On the Wheel

by Timandra Whitecastle

  “Well? Ask him if he’s happy now,” she said.

  Her manners blunt and forward as usual, indifferent to decorum, a rough mixture of stubbornness and impertinence. She looked…remarkably good. Images of what could be flashed through his mind as he closed his mouth, his head empty of words. He put a hand to his aching chest, feeling torn. If Bashan never retrieved the Blade, Owen wouldn’t have to lose his life. But he could not tell her this or use it as a persuading point. She didn’t know that Owen was planning to sacrifice himself for the Blade, that Owen had made a deal with Suranna to release his twin from imprisonment. On the other hand, if he asked her to stay with him, to be his wife, what would Nora say? He had betrayed her trust, and she would not easily forgive him for it. His heart sank in the cold realization that one way or another, he would lose her. It surprised him how much that hurt.

  His father shook his head slightly and moved to act. He walked over to where Nora straightened even more, raising her chin up a degree higher.

  “You look very beautiful,” Aellen told her in wightish. “May I?”

  He held out a hand to touch the unburned side of her face.

  “Um.” Nora looked over his shoulder at Diaz for help. But the words still wouldn’t come for him as his heart pounded hard in his chest. She looked back at his father and nodded, lips parted slightly.

  Aellen brushed his knuckles against her short hair before running a hand through it like a lover. She blushed but would not avert her eyes. They widened as his father bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” he said softly in Moran.

  “You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” Nora said, blinking rapidly, breath shallow. She then curtsied awkwardly, making his father smile.

  Aellen returned to Diaz and halted before him.

  “See, that’s how you do it,” he said, falling back into wightish once more. “I’d like to give you time to think on it, but alas, I cannot. You must leave with your companions by this evening or they will die through an unfortunate food poisoning accident in their cell tomorrow.”

  “I understand,” Diaz managed.

  “The nature of a man cannot be determined by his actions alone,” his father said. “But in this case, your actions will give me your answer. I will leave you now. You may stay here for a while, together. Maybe to speak in peace. Only be sure to leave soon.”

  “Yes.” Diaz cleared his throat. “Father.”

  Aellen looked back at Nora, who was frowning at them.

  “Prayers for the wicked must never be forsaken,” his father said finally. “And gods know, I pray. For you, for myself. For the world.”

  He pursed his lips, deep in thought once more, and left.

  Chapter 12

  The door clicked shut behind High King Aellen, leaving Nora and Diaz alone in the king’s chambers. Nora frowned. When they had led her into the room, she thought she knew where this so-called conversation was going to end. Under the folds of the dress she had hidden a blunted piece of steel she snagged from the dresser. She could feel it poking into her thigh, having tucked it into her smallclothes. No idea what it was for, but lacking her own knife, she had seen the thin instrument as a way of inflicting an amount of pain to dissuade certain…attentions. Now that didn’t seem to be happening. This whole day was just one bizarre episode after another. Might as well go full bizarre. Seduction, Owen had said. Diversion. Well, there would be no better time than when she was halfway clean and in regal dress. Like now. She licked her lips. Must be easy, right? Especially after she’d been so suave and smooth earlier…

  Diaz’s face showed in hard profile as he turned toward the door, as though he still had something left to say to his father. He and his father had spoken for a long time. She wasn’t sure about what, but from their tone, it had to be something serious. A warmth spread where his father had touched her, and she felt very self-conscious to have been at the center of attention. She eyed Diaz. He lifted a hand to his face, clenched it into a fist, then dropped it. Jaw still locked, he noticed her looking at him, and his eyes narrowed.

  She forced a half smile onto her face.

  “Whatever you were talking about.” She spoke as lightly as she could, shifting position so that the metal stuck into a different piece of flesh for a change. “I guess you didn’t mention that you and me don’t really work well together.”

  She imagined him saying something along the lines of: we used to. His voice hoarse with emotion. For a moment, she lingered in the fantasy of him strolling over and taking her lips, caressing her gently the way his father had done, and disputing her words through deeds. However, he said nothing. He always preferred to say nothing, of course, but this time, instead of avoiding her eyes, he met them.

  “Awkward, this.” With a sweeping gesture, she included everything between them in those two words.

  He made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat.

  She nearly rolled her eyes. Instead, there were imaginary wrinkles to smooth from the dress. Her dress now. She glanced up at him again. Was it strange for him to see her in his mother’s dress? Maybe she should try a different approach. Attack was the best defense she knew.

  “No apologies today?”

  He shook his head. “No apologies.”

  “Well, good.” He was talking to her, then. Nora tapped her leg with the flat of her hand. “So…what’s the plan?”

  “The plan?”

  “Why did your father leave us in his rooms? Is there something we’re supposed to do here—wait for him, maybe? Or should we go back to where the others are being kept? Or…?” Her eyes strayed to the bed. She snapped back and looked at him, but, of course, he had noticed.

  “My father has advised us to leave this evening,” Diaz said with a wry look on his face.

  She raised her eyebrows. “We are allowed to go? Just like that?”

  “No.” His head swiveled to the door again. “We will be followed by a group of warriors. My father wanted to give us a fair warning, I think.”

  Nora stepped closer, fingering the metal through the folds of the dress. “You think we’ll have to fight our way to the Blade’s location?”

  He sighed.

  “They won’t attack outright until we have discovered the dormant Blade, before we make the sacrifice to reforge it.”

  The clarity of foreknowledge surprised Nora. “Why?”

  Diaz shrugged. “Because they can.”

  “But why? Can wights wield the Blade?”

  Even as she spoke the question out loud, she knew it couldn’t be so. None of the legends had a wight even reaching out for the Blade, surely one of the greatest treasures the gods had ever made. Because Dalem had created it for humans to have. So even if the wights knew the exact location, they could never use the Blade for themselves. They could only wait for humans to come and remake it. The cycle repeating itself over and over again. Like the pull and flow of the tides. But some people built breakers and watched the waves crash against them, satisfied that their work had slowed the devouring of the land by the ocean.

  Diaz shook his head once more. “If wights could wield it, one of them would have taken this thing against the humans already. They have little love for your kind.”

  “We’re your kind, too, Babe.”

  He winced at the translation of his name, and a smile flashed over her face. She shouldn’t needle him so, but tormenting him was far easier than seducing him.

  “Is that so?” he countered.

  “Though Bashan isn’t exactly your kind. Or mine.” Nora straightened and ran an appreciative eye over the length of his body. Her heart beat a little faster. “How about half-wights?”

  “What about them?”

  “Well, have any of you tried to take the Blade?”

  His brow furrowed.

  “The Blade was originally made by the sacrifice of the first half-wight ever, Deeyan’s and Scyld’s love child. Since that time, I haven’t heard of any involvement of a ha
lf-wight.”

  “But have you thought about it?”

  “About what?”

  Nora lifted a shoulder. “Taking the Blade for yourself.”

  She waited for his response, holding her breath. She had told Owen that Diaz would never want to put the blood guilt of the sacrifice on his head, because she remembered the little spots of conversation they had shared on their solitary trek over the Plains. Bits and pieces she could puzzle together to a whole picture. But she had also seen him kill in cold blood. She had seen him fail his own standards for correct behavior. So she wanted to hear his answer. It felt…important.

  “You saw the glasswork in the garden cave today, yes?” he asked instead. She nodded warily, wondering where this might go. “Because their long life spans allow it, most wights take the time to find out what they are especially good at. Then they hone that skill over centuries to master their art. Like those glass workers, they manage a marriage of function and form that makes others in their field pale in contrast. This is something most humans do not do. You cannot. Mostly, you simply follow whatever line of work your parents have. Only a few humans seem to break that mold and become something other, something greater than their beginnings. Through their vision and determination. You, for example.” He came a step closer. “You have learned your foster father’s trade, but by chance, you have found out that you have more skill wielding a blade than forging one. Your life has changed since you have become aware of this. Now imagine what mastery you could achieve if you had decades to practice this martial art.”

  “I’d be pretty good, I imagine,” Nora said dryly. “Maybe I could even beat you.”

  “Not likely,” he responded immediately, and it stung to hear, though it rang true. He came a little closer once more. “But you make a valid point. For myself, I chose to master the art of killing. I have studied various forms and styles, trained with masters of the one or other weapon, devoted much practice, and trained hard to become what I am now. If you ask me: would I reach out for the Living Blade, this ultimate weapon, to take it up instead of my own sword? I say no. Because there can be no mastery with it. No finesse. No skill required. Anyone can reach out and use it. The Living Blade is nothing but a bludgeon of power. Everything I have worked for, every skill I’ve ever trained for—worthless. Everything I am, a waste of time. I could no longer be me if I had it. So, yes, I have thought about taking the Blade. I have thought long and hard, but even if I hadn’t given my word to Bashan to guide him to it, I would not choose this thing for myself.”

  Nora exhaled.

  She placed a fist against her palm and bowed low. “Master Telen.”

  The silk of the dress swished gloriously about her legs. There definitely was something to wearing these kinds of clothes. But not practical. Not at all. As she rose, she saw him snatch away his outstretched hand. Had he wanted to touch her hair? He let his hand drop quickly to his side. He stood close now, much closer than before.

  “Nora?” He licked his lips.

  “Yes?”

  Another apology attempt? She really hoped not. Glorious silken swishes aside, this dress caused a serious disadvantage in a fight.

  He hesitated, gaze directed at the door. “There is much that separates us…”

  “Yes?” she prompted after he wouldn’t continue.

  He turned his large, black eyes on her.

  “I wish it were not so.”

  Her breath faltered. She waited for him to explain, but he simply stood there, watching her, waiting for an answer. But what could she say? The edge of fury rose at the bottom of her stomach. She had told him how she felt about him, and he had chosen not to do anything about it. More so, what he had done was in direct opposition to what she had revealed to him. Oh, he had reasons for that—excuses. There were always excuses. And gods, didn’t she know? Her fingers touched the edge of hidden steel, and she listened to the fury yelling at her to take it and ram it into his heart. It wouldn’t penetrate, it’s too blunt, her logic told her fury. You wouldn’t do much damage. Nevertheless, her fury really wanted to try. Try to stick him, so that she could step into his arms for real, rest her head against his chest, and listen to his heart, inhaling his scent of rosemary and iron.

  “Me too,” she said softly, letting go of the metal tip.

  * * *

  After the warmth of two days in Gimmstanhol, the bitter wind outside came as a shock. It was hard to imagine that they had endured this cold day after day on their journey so far. However, Diaz pointed out after Bashan had complained vocally for a while, they’d had the benefit of the warm water on their journey to Gimmstanhol. Now though, on their journey from it, they were traveling across empty land, through thick snow, blundering in the deep patches. Devoid of life in any form.

  They struggled on, and as the last of the light bled from the rolling skies, Diaz guided them to the meager protection of a steep snow hill that was crowned with a cluster of charcoal-gray rocks. Huddled together, their backs to the wind, Nora twisted around to see Diaz pacing to and fro, his eyes scanning the endless horizon. The guardian on watch. A score of dark figures had followed their trail throughout the day, always taking care to stay far out of range, nearly at the edge of the humans’ sight, but just near enough for them to make out the threat. Close to warriors forming a loose ring around them at all times. Nearly fifty wights against six humans. Overkill. In the distance, Nora saw the light of their campfires and wished her own measly little campfire greater, at least enough to warm her fingers by. It wasn’t that they were trying to hide from their pursuers; they had but little fuel with which to feed it. The landscape around them seemed a bleak place in which to seek one of mankind’s greatest treasures.

  The next few days became a blur of snow, the white blocking out the sun entirely, casting the world in shades of gray. Even the wights would have difficulty tracking their path in this weather. The wind swept away their footprints as soon as they made them. However, the wights knew where they were headed, regardless of the wind scattering their tracks with powdery snow. Not long now, Diaz kept shouting over the roar of the blizzard. Whether he meant fucking dying out here or the arrival at the small island that housed the Blade’s dormant form, it was hard to tell.

  By nightfall on the fourth day they reached the final shore, the last piece of land before the Ice Seas. The wind on the salted shoreline cut deep like a knife, tearing the breath from their cracked lips. Diaz led them to a group of pine trees where they found a little cover crawling under the twisted branches streaming eastward in the perpetual torture. Underneath the boughs, on a thick mat of dry needles, the ground was hard and nearly frozen, and it was impossible to get a fire going. They all squashed together around the resinous trunk and silently shivered in their furs.

  “The tide will be at its lowest tomorrow before dawn,” Diaz said, his voice rougher than usual. Despite his half-wight hardiness, he seemed as weary as the next man. It filled Nora with a sliver of hope. Maybe even the wight warriors following them were exhausted by the weather. “We can cross over to the Isle of Awakening then. But we will have to be swift, for the tide will return fast and catch us in the wet sand. Trapping us.”

  “Well.” Bashan shifted. “Let’s make it our aim to not be caught trapped by those wights before we have the Blade.”

  “Yes.” Diaz expressed everyone’s agreement.

  They fell silent once more, conserving their strength for the next day.

  “The Isle of Awakening, huh?” Owen said after a while. “What a place for the Living Blade.”

  He received a few grunts of acknowledgment.

  “Why?” Nora asked him. Her brain felt frozen and empty, like the land outside their pine cover.

  “The Isle of Awakening is the place in which wight and man first met, long, long ago.” Owen’s voice seemed distant, though he pressed against her. “Before the Breaking Wars, these were the lands beloved by Indis, Sweet Water, close to her sister’s realm of the Salt Water, and far away
from the fires of Shinar. And a tribe of wights followed her to live on these coasts.”

  “The tribe of Fisher Kings.” Diaz added to Owen’s tale.

  Nora felt Owen shift. “Master Diaz, perhaps you should tell the story. It would be interesting to hear the account from a different perspective.”

  Diaz shrugged. “I could not tell more than that the Fisher Kings were later all but wiped out for bringing the scourge of humans among us. For the wights, this story is not one they like to remember.”

  “Says a lot about the wights,” Bashan grumbled.

  Owen leaned back against Nora, and she rested her heavy head on his shoulder.

  “Anyway, one night, in a storm like this, a wight chieftain was making his way home and got lost and so came to the shore. Beyond it he could make out the black shape of the rock mass that makes up the island, and he knew where he was and turned to reach his home when he saw lights on the island. Over the low tide, the howling wind carried the sound of voices singing, but it was a language he had never heard before. So he crossed the rippling sands and climbed the island’s cliff. Below he saw a camp of people, strange to his eyes, short and frail, like sheep without a shepherd. And he felt pity for them, for they had not even set a watch for the night.”

  “Because we humans were so stupid,” Bashan interrupted.

  “No, because we were so trusting to not fear the night,” Owen answered.

  Or maybe just reckless, Nora thought and smiled to herself. Seemed not much had changed, then.

  “So the chieftain remained hidden in the trees until they had all fallen asleep. And he strode in among them to sit beside their dying fire, and in the morning, when they awoke, he sang them his own songs and taught himself their language to question them with many things that they could not understand. And they thought him a god of wisdom, and they loved and feared him. They took him for their lord and followed him to his tribe, and for generations of men they remained loyal to his house. Until the darkness came and with it, the Living Blade.”

  Silence fell once more, and Nora sat in the dark under the tree with the wind raging all about, knowing that tomorrow, if all went well, one of their number would die for the Blade. And if all didn’t go well, they would all die by the hands of the wight warriors. The Isle of Awakening, an endlessly repeating cycle. She sighed and nestled between Owen and Shade, quickly falling asleep.