Ice ran down his spine. He forgot to breathe as she leaned even closer.
“We are coming,” she said, and bit into his lower lip.
Chapter 9
Two weeks after, Nora was off the coast of Umbar, the long stretch of land on the eastern shorelines of ancient Moran, the ship sailing by the rearing white cliffs, slipping between the waves. Blocks of ice passed by the low hull, weighed down by the ship’s timber cargo, and in the cramped hold below a few passengers passed the age-long trip playing cards or dice, praying and puking when they were hit by the squall three days into their journey. Nora was the only woman on board, so the captain had offered her a single cabin—“for decency’s sake, y’know”—about a square foot of space for herself parted off from all-too-curious eyes by a threadbare piece of sail. But the puke ran underneath the taut cloth, and she had preferred to go up on deck and bail water, one-handedly, one bucket after another, as the men at the oars pulled into the roaring chaos. No orders were given, for no voice could possibly be heard above the howling wind that whipped the waves into white foam, spray flying from the hull. The clouds above were the color of iron, while the water below was being shredded into streams of white and blue. Armed with a bucket, soaked through to the bone, Nora had held her station, locked between two massive rowers, while their ship shuddered like a live thing under her feet. But the ship stayed afloat, though its double-headed horse at the prow had been pummeled off in the storm, lost to the sea.
That had been ten days ago now. The sounds of carpentry had finally ceased.
“Neeze weeps,” one of the sailors said now as Nora stood on deck. She leaned against the mast, staring out at the deceptively empty ocean, remembering the grip of the slender tentacle around her wrist. She heard the sailor whistle through his teeth. He shook his head as they passed by the wreckage of a different ship, splintered oars and planks on the tossing sea. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
His companion was angling for the spare wood, salvaging what could be used.
“We’re alive, that’s all I need to know, Neeze be thanked. These poor sods—the sea gives a cold and lonely last embrace.” He lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder. “She’s a jealous one, though, Neeze is. Fickle. Don’t do good to wrong her, I tells the captain so. Never heard of the southern passage being frozen before, the Nessan Sea is always too warm. And I never heard of the Tranquil Turquoise throwing a fit like this one. It’s the stirrings of the goddess, I tells him. It’s Neeze Herself. Better to stay in port. But he says he knows better what with his maps and charts. Better than ancient superstitions. But I tells ye, same as I told him, the gods they are awaking.”
“Think Neeze’s jealous because of that strange girl the captain took on board?” the first sailor asked. Nora nearly groaned. “Her face—it looks like…” Here he lowered his voice to a whisper that Nora couldn’t actually hear. But she could guess. A face like death.
She refrained from sighing and touched her burned cheek, feeling the leathery numb scars. Always the damn face. It would do her no good, either, to point out that this ship had survived the storm despite her being on it, despite other ships sinking, despite…Ah, what the hell, it didn’t matter. After all, she would only be stuck on this ship for the next four weeks, the same planks day after day, the same stupid, suspicious people flinching whenever they saw her passing, making the ward against evil. It’d be just like home. She grimaced. The second sailor was right, though, the gods were awakening. Maybe. Drawn by the power of the Blade? Or maybe Queen Suranna had been successful in the meantime, finally raising her beloved Lord of Fire Shinar.
Nora closed her eyes and timidly reached out for the Blade’s presence. She could feel its ancient magic again, through a blinding, stinging mental haze whenever she reached out for a sparkling mote. But there nonetheless. She spent hours snatching them from the dazzling surface of the sea, first one—again and again. Then two, until she could grab a fistful of the dancing specks and hold them clenched to her chest, trying to redirect her inner gaze to see whether Diaz had managed to find Bashan already.
A hand on her shoulder startled her out of her practice, and she half turned, hand raised, a curse on her lips for whoever had sneaked up on her. But no one was there. The two sailors were still talking in low voices out of earshot, stowing away some of the salvaged wood to dry. Rowers were seated beyond at their oars. No one else nearby. Huh. She turned back to the sea and jerked into motion again, hand flying to her hidden knife.
Beside her stood Owen, clad in graying white.
“Holy fucking shit.” She pulled a shaking hand through her hair. “I’m gonna die of a heart attack if you do that again.”
He stared out across the dark water. No apparition, he seemed as bodily present as if he had never been…gone. Not dead, just gone. She stretched out her hand to touch his arm, and her fingers slid through it. His arm rippled, like wisps of smoke, then knotted itself back together again. When she pulled her hand back, she saw it had turned charcoal black. As she wriggled her fingers, the blackness slowly faded.
“How—” She looked up to find him still smiling his half smile at her. “How are we even talking? You were…gone. I couldn’t reach you.”
“I don’t have long. The others—”
Nora’s fingers found and touched a nail in the wooden railing. For comfort, she told herself, not superstition. Because what was there to be superstitious about? I’m talking to my lost twin through magic. In daylight. It’s fine. I’m not crazy.
“What are you going to do?” Owen’s words stretched out for a long time, changed into a timbre deeper than Diaz’s before being snatched away suddenly.
Nora held her breath for a moment, trying not to lash out in fury. Standing at the mast muttering to herself was one thing. Having a shouting match was an entirely other matter.
Four more weeks. She had to stay on the ship for four more weeks. She wouldn’t help anybody if she were thrown overboard right now.
“What can I do?” She moved her lips only a little.
“This is more than villages and temples, Nora. The whole world is going to burn.”
“You want me to save the world?” She clutched the railing tightly, staring at the apparition of her twin.
“This isn’t about you, rememmmmmmber?” A ripple tore through Owen’s form, distorting it. His face looked like a mask of anguish for a second. He glanced around as though looking at someone behind him, lips forming words she couldn’t hear, before turning his attention back to her. “You said we’d start with Shade, then work our way up from there.”
Gods, Shade. Yes. She had failed him so totally.
“I remember.” She exhaled. “Checking in on me, are you? I’ve figured you out, you know. Through sacrificing yourself as the Blade, you made sure Bashan can’t harm me. I get that now. I can withstand the power, so I can protect someone from most of the blast, too.”
“It had to be you.”
“Why me? Because I’m willing to commit suicide? Because that is what this will amount to.”
“No.”
No.
No.
The echo made her shiver in the breeze.
“Fuck dying, eh?” Nora said. “Are you going to let me live forever?”
One corner of Owen’s lips twitched upward, but sorrow clouded his eyes.
“I wish Iiiiiiiiiii—” As he reached out to touch her, he was gone again.
A speck of blue gleamed on the wood, a pearl of turquoise water from the spray. Nora laid her fingers over it, closed her eyes, and still felt the warmth of her brother’s hand.
Four more weeks until she reached the city of Arrun. Four weeks of travel on this little ship, tossed by the waves, right into the harbor of the greatest city in the Kandarin Empire, no, the greatest city in the world. And there she’d find the empress, and warn her. And if she couldn’t impress upon Vashti the need to keep Her Majesty safe, well, then she’d have to find other ways to stand before
Bashan. It wasn’t much time to reach the capital before he marched over with his almighty, godlike power. But maybe just enough to be there ahead of him.
She’d have to try. She owed it to Shade at least. To try to set matters straight before he decided to come back and haunt her, too. Her empty hand bunched into a fist, and she knocked on the wood twice with her knuckles.
She’d try.
* * *
People said that all roads led to Arrun, and maybe that was true, as it was the foremost city in the entire world, chief capital of commerce. Roads were its veins, they said. Yet it was also true metaphorically, as Arrun was the god of the earth, and all roads were thus his, and all of them led to the temple of his name, in the city of his name. Navel of the world. Ugh, it was no wonder people never actually listened to all this drivel, Nora mused on the last leg of the journey, as her boat pulled into the wide mouth of the—wait for it—Bay of Arrun, and the city itself became an overgrown smudge on the shoreline. Another example of how the gods were fucking pricks, naming everything after themselves as though the world revolved around them.
The other passengers joined her on deck in the sunshine, their pale, flabby faces like maggots, opening their greedy little mouths, completely useless as they paid no note to the blossoming almond trees crawling by. Deep in the empire’s heartlands, spring had already firmly planted its feet and graced the view of the city with a jealous blue sky, demanding attention day after day. But even the warm sun’s rays had a hard time competing with the huge dick the city sported. Seriously.
The Temple of Arrun could be seen from days away. Built of red marbled stone, a long, slender shaft reared up, up, up until finally crowned by a conical dome overhanging the sides. The Rod the other passengers—all male—affectionately called it, and it was an impressive one for sure, if one was impressed by sheer size. They talked about it in hushed tones, but Nora couldn’t see what the fuss was about.
It was a tall building. Yes.
The tallest structure she had ever seen. Yes.
It dwarfed the temples of Fire and Wind by far. Yes.
Grand architectural achievement, a tower to reach the heavens themselves, blah blah blah, certainly. It was a symbol of strength, of solidity, but Nora had witnessed the fragile beauty of the Temple of the Wind, the imposing columns of the Temple of Fire, and the gentle matrix of Gimmstanhol. Arrun looked like he had pulled down his pants and proudly flashed his cock for all the world to see.
Instead of staring at the folly of men, Nora spent most of their approach taking in the fields and small towns she could make out on the slopes and cliffs they passed. She saw stone houses tiled with terracotta shingles, embedded in lush olive or almond orchards, the heat of midday pressing down outside of the shaded areas. Lush gardens watered by glittering fountains. While the other passengers were already counting out the money they would make at the city docks with the timber they had hauled across the world, calculating their shares, their returns on investment, and other boring stuff, Nora tried to shut their empty speech out and enjoy the quick breeze, the sparkle on the water, and the verdant scent of earth’s fertility. To the north of the great city, the wide and hilly countryside filled with row after row of vineyards, while in the colorful fishing villages on the coastline Nora could make out merchants’ carts rolling down the paved streets, through the gates, and out onto Arrun’s veins. It all looked so fucking peaceful. The roads were in good repair, the houses weren’t burned-out ruins, she imagined well-fed, clean people laughing and joking with the sailors at the docks. Unscathed by the horrors the north had faced these two years past.
“Unscathed so far.” Owen corrected her line of thought, appearing next to her.
She didn’t even flinch. She could just make out the dark lines of ships’ masts bobbing behind the thick walls of the harbor, narrowing her eyes against the sun’s glare.
Owen pointed to the plight of the inhabitants in the nameless villages with one large sweep of his arm. “Bashan plans to destroy it all.”
“Why? It’s not like these people banished him from his birthright.” Nora kept her voice down, but not too much. The other passengers hadn’t talked to her during the last few weeks, nor had the sailors. Oh, there had been quite an amount of talk about her, but none with her except the bare minimum necessary at mealtimes. One of those standing nearest gave her a funny look, but she shrugged at him, and he turned to his mates, whispering, jabbing his thumb in her direction. Yes, she was talking to herself again. Gods, they must be used to it by now.
“When you’re off the ship, keep to your right.”
And Owen was gone—or rather, he had never actually been there, only in her mind—and left her worrying about what Bashan was planning, as well as wondering whether Diaz had made it to Bashan’s side. Keep to her right, and then where to? The palace? How far away was Bashan anyway? How much time did she have left? And you know, what about the friggin’ magic she could unleash on innocent bystanders and theoretically melt their faces off? So many questions. But while Owen could enter her mind, she felt blocked when trying to reach him. Catching specks of blue light to locate his whereabouts was a neat trick and all, but she wished she could just have him by her side, tap into his knowledge and language skills. But mainly she simply wished to talk. Her lips quivered dangerously.
It was what it was.
She’d try.
Chapter 10
Their boat pulled into the wide freight harbor with channels marked for docking, with piers used as loading grounds, filled with crates and cranes. They were a far cry from the clean and pretty Old Harbor for the wide passenger boats, dainty ships, and other nautical toys of the rich farther up the river, toward the center of the city. As Nora elbowed her way through the bustle of workers, fishermen, and pitch boilers, she was greeted by the stench of the city’s industry. Wafts of stringent urine assaulted her nose, making her eyes tear up. Keep to her right, Owen had said, following the curve of the river through the city—but he had failed to mention that the streets leading to the right were reserved for the tanners’ trade. She passed the open workshops with their vats filled with water and other substances to make the leather smooth and usable, and she pulled her scarf up to her eyes, gagging every now and then. Men and boys trod the liquid in the vats, softening the tough leather, and some sported wicked ulcers lining their limbs and disfiguring their faces. No one gave her a second look. The burns on her face, mostly hidden by the scarf, merited not a glance in this district. After a while, she could nearly believe that Owen had directed her this way for that purpose, but gods, the stench was terrible.
It felt like she walked through the disease-riddled steam for hours and hours, but before long she was on a broad high street before a gate made of the same red marbled stone of the omnipresent temple tower. Guards were watching the trade lazily, clad in leather breastplates with the city’s emblem, a four-winged large spotted cat as far as she could tell. She passed under the gate undisturbed, just another messed-up face from the tannery district. Walking over a narrow bridge spanning a canal, she grabbed a whiff of salty sea air, and went on into the red butchery and animal noise of the meat district. Picturesque place, the capital of the Kandarin Empire. The odors changed from ammonium to cow shit. An ascension to fairer surroundings by degrees.
Arrun was divided into thirteen main districts and had evolved into its present form due to its slow rise to power in the centuries before. Originally four districts seated on the River Arrun, the temple district, the Esquelin where the ruling class dwelt, the Piscina by the riverside (now the Old Harbor), and the Monti surrounding them all in a circle, protected by a large wall. Later, the gradual expansion had devoured the surrounding villages, incorporating them one by one, until the city comprised thirteen districts in five concentric circles, each with a wall around them, each connected by slender bridges over the river, each with their own particular feel.
After a few hours, Nora sat down exhausted at a water fountain crowde
d with chatting women, their hair done up in braids and twists, gold hanging from their ears and noses, veils of nearly transparent gauze fluttering around their heads. They were speaking Kandarin rapidly, talking over each other in a melodious singsong that nearly lulled her to sleep if not for the sharp undertones every now and then. One of them was showing off a young girl to the others, her daughter perhaps. It was hard to tell, since the girl had cast her eyes to the ground. The mother made her dance awkwardly under the hard gaze of the matrons, lifting up the chin of the bashful girl, stroking the long, braided hair. The group of women talked loudly, with sweeping gestures, and the mother kept on caressing the soft hands of her daughter. See, she seemed to say, the hands of a girl who’s never had to work, look at the unblemished skin, the beauty of her doe eyes. Nora felt sick. Maybe she was just tired, though. She knew the spectre of marriage by now, and closed her eyes. It was the business of the matrons around the world to find their sons good wives, and this girl was being appraised just like the heifers had been in the meat district. Funny how things never changed wherever you went.
Washing lines hung over most lanes as well as the spicy smell of dinner. Flowers dangled in pretty garlands from window boxes, from rain gutters, spilling over everywhere in hues of red, pink, and white. Fountains gurgled in nearly every street, their waters trickling down the gutters at the edge of the broadways to carry off the waste that lay there. Nora rested her head against the cool white stone of the fountain and tried to blur out the noise and the new smells around her. She drew on the magic dancing on the water’s gurgle.
Are you there? she thought, eyes still closed.
“Yessssssssssssssss.”
Owen’s voice. She opened her eyes—just to check. And there he was, clad in his white garb, so close their legs nearly touched. But no more substantial than a memory. She knew not to reach out and try to touch him.
On the Wheel Page 27