Creepy-ass Soothsayers.
If she lets me dream first, I’ll consider her boon.
We’ll just see what happens.
● ●
● CHAPTER 7 ●
Soothsayers
Oh, gimme that good strong stuff.
Smoldering dream leaves go in a little brass bowl, and smoke rises toward my face. I breathe it in. Hold it. Exhale. Breathe it in. Hold it. Exhale. Breathe it in ...
Wooo-ha.
How'd I get to my pallet?
I dunno. I'm lying down, and I was standing just a second ago. My head is kind of spinny. That's funny.
I feel so good.
Close my eyes. Open them.
Nothing hurts. It's so good. Safe and soft, just me and Aakesh in the smolder-smoke room. Like a womb. Like the inside of a woman. Warm and safe and good.
Close my eyes. Open them. Poor Aakesh. He's not like me. He can't relax. He's tense, walks around invisible, wears a kilt, almost like people but not. He's incomplete. He didn't even need to get caught, but he did! He screwed up.
Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he's a trick. Maybe he screwed me up! “Hahaha!”
He's doesn't blink, not even when I laugh at him for screwing me up so bad.
“You got caught on puuuurpose,” I sing at him. At least, I think I singed ... sang it. Maybe I just thought it.
No, I singed it, because his eyebrows twitch. Hahaha.
He doesn't say anything.
Guess he doesn't have to. It's not like we both don't know ... whatever it is we know. Oh, I feel good. Good in the womb-way. Gotta be careful. Don't want to grab my junk here in public. I mean, nobody's in here, but still. There's the principle.
Close my eyes. Don't open them. Think I'll sleep.
Yeah.
Waking up isn't easy. All the pain comes back. Disappointment, failures, my father's grim eyes. The raw weight of everything I carry from day to day—but there is something new.
There are maps in my head.
Excitement whisks away my relaxation. I know how to transfer images to paper. I'm good at art, at drawing, good enough I could've made that a career if I weren't an Iskinder. I measure these maps by imaginary thumb-length, memorizing every little squiggle and city-dot.
I don't recognize the positions of these cities, which means they're either new—highly unlikely—or they never existed at all. This is Soothsayer crap. They could be anything. Still, there are four of them. Four new potential maps! “Aakesh!”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I need parchment and a pen, right now.” I hold my hands out, waiting.
He's able to conjure floating glass carts and full grocery bags. He can conjure this.
He places parchment in my hands, and it's perfect, thick and rough-smooth, like old parchment that's been loved, just right for mapmaking. “Nice.” Keeping my eyes closed, I get to work.
Soothsayer dreams are like regular dreams. Opening your eyes means you lose half of it. So, blindly, I spread the parchment on my knees and measure it with my thumbs. By feel, I divide it by four, and carefully, I begin to draw.
Excitement pulses in my fingertips. I've done this before, keeping my lines clean and clear. The trick is teaching your hands what distance feels like, memorizing space. One by one, the maps appear under my hands—I choose to believe they do, anyway. I dare not look until it's done.
Heh, there'd better be ink in this pen. If Aakesh played a trick by giving me an empty pen, I swear I'm going to kick him in the kilt.
The scratching of nib on parchment is beautiful to me, exciting, powerful.
“Aakesh. Was there ink in the pen?”
“Yes, my lord,” he says, and there's glee in his tone.
Why did he say it like that?
Anticipation. No, glee? Something subtle, something I can't quite put a name to. My pulse turns sour. “Did the maps come out legibly?” Don't open your eyes, not yet, not yet.
“Yes, my lord.”
That's not anticipation or glee. It's satisfaction. What the hell? What did he do? Damn it. I open my eyes.
He gave me my father's map.
I drew on my father's map.
I can't even breathe. I just drew all over my father's map.
Aakesh sits there, watching me. Orange eyes. No expression, none of his evil showing, oh no. I asked for parchment. I wasn't specific about empty parchment, I didn't limit his actions. First-tier bastard.
I want to scream. Cry. Stab him.
Take it back. Take it back. I have to take it back. Think, Harry. Think!
I did tell him to regard my life as valuable as his own. Is this his way out of that? If he gets me so angry that I try to kill him, then I've devalued his life, haven't I? Then he could kill me. Maybe.
I don't know. I don't know. Focus, Harry! “Aakesh.” Shaky. I can sound stronger. Firmer. You bitch, you're not getting away with this.
“Yes, my lord?”
My head spins. Specific, be specific. “Are you able to take what I drew—these four new maps, which I sketched since I woke just a couple minutes ago—and remove them from the original map without damaging anything of the original at all, and leaving it exactly as it was when I saw it last? And can you place the new drawings—which I did since waking—onto empty parchment as if that's where I drew them in the first place?” Not specific enough. “Empty parchment like I would buy. Not weird, not made from my skin or anything freaky. Parchment as if you'd done what you damn well know I asked for.”
“Yes, my lord.” No inflection. “However, I would advise you do not remove it.”
You smug bastard.
Violence slides through my head. I tamp it down. I'm an Iskinder. I'm like no one he's ever known. I own him, and he will know it. “Do what I asked. And if you screw with me again, I will hurt you. I will make you weep.”
He blinks once. Slow, a time-eating blink. “Yes, my lord.” I don't know if he believes me or not. He stands gracefully, his hair sliding from side to side like a pendulum as he walks, his hips moving sinuously to remind me he doesn't have human bones.
I don't move. It's the map that matters here.
His hands hover over the top of it, not quite touching. Concentration half-lids his eyes, tightens his face. There's a tug in my mind, and suddenly my dad's map fills it. I see it how I saw it last, when I ran my own hands over it with reverence.
Aakesh steps away with the new lines I drew floating in front of him like wire.
Whoa.
The lines—scribbles, thick webbing—hover as he turns around. Parchment just appears, floating in the air like a ghost, and it meets his palms like a kiss.
The maps stick like I'd drawn them there.
My dad's map is fine. It's okay.
Suddenly tears burn my eyes and I breathe too hard, fighting not to cry. It's the stupid herbs, maybe, but my throat is tight as I swallow. My dad's map is okay. It's okay.
Aakesh rolls the new map up, neat and casual like this was always the plan, and puts it in my bag.
I roll up my dad's. My hands are shaking. I need to get away from this screwball city. I know I won this round, but it doesn't feel like a victory.
“Harold Iskinder.” Soothsayer in the doorway makes me jump. “It is time for our boon,” she says.
Freaking hell, I forgot I owe payment.
Screw you screw you screw you go to hell. “All right.” Stand. Don't shake. You have a reputation.
Deal with Aakesh later.
He's watching me, still unreadable, a clever monster.
I look at the Soothsayer instead, like I'm just as calm. “Lead the way.”
● ●
● CHAPTER 8 ●
Testy
I’ve never been in Soothsayer living quarters before.
It's not the same as the rest of Danton. It feels open, clean. The ceilings are high and the windows private with opaque glass. The walls are light, like whitewash that's been scrubbed too many times to be really white anymor
e, but someone sure is trying. Black doors open all over the place, only some on ground level. The rest are high up, without balcony or stairs. What do they use to reach those? Some kind of pulley system? Rope ladders?
A thick scent like flowers or something fills this place, making my eyes water. Whatever it is, it's sticking to my clothes. Great.
Aakesh is silent as we walk. I don't understand him. I don't understand why he did that to me. “Aakesh.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Do you think you're funny?”
“Only occasionally, my lord.”
I grind my teeth. Those are my maps. My family's maps. “Why did you do that to me?”
“I was aiding you, my lord.”
“Oh, bullsh—” The hell?
Those are Sundered Ones. And they're clothed.
They're wearing robes like Soothsayers, bulging in weird places. Neither have faces. The one with the mouse-ears and fur has a concave dent where the face should be, and too-big blue eyes perch at the top of its furry forehead ridge like blinking balls. Its partner has no head at all, just a long neck-stalk waving from the top of the robe, kind of like a giant tongue covered in peach fuzz.
What the hell tier are those? Twelve? Fifty? And they're clothed. Why? Why are they clothed?
“This way, Harold Iskinder,” says the Soothsayer, and she points at a black doorway blocked by two robed women. They step aside to reveal a room with a subtle, flickering pink light.
Okay.
I go in. It's a small room—small enough to make me itchy under my skin, small enough to smell like somebody lives here and stained the walls with sweat—and it's lit by pink candles giving off so much heavy flower scent that I almost gag. Another Soothsayer sits low, perched on something I can't see under her robe, and candles sputter like acolytes around her hidden feet. I can actually see her hands, resting on her knees—old hands, wrinkled and withered and yellow-nailed.
It's really close quarters in here. I hate small rooms. “Hi.”
“Iskinder.”
Boy, she sounds old. “Yes. That's me.” There's probably protocol. I have no idea what it is, though, so oh well.
“The last Iskinder?” she creaks.
Thanks for the reminder. I know I'm supposed to have an heir. I don't yet. Screw you. “Yeah. For now.”
Then she goes silent.
For a really long time.
Okay, I can't just leave because I don't want to owe her anything—they might not let me in when I come to see them next, regardless which city. She's probably waiting for me to speak, but I don't know what she wants. It's her boon. She can damn well do the talking.
“Aakesh,” she says. She knows my Sundered's name? She waves one of her old claws at me. “This is?”
This is what?
“Yes,” he says.
Okay.
Stay calm. Father taught me to wait when people have a private conversation in front of your face, because if you do, they'll give you all the tools to take them down.
Only, now they both go quiet. Dammit.
Time passes with the guttering of the candles. I have never been this patient. The smell is just so strong—but at least it's not body sweat or unwashed ass. It's just a bunch of stupid candles. Candles that make my eyes water and my mouth tacky.
“What do you seek?” the Soothsayer suddenly says.
I blink, as if that would stop my eyes from stinging. “What?”
“When you go to the black water. What do you seek? Money? Treasures? Rusted things that could still be used? We know of you, Iskinder, and all that you do. What do you seek in the black water?”
Well, if she knows all about me, she wouldn't have to ask. But I find myself answering her honestly, like my mouth has its own agenda. “The Hope of Humanity.”
She sort of inhales through her teeth, hissing, and leans forward. “And why do you seek it?”
Is she joking?
This isn't a boon from my Sundered One—so why am I answering her? “The name pretty much clears that up.” Stop talking. “It'll fix everything.” Stop talking! “It'll save us all.”
I can't not answer.
I try to move, but suddenly I can't do that either, and my chest goes tight like a twisted washcloth.
It's the stupid candles. They did something to me.
“How do you know that it would?” She just keeps talking, like nothing weird is going on. “This world is as it is. Man survives. What is there to fix?”
I can't not answer. “Man isn't surviving. How the hell can you call it that? This place is miserable! The whole world is miserable! If we didn't have Sundered Ones to produce crops and keep animals alive and build our cities we wouldn't have anything at all. “What's the matter with me? I can't move. I can't move!
“The Hope is a myth.” She waves one clawed hand. “It is not real. It does not exist. Your family follows a lie.”
No.
I can't move. I can't turn and walk away, or spit on the floor, or kick over the candles.
She leans forward, speaking from the cavern of her hood. “I tell you this as a favor, Iskinder, because one of your own has done good for us. Put this idea to rest. Settle, find a wife, continue your line. If you persist in this path, Harold Iskinder, you will die.”
How dare she say that to me? “Ask your boon or I'm going to have Aakesh kill your damn wrinkly ass.”
Her whole robed body startles back stiffly, and Aakesh laughs. It's not a nice laugh. Maybe he doesn't like her either, even if she does know his name.
It doesn't matter. He's mine now.
“Iskinder,” she growls, but doesn't lean closer, which means she believes me. “Our boon is simple. Take him to the corral, and he will do what must be done. Do this, Iskinder, and your debt is paid.”
How the hell am I supposed to do that? “You know I can't move.” I hate you.
She sort of swats the air, and suddenly she has a match in her hand like a cheap magic trick. She flicks that on her thumbnail right under my nose, and acrid smoke hits my nose hairs, stabs at my lungs. I cough uncontrollably, and suddenly I can move.
So I hit her.
She goes right down, a frail old woman hitting the floor with a whuff. She lies there beside her little three-leg stool, shaking, breathing too hard. Her ankles are just as thin and old as her hands. I stand over her with my fists clenched, letting her talk first, because if I say or do anything now, it's going to be violent. My muscles ache from being still for so long, frozen, unable to move.
“Iskinder,” she manages between gasps. “I did not harm you.”
Bull. “You took control that I never gave you. That was inexcusable.”
She says nothing.
And I.
I hit an old woman.
We're even now, I tell myself. I won't feel bad for this, I tell myself. She brought it on herself.
Shame says otherwise.
She drugged me.
I still hit an old woman.
Dammit.
This is not a good day for Iskinders. I reach down and lift her back onto her stupid rickety stool. She's light, like a bird. Dammit. “I'm sorry I hit you.”
Her hood nods.
Okay. Everything's really awkward now.
A long minute passes, filled with no sounds but her panting and my heartbeat. “Go,” she says.
Yeah, I think that's a good idea.
Aakesh is on my heels as we head out, past the brood of robed hens in the hall, past the weird occasional Sundered One wearing more clothing than I am, past doors so dark the rooms are invisible, past more Soothsayers in hooded robes.
My hands tingle. Calm down, Harry. You hit an old lady, but don't flip out. She had it coming.
No, she didn't. I'm going to be sick.
One of the Soothsayers is waiting for me, standing in the middle of the hall like a sentinel. She points with her robed arm as we approach. “Come this way, please.”
That's a young voice, a young woman, rop
ed into all this weirdness. I think she's wasting her life. She probably thinks I'm wasting mine. I guess we balance each other out.
Still tingly. I clench my fists, working my fingernails into my palms. I want away from this city. I want to feel better. I want this to be over.
She stops at another door. Sunset-light shines around its frame. “We only need your Sundered One from this point on.”
Uh, no? “I'm not letting him out of my sight.”
Aakesh stands there, all innocent, absolutely still.
“The boon requires him,” says the Soothsayer, who can't be older than Kaia.
“No.”
“Then your debt goes unpaid. You will not be welcomed in our houses again.”
I sigh and squeeze the bridge of my nose. A monster headache is creeping up. “You've got to be kidding. You want him alone? Do you have any idea what a nasty little bitch he can be? This is a first-tier. He'll screw you over if you don't phrase everything just so.”
Aakesh watches me. So does the Soothsayer's hood. They don't say anything. Apparently, my protests mean exactly jack.
You want to play this way? Fine. “How do you know his name? I doubt you've burned any dream-leaves for him.”
She says nothing.
I've had enough. “Okay,” I tell her. “Here's how it's going to go. You're going to tell me what you need from him, and I'll order him to do it. Then he can go with you alone to wherever.”
“You do not have the power of bargaining here,” says the hood. “You have agreed to a boon.”
She thinks she's trapped me. “That's where you're wrong. I agreed to a boon, but we never worked out any of the details. We can do it your way and stand here for days while we all wait for you to get your heads out of your asses, or we can do it my way, and work out the details here and now. Either way, I stay in control of him at all times.” I cross my arms. “So shall I have him bring me a chair? Something to drink? I can wait.”
Long silence. Finally, the hood nods. I catch a little glimpse of hair, wavy, almost slipping out of the hood's shadow. “Very well, Mr. Iskinder. You are correct that we were unspecific.”
No, really?
“We require him to feed our livestock.”
The Sundered Page 6