On the Wheel

by Timandra Whitecastle

  “Glad you came,” Nora whispered. “Wouldn’t be alive if you hadn’t.”

  Diaz waited. But the queen of Shinar left him in peace.

  Tentatively, he reached over to put a hand on the fur covering Nora’s legs and squeezed ever so gently. She probably wouldn’t even feel it under the thick, coarse bearskin.

  “You’re very welcome,” he whispered back.

  Chapter 4

  Like a mast, railing high, so the Temple of the Wind jutted out its pearl-white shine against the incoming storm clouds from the north. The company approached the temple in an undignified jog. The road was clear, save for a last few stragglers of commerce trying to get their wagons in through the gates. The great walls had been repaired, and though they showed in patches the devastation wrought on the last Solstice, they were whole and defended in part by a thick wood of stakes planted firmly around the gates. They passed under their shadows, guardsmen waiting. The first drops of rain spattered onto the dry ground as Prince Bashan greeted his mercenaries with hard slaps to the back and quick praise for their work on the temple. Security was definitely better than it had been the first time Nora had entered. She gazed about as they waited for the cluster around Bashan to finally subside so that their group could continue up the everlong stairs to the temple itself.

  Nora glanced through sheets of rain and saw that new red gates had been erected at the foot of the stairs. The livestock had left the lower courtyards, and a part of it, the circles closest to the temple, resembled a small community. A town with the bustle and set looks of people who knew that the road might go ever on beyond the gates, but here it ran to the front door and home.

  The heavens released a downpour they had been saving for days. The pressure had built up inside Nora’s forehead, and it was only now that it ran free in the loud thunderclaps above them. She dreaded walking up the stairs in the stiff wind and was glad when they heard they wouldn’t need to, for the courtyards now owned an inn. They were led through the cobblestone streets and were ushered into a large building that was still under repair, but evidently, the roof didn’t leak. Within, the floor in front of the blazing fireplace was crowded with people, a press of unwashed bodies, and as they entered, loud cheers went up for the hero of Solstice, Bashan. He basked in the remembrance of his glory, reveled in it. He had forgotten about Nora and her few minutes of renown, it seemed.

  But Nora wouldn’t forget him. The prince kept her awake at night, pondering, turning the edge of her knife to and fro, casting one side against the other. Bashan was obsessed with the Blade. He wouldn’t stop for anything before he held it in his hands. Even the Temple of the Wind was nothing more than an interim destination on their trek northward to the Blade’s hidden location. However much Bashan wanted the Blade, though, Nora was more and more sure he shouldn’t have it. But what to do?

  She sat close to Owen on the bench among the raucous revelers and gulped down her drink to quickly finish the charade and fall into her bed. A tug at her sleeve made her turn around. A small group of four children stood gawking up at her, in various stages of dishevelment, as though ready to go to bed themselves. She rubbed her eyes and gave them and their mother behind them a tired smile.

  “Hello there,” she said.

  “Miss Nora, my mother says we owe you thanks,” a boy, maybe seven years old, spoke up as the youngest girl shied away, pressing her golden-haired locks against her mother’s skirts.

  “Is that so? Thank me for what?” Nora raised her eyes to the woman’s, who shook her head, pointing to the boy. Ah, here was the little spokesman, then.

  “For Solstice,” the boy said. “You saved our sister, shielding her with your body.”

  “Don’t you remember anymore, Miss Nora?” another girl, younger than the boy, asked.

  Nora frowned. She tapped her head with the flat of her hand and leaned in closer to the children.

  “I don’t. I got knocked on the head so badly.”

  She mimed fainting on the bench, and it made two of the younger children giggle. The boy simply stared at her scarred face as though he believed her every word.

  “I’m glad you’re all right, little one,” Nora said, smiling at the little girl, who clutched her mother’s skirts tighter but grinned.

  “Give it to her now.” The woman nudged her boy. He flinched and hastily pulled out a cotton-wrapped parcel from his shirt.

  Nora looked up at the mother. She wasn’t much older than Nora herself, maybe in her midtwenties, but her face was strained and tired. A heavy ache in heart pulled the corners of her mouth downward, and Nora suspected that whatever had happened on Solstice, it had happened brutally and with grief that these months had not yet healed. The boy had the look of being misplaced in his father’s shoes, the way he stood extra straight amid the laughter and cheers of the heroic retelling of the saving of the gates by Bashan. Nora knew she had to accept the gift, even though she knew the family could not afford it. They could not afford to not honor the memory of survival. She stretched out her hands, and the boy reverently placed the parcel in them.

  “My mother made this for you.”

  “And me!” the younger girl said, poking her chest.

  “Shuddup, you.” The boy scowled at his sister.

  “What? I helped!”

  “It’s from wool of the sheep of the Plains. Close to where your home was.” The boy sniffed loudly, embarrassed for the lack of professionalism his sister displayed. Nora’s smile grew wider—brothers were brothers everywhere—and she took the parcel from him as graciously as she could. He fidgeted a little, as though eager for her to open it. The children bent close. Over her shoulder, Nora felt her own brother lean in to see what it was. Owen’s breath tickled her bare skin. She gave him a look.

  “Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

  She did. Inside was a thick loop scarf spun with large hoops in a crisscrossing pattern. It was dyed midnight black. The embroidered edge was done in reds and oranges, a sunset of flames in waving patterns, twisting up and down like tongues of fire. Nora held the scarf, sight blurring, chest aching. It must have cost a fortune. It must have cost hours. It was far too precious for her to have. She looked up at the mother, who simply nodded and ran a hand through her daughter’s locks. If the crowds in the tavern were loud, Nora didn’t hear the din they made.

  “Thank you for your beautiful gift,” Nora managed to get past her tight throat.

  “Thank you for yours,” the mother said and touched the side of her own face. She hoisted the youngest onto her hip and made the other children bob and bow before ushering them out of the tavern and homeward.

  “A sacrifice for a sacrifice,” Owen breathed as Nora draped the scarf around her neck. She ran her cheek against the wool, her fingers busy with the soft feel, and inhaled deeply. Beeswax and beech smoke, scents of home. And was that…rosemary? She looked up and met Diaz’s eyes, deep as inky pools at midnight. Her breath faltered and her jaw clenched together.

  Next to her Owen suddenly stiffened, too. Nora looked away quickly, following Owen’s gaze toward the opened tavern door. With the silver rain as backdrop, Calla entered the tavern, eyes searching, white-blond hair dripping. Her blue dress was spattered to her knees from sprinting through the rain. She must have been on her rounds in the courtyards, ankle deep in mud, Nora thought, and had hurried to the tavern when she heard Prince Bashan had returned. Or maybe not so much Bashan’s return. Calla’s face glowed with warmth as she drew closer to the table, and Owen half raised himself to stand, only to abruptly sit back down again. Nora’s eyes slid over to his, not even trying to hide a sly smile.

  “What?” he mouthed, busying himself with his morsel of bread, pushing it around his plate, ears reddening.

  Calla inclined her head in greeting, her gloved hands folded neatly before her. Bashan turned around, spilling his beer, and seemed surprised to see the young woman in front of him. He quickly found his composure and bowed low—this time not spilling any beer.

/>   “Master Calla, I see you have done a very good job of looking after my temple while I was gone. You are to be commended. I hope you found my troops to be of some use during winter?”

  “They had a few more run-ins with desperate menfolk who sought to attack the temple. Otherwise, as I’m sure they’ll tell you, they had to work hard, shoveling and hammering, helping out as we repaired our homes.”

  “Ah, yes. Some have voiced their…uh…eagerness to come along with me when I depart next.”

  “And when will you depart next, my lord prince?” Calla’s eye’s shifted to Owen briefly. “Will you be staying long?”

  “No, in fact, I mean to leave within the next few days.”

  Around the table, the small company looked at each other, groaning inwardly at Bashan’s haste, while the band of mercenaries who had stayed at the temple cheered. Calla straightened her shoulders as Bashan talked loudly to his men over the top of her head.

  “Will you have need of fighting men, Master Calla?” Diaz spoke quietly, but Calla heard him.

  She shook her head. Nora shuffled to the side to make room for Calla to sit down next to her. The young woman flashed a smile at her, soaking Nora’s leg with cold where they touched in the cramped space.

  “I had Bashan’s men train a levy during the winter months. After Solstice it was only too easy to find enough young men willing to learn how to protect their families from danger.”

  “A wise decision. However, a levy isn’t much.”

  “We have huge walls, Master Diaz. We must trust in them. And if all else fails, we have also trained a swift and less explosive retreat through the red gates onto the stairs. Even a few dedicated men could hold the gap and gain the women and children some time. Though none of them have your reputation as warriors, I do think they are quite capable.”

  Diaz nodded, willing to let it rest.

  Calla raked her wet hair together and squeezed the rain from it. “Will you be staying with us, then, Master Diaz, or will you keep on with our lord prince?”

  “My quest leads me on a little farther.”

  “I was wondering whether you’d stop at the Shrine of Hin along the way?”

  Diaz’s eyebrows arched high.

  “Why?”

  One of the barmaids brought Calla a steaming mug of herbal tea, and Calla smiled her thanks.

  “You’ll catch a cold in your wet clothes, Master Calla,” the maid said, scolding. She looked familiar, but Nora couldn’t immediately place her. She bustled off to get dry clothes. Bashan sat back down at the table.

  “What’s this with the Shrine of Hin?” His face turned earnest.

  Calla cocked her head.

  “The Shrine of Hin has traditionally been the seat of the Guardian of the North, the pilgrim master set to watch over the ancient realm of Moran. However, as you know, after Master Darren died last year—”

  “Was murdered, you mean.”

  “—Master Cumi took charge of the guardianship.”

  “Well, she too died last year.” Bashan grinned, his face hard. He knew how Cumi had died, though he hadn’t been there to witness it. Only Owen and Nora knew the sound of Diaz’s blade impaling his former friend. Nora stared at Bashan, jaw clamped shut once more.

  “Quite right.” Calla paused, trying to see what effect this had on Diaz, but he had steepled his fingers before his face and was unreadable. Nora felt a tightness, as though the room was closing in on her like an iron band around her head. Then, as soft as a spider’s thread, a probing tendril of inquiry brushed deep within her mind, and she nearly gasped in surprise. It seemed not only the men had trained over the winter. Calla had been honing her own empathic touch to be much more targeted. Nora turned to the young woman next to her. Her friend wore her big blue eyes wide with innocence, but hidden in their depths was a mischievous wink. If Nora hadn’t been so surprised, she would have laughed that Calla thought Nora would know how Diaz felt.

  Calla shrugged imperceptibly.

  “The problem is seniority,” she carried on, talking to Bashan, who was the one most likely to interrupt her. “I hold the keys to this temple, but Master Caleddin at the shrine is older than I am. So by order of the code, he should be—and indeed has already asserted he is—the Guardian of the North.”

  “And you want us to make sure he answers to you?” Bashan leaned back and chuckled. “Power hungry after only six months at the helm.”

  In the ensuing pause, Nora could have leaned over the table and punched the prince in the face. Could have, if Owen hadn’t held her forearm under the table. Calla shifted next to her and opened her mouth to speak, but Owen interrupted.

  “It has little to do with a hunger for power, Lord Prince,” he said, icicles dripping from every word. “But rather, both Master Calla and Master Caleddin stand under the seniority of Master Diaz. As the eldest pilgrim master in the north, he has the right to take over the duties of guardianship.”

  “But Diaz runs with me.” Bashan eyed the half-wight next to him. “Don’t you?”

  Diaz’s black eyes never shifted focus from Calla. “I gave you my word, Lord Prince.”

  Calla’s chin lifted a fraction. Nora felt another faint touch brush past her this time, directed at Diaz. It felt like noticing the ankle of someone seated next to you move to play footsie with the person opposite you. You knew, and they knew, and everyone knew. Except for Prince Bashan.

  “Ah, so now you get to decide who can be your substitute. How…fun, I guess.” Bashan held up his glazed mug. “Another one!”

  The barmaid came scurrying back, her arms full of dry clothes for Calla, which she dropped unceremoniously into Nora’s hands before snatching up Bashan’s mug to refill it. The maid made to go, then stopped and let her shoulders sag. She grabbed a rag and started brushing at two dark stains on her chest.

  “Still too much milk?” Calla asked, and suddenly Nora knew who the barmaid was.

  “It’s the boys. The more they suck, the more milk comes.” The barmaid shrugged, her locks falling below the rim of her matronly cap.

  “You need to stroke it out,” Calla said. “Having trouble with colic?”

  “You’re the mother with the twins,” Nora blurted. “The shepherdess.”

  “Yes,” the mother and Calla said at the same time, both smiling.

  “They’re…alive?”

  “And hungry all the time.” The maid pointed at her soiled blouse. “But no colic, thank the gods.”

  “You didn’t…I thought you might…” Nora glanced between Calla and the maid.

  “It wasn’t an easy choice,” the maid said, wringing the cleaning rag. “It’s still hard. Sometimes.”

  “But it was the right choice.” Calla smiled.

  “Gods, yes.”

  And just when all the world looked grim, there was this. This little flicker of light and warmth. Nora stared at the maid as she went about her new business, taking care of bleating people instead of sheep.

  Calla nudged her.

  “Help me change?”

  Yes. Change. Change was good.

  * * *

  Calla was shivering when they entered the stuffy room. She locked the door behind her and started to reach for the buttons of her soaked dress while Nora set about lighting the fire. She found a basket of pinecones and lit one despite the smoke, the clean woodland scent filling the room. After that it was merely a matter of time before the room warmed. She turned and took Calla’s wet dress to hang over a wooden chair as close to the fire as she dared. Calla shivered and quickly pulled on the dry clothes. Nora watched as she took her long gloves off with a squelching sound and draped them over the chair, too.

  “So, did you manage to talk with Diaz through your…you know?” Nora sat down cross-legged as Calla let herself drop in front of the meager flames with a moan, her bare feet nearly touching the logs.

  Calla wrapped her arms around her knees and shivered once more.

  “Sort of. Though it’s still not quite as
useful as talking. More like relaying a feeling through touch.”

  “You taught yourself?”

  “I still am. Improving by the day.”

  Nora nodded, impressed. “What did you say to him?”

  Calla smiled. “Welcome home.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I don’t think it’ll help keep him here, though. Not yet. He can’t be the master he should be.”

  Nora shrugged. “He is a man of his word.”

  She blinked. The words had jumped out of her mouth without conscious thought. They sounded level and held no trace of bitterness. She shuddered involuntarily.

  “Cold, Nora?”

  Nora lifted a shoulder. It was hard to feel cold since she’d been kissed by the sun god. The agony, the thirst. It left an afterglow within her that might never be quenched. It hurt more than the burn on her face had. Suranna had started a fire in Nora’s soul—if there was such an immortal thing—a slow, hot charcoal burn, buried deep under layers of mortal clay. Or maybe the queen hadn’t started it. Maybe it had always been there, waiting to be stoked, waiting for a leak in the clamp to release pressure. Nora stared into the flames, feeling others scorching her skin, unwilling to talk more.

  Calla stretched out a hand but hesitated before touching Nora’s arm.

  “It’s all right,” Nora said, closing her eyes, suddenly tired. “You can touch me. But you won’t like what you see.”

  “Aren’t you scared of what you’ll see in me?” Calla’s voice came from far away. “We have been separated for months now, both lived different lives than before. Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I’m not who you remember me to be but a power-hungry sorceress. Aren’t you scared?”

  Nora opened her eyes again and made sure to wait for Calla’s attention before she answered.

  “I’m scared of heights. And spiders. Of you? No.”

  She had met a power-hungry sorceress, and Calla was nothing in comparison.

  “You always were a brave one,” Calla said, shifting her weight.