On the Wheel

by Timandra Whitecastle

  “Is this your first time?” She kissed him again, gently, briefly.

  He swallowed and nodded.

  “We’ll figure this out together.” As she leaned in once more, he tossed his head back and it thumped against the wood of the bed.

  “Wait,” he said, grimacing, holding her hips. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  She sat very still then and looked him in the eyes.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “Before we—before I—I need to know whether you’re doing this because…because I’m going to die. Because if that’s the reason—if it’s the only reason, then I don’t want you to feel you have to do this.”

  She cocked her head, her face inches away from his, her weather-scented hair falling around them both. She touched him tentatively, but he pushed her away. Not much, but enough to make her know he was being serious.

  For a long time, all he could hear was their breathing in the quiet warmth within the blanket.

  “I was married when I was thirteen.” She spoke softly, only a little over a whisper. “He was older than me, but not by too many years. And he was…nice, mostly. Only when he drank—he had a temper then. A very bad one.” The image of a man towering above him, hand raised with a belt in his hand, penetrated Owen’s mind. He gripped her harder, making sure he knew where reality lay. “He always said he was sorry. After. That he didn’t mean it. And I—I always believed him. Why shouldn’t I? It is what it is. I was pregnant with his child when I was fifteen. And he beat me. I don’t remember why. Maybe I hadn’t pressed his shirts properly or hadn’t wiped the floor clean enough. At first, I thought I had lost the baby. But I bore her to completion, and she was beautiful and terrible and broken. Master Rallis told me she wouldn’t survive. And she didn’t. Not for long, anyway. He cried then. Cried and left. That was the last time I ever saw him. But a part of me was glad. Glad she died. Because I didn’t want my daughter to grow up and have to live like I did. I left with Master Rallis, and now I’m here. Master Calleva of the Temple of the Wind.”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “I’ve never told anyone.”

  It was the longest he had ever heard her speak. She seemed suddenly bashful, hiding under her long eyelashes.

  “You don’t want pity, Owen. But I do. Not always. But…sometimes. It’s so tiring to be strong all the time. I want you to put your arms around me and tell me you’re sorry. Sorry for what’s happened to me. Sorry you have to leave me here alone. I want to know what it’s like with someone I’ve chosen for myself. Someone who would rather not sleep with me if he feels he’s taking advantage. Someone who would be willing to sacrifice himself to save his sister’s life. Someone like—”

  He interrupted her with his lips and pulled her closer.

  * * *

  All of the next day, Owen looked out for Nora, but he didn’t find her. Instead, he found many who had seen her during the day, but no one who could tell him where she was now. After a while, he figured she would find him and retreated to the most likely place she’d look, the library. But only dusk found him, and it found him there alone. When Calla came in the evening to accompany him to his old room for the night, he quickly forgot that he had been listening for a different footfall. The day after, Bashan found him first, then Diaz. So he made his way down to the lower courtyards and picked up Nora’s trail once more, starting at the inn across from the red gates. This time the conflicting directions led him out of the temple grounds and into the woods skirting the walls. He didn’t have to go far, though. In the shadow of the wall that had once sported the beginnings of a mill he found her, stripped to a sleeveless shirt, sweating in the chill air as she dug a charcoal pit. Her hair was growing back, a tongue of soot licking down her nape and behind one of her ears, the shriveled remains of the other still a darker red stain on the scarred half of her head.

  Shade was there, too. He raised a hand in greeting, but quickly got back to digging, apparently comfortable being under Nora’s clipped orders along with a flock of youths. Two of them were wrestling beneath a beech tree. One shoved the other and he stumbled, his foot caving in the freshly dug earth. A young girl shouted, and Nora looked up with a frown. She beckoned the boys over and they came demurely, nudging each other.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a low voice that held no menace.

  They both blubbered excuses, laying the blame squarely on the other one’s shoulders. Nora banged her shovel into the earth so that it stood, one elbow resting on the handle as she listened, stone-faced.

  “You’re coalers now. You need to look out for each other,” was all she said in the long pause. “And you just ruined a good half hour’s worth of digging with your jackassery.”

  “But it wasn’t my fault,” one boy spluttered while the other scowled.

  “I don’t care.” She reached for the ears of both the boys, who flinched, expecting her to twist them as punishment. Instead, she knocked their heads together so hard their teeth clacked. It was the only sound heard except for the wind. All the children were watching, wide-eyed. Nora didn’t have to look around to know that she had her audience.

  “Now, I want to see your shovels in your hands and both of you digging that pit. Understood? Get to it.”

  They walked, faces not red enough to hide the angry blotches of their smacked foreheads. Suddenly, everyone was very busy.

  “What are you doing?” Owen approached with care.

  Nora glanced over her shoulder, back to work, ramming the iron of the spade into the black, wet earth.

  “Digging charcoal clamps.”

  “I can see that.” He waited a few shovel loads. “Why?”

  “Too many kids round about the temple with no parents telling them what to do, getting themselves into trouble. I asked Rob how high his charcoal supply is for the winter. He said he needs more. I promised him I’d show these miscreants how to be useful for once and tend the clamps.”

  Sure, smiths always needed more charcoal. The forge was ever hungry.

  “They’ll certainly be too tired to cause much trouble,” Owen said, watching the small band of youths squabble as they worked. “But it won’t last for long. Only a little of autumn left. After the storm month, they won’t be able to come out here anymore.”

  “I know.” Nora stopped the backbreaking work and wiped her cheek with a shoulder. “Still. They’ll know how to do it come spring.”

  Owen nodded. He had counted fifteen youths, girls and boys, the youngest maybe twelve, the oldest he’d guess nearly sixteen. Charcoalers usually tended the clamps in their family groups. He and Nora had been able to keep check on two, sometimes three clamps at the same time. These kids would be able to make a sizable quantity of charcoal. They’d be able to be their own family. The simplicity didn’t make this solution less elegant. And Nora had a way with the kids. A ruthless way. They seemed to love her for it, especially when she scowled.

  “Bashan will leave tomorrow,” he said after a moment.

  The corners of her mouth dropped down as though she held a bitter taste on her tongue.

  “All right, I’ll go pack my things. Oh wait, I don’t have any things to pack. Got all I need right here with me.”

  She gave him a look.

  “You’re not going to try and leave me here again, are you?”

  Owen sighed.

  “I’d really like you to stay…”

  “Pffft.” She grabbed hold of the shovel once more.

  “And look after Calla for me.”

  Nora let the shovel go.

  “That was a low blow,” she said, frowning.

  “But it’s the truth. And it’s not easy for me to say this. She needs you more than I do.”

  Nora scratched her head, and tufts of hair remained standing on edge. She looked about the scene before her, weighing the working kids in her mind, maybe measuring the pull Calla had on her heart, and then shrugged.

  “I need you,” she r
eplied. After a heartbeat, she grinned and added: “Grab yourself a shovel.”

  He held up both hands and laughed.

  “My charcoaling days and nights are over. I’m a pilgrim now. The road is my bride, not the blisters on my palms.”

  “Softy.”

  “And thankful for it.”

  “Get a shovel, Owen. I can think better when working. But I can’t have you just standing there watching me work.”

  He groaned and slowly folded up his sleeves. He borrowed a shovel from a sweating girl only a few years his junior, who collapsed next to the woodpile, cursing loudly. Nora’s influence—felt everywhere.

  They dug together for a few minutes. He grunted with the unfamiliar effort. He hadn’t done this since over a year ago and had nearly forgotten how much hard work it was. Nearly. But as his muscles warmed, they remembered what they had to do, so he simply waited for Nora to start talking. She obliged.

  “In the arena, I asked you to come up with a plan, remember?”

  “I do. You wanted to kill the queen.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes met his. “She’s still alive.”

  Cold touched his heart, and his mouth felt dry suddenly.

  “Thinking about revenge?”

  He kept the emotion out of his voice as best he could, but he knew there would be no fooling her. She knew him too well not to hear his disapproval. Nora continued digging with fierceness.

  “I need a new plan, Owen. And I don’t know how to do it alone. I’ve been thinking, but I’m not enough…”

  “Talk. I’ll listen.”

  She hesitated a moment, her eyes trailing to where Shade worked.

  “The problem is the Blade. Suranna wants it. Bashan wants it. So the two of them are happy to pretend they are helping each other. But Bashan with the Blade is a very scary thought, and Suranna with it is even worse. The next problem is time. As in, it’s running out. We only have a few more weeks at the most before Bashan gets his hands on the Blade, and through him, Suranna. Another thing to consider is the inefficiency of a dagger in Bashan’s back in this case. Sure, I could just creep up on Bashan and kill him while he’s sleeping—”

  Owen snorted at this, and Nora’s eyes became slits.

  “You don’t believe I could?”

  “I really hope not, for various reasons. Like you having a conscience telling you that’s just wrong. But let’s go with: Diaz is always on watch, and when even he has to sleep, Garreth is on watch.”

  She dug a few more shovelfuls of earth, chewing on the insides of her cheeks.

  “That’s a matter of time, then, too. And location. The farther north we get, the more Diaz will be out of Suranna’s reach and the more he will recover his wits. It would be best to strike as soon as we’re on the road again. The next few days, perhaps. If you come up with a plan fast enough. Think you can?”

  “Gods, Nora. You honestly think you can best Diaz?”

  “I don’t think I’d have to. I’d be doing him a favor. He won’t act because he’s a man of honor and keeps on standing in his own way.”

  To hear her talk like this…the cold around Owen’s heart grew a shroud of ice crystals until every beat was studded with a glittering jingle of diamonds, each pulse threatening to break off the crust of frozen fractals and thrust splinters into his insides. He had wanted Diaz to look after Nora when he was no more. But it seemed like Nora was intent on looking after Diaz, whether the half-wight wanted her help or not. Woe unto him.

  “Do you love him?” he dared to ask.

  “Who?”

  Owen tutted, rolling his eyes. Nora pulled her lips apart in a grin, but it lacked warmth and gave her a puckish streak with her hair still standing on end. She shrugged and the demonic expression fell from her face. She glanced over to where Shade dug.

  “What is love, Owen?”

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the philosophical question, but then he realized she hadn’t meant it that way, but as a conversation stopper. She was already groaning over giving him such a great cue to monologue. He cast about for an answer that wouldn’t put her to sleep.

  “The most natural painkiller there is?”

  A corner of her mouth twitched.

  “Then let me rephrase my question. How do you know when you love someone? And I mean love, not lust for someone. Not infatuation.”

  “You love me, don’t you?”

  Both corners twitched.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Good enough. I’m a scholar, Nora, not a poet. I could give you any number of definitions of love. For example, the wights say love is at the root of everything, that it is a very definite force, like gravity. It’s interesting to see that they have various words for various forms of love, love within the family, love for the tribe or clan you belong to, a brotherly or sisterly love between two people who are not blood-related but are bonded in their souls, er…erotic love.” He cleared his throat, mind briefly wandering to Calla and the night before. “Master Dahlsten of Afallen once wrote that to love means to enjoy seeing, touching, and sensing, as closely as possible, a lovable object that loves in return. Saul of Sartush wrote that love hopes all things, endures all things, bears all things. It never fails.”

  Another few shovels.

  “I think I’ll stick with the painkiller definition,” Nora said.

  “Master Diaz. Killer of pain.”

  “Like I said before,” Nora continued, her voice slightly strangled, both ears suddenly red, “the problem is not Bashan. The problem is the Blade. If I killed Bashan, someone else would come sooner or later and take it for themselves. Suranna would simply find someone else. Maybe she’d even influence Diaz to take it. So, the core question is how to destroy the Blade or make sure no one ever finds it again.”

  “You would do that? You would seek to destroy the most powerful artifact that remains to us from the gods? That…is insanity.”

  “So? It fits with all my other plans.”

  He grunted as his shovel bit into a thick root, jarring his arms. Owen was sweating, but not from the exertion. His palms were slick. He wiped them on his trousers, thinking fast. It felt like he was back in the library in Shinar again, staring at the pile of books, after he had awoken from the blow to his head in the arena. The blow Nora had given him. To save his life, surely, but still. His teeth had felt like foreign objects in his reeling head, the throb throb throb of the ache in tune with the beating of his heart, pinpointing his thoughts toward a plan with a reckless vein similar to Nora’s bloody-mindedness. He licked his lips, remembering the falling sensation, the jolt of recognition when he suddenly saw the pieces of the puzzle come together and form a new whole. He had to tread a fine line from now on, if Nora’s thoughts were going in a parallel direction. I’m the smart one, he told himself. I know how to play this. I have to.

  “Is this about Shade, then? Do you want to spare him being the sacrifice?” Classic misdirection. That shouldn’t fail him. Not with Nora.

  “Owen.” She stopped digging and rested her forearms on the handle. “I don’t want anyone ever to have to sacrifice himself. But yeah, let’s start with Shade and then work our way up to saving the world.”

  He grinned. It had worked. “The world, huh? You aim high. I need time to think of something.”

  “I know. But if we’re leaving tomorrow, we won’t have much time…”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  She didn’t resume digging but turned and tilted her head far back, to look up at the pinnacle of the Temple of the Wind, the high tower shining its radiance over the vast Plains. The temple was dedicated to the god of air, Tuil, the twin god of Lara, goddess of death. Two sides of the same thing. Breath, not-breath. Inhale, exhale. He followed her gaze, wondering what it was she saw. Or who.

  Chapter 6

  When they crossed the Plains, walking west, following the course of the Line River, Nora felt the urge to run. Run home. Run the miles, feel the wind in her streaming hair. But her hair was
too short, and there was nowhere to run to anymore. Would someone have rebuilt the Ridge already? Nearly a year had passed since she had been there last, seeing it burn down. Chestnuts would be hanging in the trees now, the ground covered with the ripe fruits, fallen and open. But without the people, it wouldn’t be a home. And the next place with people was Green Vale, where the horsemasters lived. The Plains and the coastal road were horse country. A large area of flat grassland, perfect for pasture and galloping. Her friend Becca might still be at the Vale. Wolfe, Nora’s former betrothed, would certainly be there. Nora quickly dropped the thought and stayed by Owen’s side.

  The Line River had its origin in the Crest Mountains, and the small company of Bashan, Shade and Garreth, Diaz, and the twins followed its gentle curves and thundering falls for two weeks, until it was only a thin stream bubbling forth over the rocks, high, high up. On top of the huge rock formation shaped like a wave cresting over the flat Plains, seeking to engulf them, the world below looked immensely drab in the twilight, the green-brownish emptiness, the northern woods stretching away to the horizon in vast wastelands a darker shade of green. Nora looked over to Diaz, who stood at watch, one arm resting against the sheer rock of the mountain crevice where they had sought shelter for the night. The meager fire cast a dark orange glow on his figure, reflecting in the all-black of his eyes. She looked away. There might have been a time when she would have walked over to where he stood and slept at his feet, back to the chill stone wall, at peace. But her insides were in turmoil whenever they were close. Maybe he had managed to throw off Suranna’s shackles—though she doubted it. To her they felt like poisoned hooks embedded deep in her flesh. Two weeks had passed since her conversation with Owen. Two weeks, and her brother still had no idea how to stop Bashan from reaching the Blade. Nora had hoped there would be a simple solution, though she realized there probably wasn’t. And she had lied. Lied to Owen about Diaz. Her traitorous eyes slid back to where he stood, appreciating his bare forearms, tattoos spiraling up them, the white scar on the back of his right hand visible in the gathering dark.