On the Wheel

by Timandra Whitecastle

  “Reckless, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause.

  “Spiders?” Calla raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s the way they move, the bitches.”

  Nora stared into the flames once more, feeling the tongues of fire embracing her tightly, burning her, burning until only ash remained. She swallowed hard. No. Ash was cold. Ash was when the fire was burned up and gone.

  “Calla, I—” She fingered the rim of her new scarf and sighed. “I think I need a midwife.”

  Nora watched Calla’s eyebrows rise high. Ah, good Calla. So pure and innocent. So incapable of thinking evil of others. Sincere and honest. Gods, she and Owen were a fucking perfect fit. Anger flared up in Nora. Her grin trembled painfully in her cheeks.

  “Are you…with child, Nora?”

  “Well, there’s something growing inside of me, and I don’t know how to give it birth.”

  “Is…Master Diaz the father?”

  Nora held Calla’s gaze.

  “Bashan.”

  Calla gasped, and Nora couldn’t hold back anymore. She laughed at the shock-pale face of her friend. Laughed until her ribs hurt and she felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Calla shook her head.

  “I don’t understand,” she kept saying. “Are you pregnant or not? Nora? Are you joking with me?”

  “Touch me, and find out.” Nora wheezed, scuffing the moisture from her eyes. “Go on.”

  Calla took a shaky breath, but her smile stayed firm in her eyes. She reached out and touched Nora’s bared forearm. Nora braced herself for an onslaught of images, a blur of scenes that would reveal her fears and blend with Calla’s nightmares. The baby crying. The gossiping women and their snide looks. The man with the belt. Suranna and Diaz. Suranna, and Diaz begging. But nothing came. A darkness spread, like black tendrils working their way up her arm, under her skin like a flow of water, smoothing the roughness, loosening stones and carrying them farther down the river. Nora let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. Then the darkness skipped. And Nora saw images of the wounded and dying after Solstice. She saw Owen leaving the temple without turning back once, and her heart sank. Then the grim, gaunt faces of the people here, the silent expectancy of them for her to make it all right and the weight, oh the weight of having the responsibility for so many lives. The baby crying. The man with the belt—

  “I’m sorry.” Calla pulled back, her hand fidgeting with a stray strand of her blond hair. “I thought I could control it.”

  Nora cleared her throat, averting her gaze. “You did. For a time.”

  “Not for long. Not enough.” Calla grimaced. “I’m no healer like Master Cumi was.”

  They sat in the twilight of the room, the fire breaking the silence occasionally, spitting resin at them, the rain drumming against the windows outside.

  “You’re not with child.” It wasn’t a question, but Nora saw one reflected in Calla’s face.

  “No. I meant I carry the seed of an idea. My mind is pregnant with it. No one wants to be with me.”

  Calla gave her a look as though to say, are you surprised? “You’re hard to break, Noraya Smith. It’s no wonder the southern seeress fears you.”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  “Don’t believe the stories. She broke me, Calla. Pretty bad.”

  Calla heard the hitch in Nora’s voice, her grip on the rage slipping a little. She leaned in closer, despite knowing who Nora was on the inside.

  “And yet you’re here, still alive and armed.”

  Nora’s hand rested on the sheath of her knife. She drew her arm away carefully, so that Calla wouldn’t notice. They fell back to staring into the flames. She realized belatedly that neither of them had referred to her ruined face as the reason no one wanted to be with her. That seemed to be the only thing the rest of the world worried about. Nora snorted, remembering every overheard conversation on the road, focused on nothing but that one sad piece of characterization. What had that serving girl said in the last inn? Her face—how would she ever be married now?

  She didn’t realize she was falling asleep until she woke with a start as her head nodded toward her chest. She rubbed over her sandpaper eyes and checked to see whether Calla had fallen asleep, too. No. She still sat with her arms on her knees, her chin resting contemplatively on her forearm, staring into the flames as though meaning to converse with them or take their secrets from them. Maybe only minutes had passed by. Calla’s eyes were wide open. She turned as Nora rose, shaking the pins and needles out of her legs.

  “Are you going to sleep?”

  “Gods, yes.” Nora stretched. “You?”

  “I can’t. Not yet. Someone might need me.”

  Nora paused as she took her boots off.

  “You need you. Do you hear me?”

  Calla nodded. “I know.”

  “Listen,” Nora spoke quietly, scratching the back of her shortly cropped hair. The patch of scalp where her burn was remained a barren field of stubble, but the rest was like short-clipped grass. Lice-ridden grass. “You’re right. You’re not a healer like Cumi was. She said she had always wanted to heal the world. And we can’t heal it, she said. It’s not in our power to do so. And maybe she was right. Maybe Suranna’s right. Maybe we do need the return of the gods to finally tell us what we can or can’t do. But dammit, I’m sick and tired of people telling me what I can’t do. You can’t heal the world? Well, boohoo. No one is expecting that of you except you. You have to do what you can, when you can. And that must be enough.”

  Calla cocked her head.

  “You know, that sounds a lot like the pilgrim’s code,” she said.

  “Nah, code of Nora. Less philosophical bullshit.”

  Nora slipped between the covers, listening to Calla snort. She settled down, looking for the most comfortable lumps in the straw-filled mattress before reaching over to where her clothes lay pooled on the floor. There in the heap was her knife. She unsheathed it and grasped it firmly in her hand, tucking it under the equally lumpy pillow. A touch of iron, she thought. A razor’s edge. Do what you can, when you can. A world engulfed in flames.

  “Nora,” Calla whispered once more, just before Nora’s spinning thoughts faded into a deep slumber. “I need your strength. When they leave, will you stay with me this time?”

  Nora heard the plea behind the question, even without empathic abilities, but she was too far gone to answer.

  Chapter 5

  Calla closed the door silently behind herself and tiptoed down the dark hallway, making her way back to the common room. Her bare feet trod stealthily across the wooden floorboards.

  “Calla.” Diaz stepped out of the shadows where he had been leaning casually against the wall for over an hour now. He saw her flinch and felt sorry for startling her. She caught herself quickly, though.

  “Master Diaz.”

  A blush rose in her cheeks as though he were her father catching her at sneaking out.

  “It’s Telen now. We are both masters.”

  He offered a hand to shake, and though she smiled, her hands remained at her side.

  “Sorry. My gloves are still drying.”

  “Of course.” He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “You have done well here, Calla. I am sorry I cannot relieve you at this time.”

  “You are a man of honor, Ma—Telen, and well known for it. I would never ask you to break an oath. Break even the weakest oath, and you might as well break all.”

  “You have studied the code very well.” She blushed deeper. He squared his shoulders. “How can I be of assistance, then? You wished to talk earlier—your empathic talent has been honed over the last months. We are undisturbed now. You may speak plainly, though I suggest keeping to a low voice.”

  She nodded, and her pale locks fell over her eyes. She pushed them back with a hand.

  “I need to know whether the prince will be taking his troops
with him or whether they will be staying here again.”

  “Do you wish them to remain here? The safety of the temple would—”

  “I do not.” She took a deep breath and started again, less harshly. “I do not wish them to remain here. They are loud and uncouth, and there have been many misgivings because of their…behavior. Some mean well, I suppose, but are…untrained in how to live with…people who are not mercenaries. Others…” She sighed. “We have many widows here now. And orphans. They stand in my care.”

  “I understand. I will speak with Prince Bashan and advise him that he should deploy his men to…the location where his other troops reside.”

  “A secret hideout?” Calla smiled.

  “Something like that.”

  “Good. Though there are still raids and attacks on villages nearby, we have remained more or less unscathed since Solstice. There was one larger skirmish, but I’m confident that we do not need Bashan’s men.” She eyed him carefully, weighing what she was going to say next. “Please visit the Shrine of Hin and talk to Master Caleddin. He sends letters now on a weekly basis, demanding and impertinent. I’m unsure of what I can do. I have written to the Temple in Arrun, explaining that Master Cumi died in the attack on Solstice, asking for further guidance, but so far no answer has returned.”

  “I will talk to Caleddin. Give me the situation in the north.”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s still chaos. The farther north you go, the less order you will find. Over two hundred and thirty lords are crying to be made king of Moran, each of them certainly entitled to the ancient throne through bloodlines of one sort or the other. Moorfleet is reigned by a man who calls himself Iddo of Babuk.”

  “Babuk? The eastern port? He’s far from home, then.”

  Calla fiddled with a strand of her hair, twisting it and tucking it behind her ear. “Maybe he was a merchant? His is a strong hand against the marauding bands, but I’ve also heard tell of rape and slavery within Moorfleet. Dernberia has closed its ports. I’m not sure why. The last I heard was of the black plague that came in form of a mist over the water. The Shrine of Hin is a calm haven for innocents still. Many people make their pilgrimages there to pray for their lost loved ones.”

  “So it grows rich on the suffering surrounding it. It was always so.”

  “I’ve had most of our temple walls rebuilt. It was a combined effort over fifty-three days—the women and children helped, too. And we had to sacrifice a few of the broken-down houses on the lowest level of the courtyards for building material. Bashan’s men helped, though they complained all the time.”

  “Their line of work is mostly…different.” He had wanted to say not so honest. Calla nodded. Whether by empathy or not, she could tell what he had meant to say and agreed.

  “I think they were still nervous after the Solstice attack and wanted to make sure that wouldn’t happen on a similar scale. Many of the refugees have moved back to their homes after the winter, unwilling to leave their fields bare in the spring. But those that stayed will stay on. Since we have so many new widows and orphans here, I’ve employed a number of them for various tasks around the temple. We lack manpower for almost everything, but we are at least well stocked in supplies. I was thinking of clearing additional houses below to gain more farmable land within the walls. What do you think?”

  “That you’re very capable.”

  She looked surprised. Her hands combed through her hair as she squirmed under the praise.

  “I’m very young to be a master. I hadn’t thought…” She looked up at him once more, directly meeting his gaze. “I thought I’d have years of training under Master Cumi before I’d have to shoulder this degree of responsibility.”

  Ah, yes. That was his doing as well. Not only leaving her with this burden that was by rights his to bear, but also sending her mentor down the silent road. He ran a hand over his face, dismissing the memory that made his stomach churn, wondering what to say.

  “I’m sorry,” they both apologized at the same time.

  She gave him a tired smile.

  “I know. I felt it earlier already. You wrap it around you like a blanket of darkness, woven with shame. Master Cumi would have destroyed you, Diaz.”

  “She was my friend.”

  “No, she was not.”

  He remained silent.

  Calla nodded once as though asserting to herself that she had said enough. She gave him another quick smile.

  “Good night, Diaz.”

  She turned to go down to the common room. He waited until she was nearly at the brink of the wooden staircase.

  “He’s not down there,” Diaz called out softly.

  Calla twitched and looked over her shoulder.

  “Oh.” Then she laughed nervously. “I mean, who isn’t down there?”

  “Owen took a room about half an hour ago.” Diaz pointed back down the corridor.

  “I see.” She cleared her throat, her ears red. “Well, thank you for that information.”

  She made to go by. The corridor wasn’t very broad. He had to move to the side to let her through.

  “Calla?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you love him?”

  She gave him another nervous laugh, then grew earnest when she realized he wasn’t joking.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Why? Because his was a cautionary tale, and he didn’t want her making the same mistakes. Maybe, he told himself, he was just trying to spare the girl a great deal of heartbreak. He ran his fingers over the burn on his hand.

  “Remember the code,” he said simply.

  She gave him a look as though she could see beyond his mask of composure. Then she pointed toward the door she had just tiptoed out of. Nora’s door.

  “You too.”

  * * *

  A rap on the door made Owen look up from the words blurring before his tired eyes. Reading in bed was a mistake. He should have sat on the floor if he wanted to finish this chapter tonight. There it was again. He struggled out of the smothering blankets and went to open the door a crack.

  Calla stood before him, head turned to see Master Diaz’s receding figure.

  “Calla? What are you—”

  “Can I come in?”

  Owen hurried to open the door all the way.

  “Of course, here.”

  He stepped aside to let her in. The room was tiny. A bed, a nightstand the size of a fist, a small fireplace that smoked terribly, irritating his eyes. He had opened a window earlier, but it hadn’t helped much. As there was little space, they stood only inches apart. Owen cast his gaze about the room, but there was no place to offer to sit other than the bed and—his ears felt warm all of a sudden—that would be too forward and too easily misunderstood.

  “Uh,” he said. Very coherent. He cleared his throat. “There’s not much room, I’m afraid.”

  She shrugged and her pale gray sweater slipped from one shoulder, revealing that she wore nothing but freckles underneath.

  “It’ll do.” She pushed past him and grabbed the cover from the bed, wrapping it around herself like a shawl. She sat down at the foot, legs drawn up to not reach into the fire, and looked up at him. Torn patches of silver moonlight slid over her body, fell like ghostly fingers covering her lips. Owen could see her heartbeat in her throat, next to the tendon. He counted it, counted the seconds along with the beats, multiplied by four, knew her pulse to be quickened. Pupils dilated though perhaps only because of the poor light. His flesh prickled. He scratched at his cheek, where the curved line of his scar showed.

  “What can I do for you? Are you cold?” he asked, casting about for something to say, cleverness deserting him. “I hope you don’t come down with fever from being soaking wet earlier.”

  “I heard you had returned. The rain didn’t bother me. I needed to see you.”

  He stood very, very still. He couldn’t remember breathing, his mind suddenly blank.

  She held up an arm and motioned f
or him to join her inside the blanket’s wrap. The lure of that single raised eyebrow was too strong for him to resist, and he found himself sitting down awkwardly next to her, legs cramped in the tiny space, while she watched him, shivering. Her hair tickled his face, giving off a scent of rain and cloud. Like mist. As though she would prove insubstantial when he moved his hand to brush his fingers against her cheek. Her heat shocked him.

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered, whisking his hand away. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Owen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me what happened in Shinar.”

  “I—” He shook his head and sat up. “What happened? We went for information. We now have the information. That is all.”

  “No. I can feel it. The change in you. In all of you. Tell me what it means, please. What happened to Nora? And Diaz? And you?”

  For a moment, he wanted to negate her suspicion, conjure up a story, a reasonable explanation. But the sense for secrecy had left him, and a need to share took hold of him. Huddled together, firmly wrapped in the soft darkness, he told her. Everything. He didn’t hold back.

  It took a long time. Rain rattled against the windowpane, a steady backdrop. As though the heavens were weeping. And when he was finished, she gave him no absolution but took hold of his hand and touched her lips against his knuckles. When she looked up, his breath faltered. Her face was so close. She guided his hand against her cheek and nestled her pretty head into it, her mouth touching the ball of his thumb. A noise must have escaped his lips. She closed her eyes then, and leaned in to kiss him for what seemed like a long time. He found it impossible to count the seconds, though.

  He pulled away as her exploring hand began to untuck his shirt.

  “Calla, I…you don’t have to do this for me.”

  “I know.” She smiled and tugged again at the shirt, her slender hand reaching within and caressing his tingling skin. “But I want it.”

  She slid over and straddled his lap. Whatever he had been about to say—it vanished from his mind completely.

  “Calla,” he said breathlessly as she pulled her clothes off and wore only skin and the orange glow of the embers from the fireplace. He didn’t know where to put his sweaty hands. “I can’t. I don’t know—”