her nose and made her lungs ache. Bailic was behind her; Strell was breaking a path. His broad back seemed to remain the same distance away, no matter how fast she tried to walk through the knee-deep snow. “Strell?” She puffed in exhaustion. “Can we stop for a moment?”
Strell pulled up sharp and turned, glancing over her shoulder to Bailic. Coming up alongside, she whispered, “We can do this for three weeks. We can make it to the coast.”
He gave her a long, searching look and shook his head. “A morning’s walk on a road is not a three-week trip into the wilds. And it would take us twice that in the snow,” he whispered back. “We would only make it far enough out to the coast to not be able to make it back.”
Bailic came to a shaky halt behind them. “Why are you stopping?” he nearly barked.
“We need a rest.” Strell looked pointedly at Alissa, and her eyes widened in understanding. Giving in to her fatigue, she slumped heavily on his arm.
The Keeper’s gaze jerked to the sky as Talon landed noisily upon a nearby branch. She had been following them in short hops, undoubtedly making Bailic more irritable than he might otherwise be. He was clearly worried about Useless. “A few moments,” the fallen Keeper agreed, pushing his way off the path to the nearest tree. Leaning against the frost-rimmed bark, he squinted up through the branches, his pale eyes watering from the sun. His breath made fast puffs of mist. Clearly he needed a rest, too.
Bailic was dressed for the weather. A slate-gray coat covered him to the tops of his boots, and a wool scarf kept the wind from his neck. He had on a hat, its brim as wide as the one Alissa had given Strell last fall to replace the one Talon had shredded in a misguided attempt to protect her mistress.
The lump of her book showed from under his coat, and Alissa forced her eyes away. It would be so easy to snatch it and run, but Bailic’s threat to turn them to ash if they moved toward it or strayed from his sight kept her from temptation. She thought she could feel the ward that would make good his threat already upon them, set into place as they had left the Hold.
“How is your hand?” she quietly asked Strell, and he frowned.
“It hurts like the Navigator’s Hounds are gnawing on it,” he said, his brow crinkled in pain. The farther they went, the worse he looked. His coat hadn’t been made for deep winter, and his hands were wrapped in cloth as he hadn’t found a pair of mittens in time. His injured hand was clenched under his arm, making him unsteady on his feet. She, at least, was prepared for snow. Strell wasn’t, and the thought that they would spend nearly a full day in it left Alissa heartsick.
“Go,” Bailic said as he pushed himself off the tree. “We’re almost there.” He glanced mistrustingly up, obviously not as bold as his words had been this morning.
Strell and Alissa exchanged worried looks and lurched into motion. If only she could call for Useless and tell him Bailic was clear of the Hold and vulnerable to attack. But only when the Master put his presence alongside hers in her mind could she reliably hear and be heard. It seemed the Master was elsewhere today. The skies were clear of clouds and raku alike.
The snow seemed to push at her, despite staying in the path Strell was breaking. She stoically followed him, her head lowered and her eyes upon her footing. Bailic kept close on her heels. It made her nervous, but his eagerness to reach the city was catching. And she, too, was anxious to see the abandoned city. Her father had told her of Ese’ Nawoer as a frightening bedtime story. Only later, from Bailic, had she found out it was a true history.
“Sweet as potatoes,” Strell said, pulling her from her thoughts, and Alissa came to a halt beside him. Talon quietly swooped down to land upon Alissa’s shoulder, and together they stared out from under the last of the trees at the glistening roofs of the city.
“How did we miss that on our way to the Hold?” she whispered, knowing it was from Strell’s shortcut through the briars and thorns. It hadn’t been a shortcut at all, and they had passed the city without ever knowing it existed.
Before them stretched a wide, open plain surrounding the walled city, the sun glinting off the snowfield in a blinding glare. Dark, slate roofs jutted up over the thick walls, and Alissa half expected to see someone waving a greeting from an upper story. Not a breath of smoke, hint of sound, or trace of smell marred the clear skies.
Bailic came up behind them, scanning the faultless blue of the sky for a long moment from under the safety of the empty branches. “I was right,” he said smugly as he squinted and rubbed a mittened hand over his eyes. “Talo-Toecan isn’t here. Come on.” He pulled his scarf up to his eyes and pushed past them, heading for the set of fallen gates.
Strell and Alissa silently followed. Her eagerness to see the city faltered as she eyed the ominous gap the fallen gates created. The wind kept most of the snow from the wid
e opening, giving the appearance that people had been at work. The closer they came, the thicker and taller the wall looked, and Alissa stifled a shudder. Her papa once told her all great cities had walls, but the danger must have been terrible to hide behind a wall as tall as this.
Her gaze dropped from the sharp line the wall cut against the sky to the stone slab of the gate still upright. It leaned aslant against the wall, hanging from the lowest of its three hinges. Red dust sifted down to stain the snow as Strell stretched to run his cloth-wrapped hand over the top of the middle hinge. It was as thick as her arm and bent at almost a right angle, looking as if it had been broken from the inside. The other half of the gate lay outside the walls. There was no crossbar to lock them, and from the look of the smooth stone, there never had been.
Beyond the walls were empty streets and silent houses. Alissa stopped at the gates, hesitant to pass them. The wind gusted to shift the snow from her boots, and she shivered. Talon twittered encouragingly from her shoulder.
“Look! There’s writing,” Strell said, pointing to the large paving stone that served as the city’s threshold. First with his foot, then crouching to use a cloth-wrapped hand, he brushed the snow from it. Alissa’s eyebrows rose as she recognized a word. It was in the script her papa had taught her, and she bent to help.
“To Serve the Soul of the Mountain?” she read when they finished, not liking that at all.
“Come on,” Bailic shouted, and she jerked her head up, startled. He had already entered the city, and his black silhouette was sharp against the snow. Hands upon his hips, he waited for them in the middle of the road. “We’re going to the center.”
Talon left her to settle on one of the roofs, her excited calls echoing harshly. Alissa half jumped over the engraved stone, not wanting to tread on the words for some odd reason. Strell took her elbow as she slipped, and they hurried to catch up.
The street was nearly free of snow by some trick of the wind. Even more amazing was that the street was paved. She had never seen such extravagance. The stone buildings rose up on both sides, coming right up to the pavement, some two stories high. It looked as if the doors and shutters had been purposely removed, leaving black, gaping holes. The snow eddied about the barren sills, the sporadic movement looking like the souls that were said to remain. She watched in alarm as Strell went to peek into a house. “Empty,” he said, his disappointment obvious.
“There’s nothing left,” Bailic called over his shoulder. He stopped and turned, clearly chafing at their slow pace. “When boys, I and Mes—” He cut his thought short. “I explored much of the city on a dare.” His jaw clenched, and he resumed his forward motion.
With her papa, Alissa finished silently for him, glancing up at the black roofs. She watched the vacant, empty doorways and windows, shivering as she was struck by the feeling of walking over her own grave. “Strell,” she called as he crossed before her to look into the house across the street. “Don’t.” The city had her on edge, and she couldn’t say why.
“Oh, loosen your tent flap, Alissa,” he said as he rejoined her. “No one’s left to care.”
Bailic turned, his posture stiff with impatience. “Yes there is. And keep yourselves up with me.” He waited for them by a patch of snow-slumped vegetation. It was the first they had seen since entering the city, and it spread nearly two house widths. Woody vines as thick as her arm waged a slow, vicious war with what looked like fruit or nut trees, smothering them in a mass of twisting vegetation. It seemed the untidy tangle had once been an orchard or public garden.
Bailic squinted at the sky as they came even with him, and with a frown, he started forward again. Alissa found herself lagging. Her enthusiasm was gone, leaving her reluctant to venture farther among the stone buildings. The snow made it eerily silent. Even the expected birds were missing. The blocks of vegetation interspersed between the buildings became more frequent as they continued until the houses gave way to an immense field. Together, all three stood and took in the vista.
The city enclosed a field so vast that the homes on the far side looked gray and small from the distance. Near the center, a grove of frost-blackened trees marred the otherwise unbroken sight of even whiteness. It was utterly still, with only the sound of the wind over the snow murmuring of past seasons of solitude. Looking at the field, Alissa shivered and couldn’t say why.
Bailic waded eagerly into the snow to force a path through it. “Quickly,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re almost there.”
“I don’t want to go,” Alissa said softly, balking at the edge of the field.
Strell took her elbow, and she jumped. “It’s all right, Alissa,” he said. “Talo-Toecan said Bailic couldn’t open the book, and I know I can’t.”
“That’s not what’s bothering me,” she said in confusion as she reluctantly fell into place behind him. She was getting the oddest feeling, and she couldn’t shake it off. A quick glance back at the empty houses, and Alissa hastened to catch up.
It took longer to reach the grove than she expected, the trees being twice as large as she first thought. Bailic doggedly pushed through the snow ahead of them, moving faster when the snow thinned as they neared the trees’ uncertain shadow. Alissa gazed up in wonder at the inverted bowl their leaf-emptied branches collectively made. She couldn’t decide what kind of trees they were, but they were old, big, and awe inspiring. Three had fallen to mar the perfect symmetry that once was, their trunks wider than she was tall. The surviving trees’ naked branches formed a black lacework that stretched nearly to the ground, doing little to block the low, winter sun. Snow and ice outlined the horizontal branches. Alissa could imagine that in summer, their tall shade encompassed the entire grove. Her tension loosened for the first time since passing the city’s gates as the memory of cold stone was replaced by the promise of life.
“You stay here,” Bailic said sharply to her, and she stiffened at the reminder of him. “Move from the trees, and you’ll be ash. Bother me, and you’ll be ash. If Talo-Toecan appears, you’ll be ash. Understand?” His eyes were wide and fever bright. Slowly she nodded. As tense and excited as he appeared, she wouldn’t give him any excuse.
“You,” he pointed to Strell with a trembling hand. “You will come with me.”
Alissa and Strell gave each other a sick look.
“Go!” he shouted, gesturing. “Over to the center of the grove. It’s the heart of the city, according to the stories.”
Strell placed one of his cloth-wrapped hands on her shoulder. “I’ll be back in a moment. Everything will be all right.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Bailic said, gesturing impatiently for Strell to walk ahead of him.
Alissa managed a smile as Strell gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, and she wondered if a disappointed Bailic might be worse than a Bailic flush with success. Either way, it was going to be a miserable walk back home. But what if he did manage to wake the city?
The two men walked from her, one tall and quick with anticipation, the other tall and plodding from exhaustion. Much as she didn’t want to see what Bailic was going to do, she didn’t want to be left alone among the trees, either. The sense of presence, not of being watched but of an impending something, was settling about her, making her jittery and anxious to be away.
Alissa stomped a patch of snow flat and sat with her back against one of the fallen trees. The grove was quiet and hushed, giving her the impression of a massive, open building: its floor was the even snow, its ceiling was the interlaced branches high overhead, and its walls were the limbs bowing low nearly to the ground. Even as restless as she had become, the grove was less nerve-racking than the city’s barren streets. The solitude here was the natural quiet of sleep, not death or abandonment.
The cold bit deep now that she had stopped moving, and Alissa hunched further into her coat to find some warmth. Though the stark branches looked dead, she could sense the life beneath the smooth bark and knew come spring, there would be flowers and tender ne
w leaves. She could almost see how it must have been when the city breathed with the myriad lives it had sheltered.
Bailic shouted at Strell, and she looked to see Bailic forcing him to stand such that she couldn’t watch what either of them were doing. Resigning herself to wait, she leaned her head back against the trunk. “I’d wager this was a nice place in the spring once,” she said softly, feeling the need to break the silence. Brushing the edge of her boots through the snow, she found moss, black from the cold. “The moss was soft and deep,” she said, “and the flowers gracing the branch tips were white.” Smiling at her diversion, she closed her eyes, trying to make her imaginings of the city’s past as real as the smooth bark behind her head. It seemed as if her jittery feeling had lessened in response to her words. Like whistling in the dark, she thought.
“Their intoxicating fragrance fills the field, spilling out into the city to slip among the streets like a cool breeze,” she said, settling herself further. “People cast open their shutters, glad to know that winter is finally put to rest. Children run into the field to play among the trees. Leaves, delicately translucent with their newness, adorn every branch, forming a shifting shadow that is neither too bright nor too deep. A cool breath. A still point of rest. As the sun crests the clear sky, the young are joined by the slowly moving old who tell exciting truths of a history so far removed from time as to appear as only a fable.” She smiled. She almost believed she could hear the murmur of an old woman’s voice and the eager whispers of attentive youngsters.
“Later . . .” She sighed as a breath of warmth seemed to infuse her and set her fingertips to tingle. “As the light wanes, the children are lovingly gentled to sleep, the moss and their mother’s shawl as their beds, the earth’s warmth as their fire. The stories turn to lost loves and tragically forgotten promises until the moon rises. Shadows shift and fall, and the flowers slowly rain down to cover the young sleepers with a blanket of white.