Amelia was sitting near the tent’s makeshift desk, her back to the tent’s entrance, when she learned that her final day watching the tent had come. This information arrived in the form of heavy footfalls, a cold breeze and the overpowering scent of fish. Mel, although busy, had enough mind to imagine a seasoned sailor, jacket scuffed and faded with the salty ocean breeze, his prolific beard swinging with each footstep.
“We prefer not to take visitors until noon, sir,” The female apprentice, Nadia, addressed the newcomer. “But if you’re visiting someone in particular–”
“I am a woman, you know.” Hearing those aggressive, irritable tones made Mel smile secretly at the desk––partially at July’s impatience with the frequent confusion, but also because of how easily she made the mistake herself. She made a mental note to apologize later.
“It’s okay, Nadia,” Mel called, turning to the conversation. “She doesn’t bite––much.” July’s vexed smirk, which was almost exactly as she imagined, became a beaming smile. “Except that one time.”
“We don’t talk about that one time,” July agreed with mock gravity. “Walk with me, doc?”
Mel nodded and followed July through the fabric tent’s door-flap, leaving Nadia to continue her daily rounds. The tent was situated in a crowded clearing, surrounded by short, sturdy buildings on three sides and a stretch of forest on the other. This formed a pocket of heat that the sea breeze had trouble sweeping away––a necessary measure, Mel had specified, to prevent the wounded Shribe from freezing to death. They crossed the flat dirt onto the beginnings of a path, which opened up into the muted cityscape––bright and chilly, but decidedly comforting.
“How’s the pier?” Mel asked. “Still making a pretty penny?”
“If by ‘making a pretty penny’, you mean lifting boxes, then no,” July said, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her thick leather jacket. “I unravel fishing nets now. Have for two weeks. Has it been that long?”
Mel nodded. “Time is sand between your fingers, always shifting.”
“Poetic.”
“Should be––it’s a poem.” Mel smiled. In spite of the increasing gap between her visits, July’s presence was always a simple joy. “But I assume fishing nets are not what’s on your mind.”
“No,” She agreed. “They’re not. I think we should move on.”
Although her heart leapt at the idea of leaving Aja, Amelia remained stoic. “We? What happened to saving your wages for a ferry to Lochmount?”
“Yeah… About that,” July said, a guilty smile lining her features. She steered them onto a secondary road, where the tiny buildings began to fade away altogether, leaving only barren grass, and a fantastic view of the channel that marked Aja on the map. The wide berth of water shined under the brilliant sun, casting kaleidoscope profiles of light onto the few buildings that remained.
“I’ve been thinking about that day in the Chitinwood,” She continued. “The fighting, I mean, and––well, firstly, I’m still sorry for what I said when I came back.”
Mel remembered that discussion with the unfortunate clarity of the wounded heart. On their first night together after July’s initial venture to Aja, the shock had gone a long way in wearing off. Blame was placed. She elected not to review the painstaking details for the umpteenth time, instead only recalling snippets––the words coward, heartless, and selfish in particular. Mel took the insults full on, not speaking a word until July was finished. Then she wrapped her arms around the girl. July dropped her head and sobbed into Mel’s shoulder.
“Don’t be,” Mel said.
July still seemed troubled by the thought, but continued. “If you were just going to Warden, that’s one thing––but with half the Lhord’s Army on your tail? You need a knight in shining armor.” She fenced with an imaginary rapier, demonstrating her chivalry against an illusory opponent.
Mel rolled her eyes. “And when will they arrive?”
“Simply put,” She said, ignoring Mel’s skepticism, “You would die without me.”
Mel saw no reason to argue with this logic; only so many years can be spent travelling alone. If the girl wanted to accompany her to Warden, all the better––she was a hardy fighter, and good company, even if she complained of aching feet.
“You’ll have to send a letter to your parents,” Mel conceded.
“Already did. I told them I’d be home in time for Winter Solstice.” Arriving at the pier, July held up a hand to the gatekeeper. He waved in return, trotting over and dropping the heavy padlock to the ground, opening the corrugated steel gate to the two travelers. Its hinges groaned, long rusted by the briny ocean air. Mel sympathized.
The harbor in full housed a great number of boats; wide and flat shipping vessels, emblazoned with the insignia of foreign trading charters; spear-like ships with pointed tips and proud, billowing sails, designed for incredible speed; battered, boxy fishing boats that resembled the urban sprawl of the Ajan Shore itself; and a variety of unremarkable but nonetheless charming dingy-sized boats, suitable for a crew of two or three––or, in some cases, a lone traveler with a solid heart. Mel also noted, with some disquiet, one patrol craft bearing the insignia of the Lhord’s Army––two arms crossed in an ‘X’, overtop a plume of flame. The boats were in places obscured by looming buildings with equally sizeable doors, designed to take in shipping vessels and store their cargo (Mel observed with some amusement that July forked the evil eye at these buildings as the pair passed by). It was easily the most impressive port on the west coast of Asla.
“I would hazard a guess that the patrol ship has something to do with our departure,” Amelia said, still uneasy.
July began to nod, then stopped. “Partially. I’ve been saving up wages to rent a boat since we arrived. I’ve had enough for a week, but that,” She gestured to the patrol ship with her head, “is the omen I was waiting for.” Mel understood this in the most elementary way––every time she looked at the craft, her instincts screamed at her to keep moving, to lie low. It wouldn’t be the first time she took on a different name and affected a foreign accent.
July observed a small white number painted on one of the pier’s metal anchoring poles. “Thirty-four.” She nodded, and then continued on.
Mel, intrigued, watched July run eagerly ahead. “What number are we looking for?”
“Five… six… seven… this one!” July called, her hands planted on her hips. She looked out into the harbor at something obscured from Mel’s view by a large shipping boat. As she neared, it slowly came into view; first, the bow, streaked with a chipped blue paint; then the hull, that same blue color, adorned with faded white letters––“Circumstance”; the boat’s modest sail; and finally the stern, wherein a shoddy wooden box assumedly housed rope, fishing line and other nautical paraphernalia. Instantly the boat felt companionable to Mel, like a childhood comfort or dog-eared book. It was hardly a sailboat at all, but Mel was hardly a sailor.
“July, this…” Mel, in her genuine surprise, searched for words blindly. “You rented this? How much money did you make?”
July was suddenly bashful. “Well, I did a lot of night shifts, and… the Shribe villagers chipped in too.” When this only contributed to Mel’s floundering, she continued. “They don’t blame you, you know. It’s not your fault that he followed you.”
“I… wish I could believe that,” Mel said, suddenly feeling stony and unresponsive.
“You stayed and helped them heal as best you could,” July snapped. “So smarten the hell up. Besides, Circumstance speaks for herself.”
Mel’s eyes were drawn back to the boat, along her curves and aged exterior. July was right––in spite of her self-pity, she had done her best to make amends. That would have to be the end of that––as it had been so many other times in her travels.
“When did you get so wise, July Casperan?” She said. A smile broke through her solemn face.
July shrugged, bashfulness returning once more. “I learn by watchi
ng.”
“Onward, then.” Mel turned back to the harbor, where the vast water consumed the horizon. “Wherever Circumstance would take us.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WIND IN OUR SAILS. ASH IN OUR DREAMS.
July was pleased to discover that a great joy had made itself known to her. After a short instructional lecture from Mel, she took to sailing with the aptitude of a child conceived and born at sea (even if such a thing would never happen––sailors contested the presence of women on long voyages for superstitious reasons). Her hand on the tiller was natural; the modest sailboat turned in wide, gentle arcs, never cutting hard enough to jerk one way or the other. At a change of wind, she perked up, following the currents of air like she could see them plainly, her hand stealing away to trim the sail accordingly. It was as if the art was bred into her, and on more than one occasion July wondered if there were sailors on her family tree as well as farmers.
On their first night out of Aja, she peered into the water’s surface, a short spear in hand. Around the spear’s hilt was a cord of rope, tied in a knot through a hole bored into the implement’s wooden shaft. She regularly lashed the spear through the air, watching it spiral and pierce the figure of the moon in the undulating blue tides before reeling it back in. She didn’t try particularly hard to catch anything, but felt compelled to master the skill anyway––in case things take a turn for the worse, she thought, which is distinctly possible.
July considered the path Mel had charted out for them. She remembered watching her finger start at Aja, which was fine, get into the Sul’Lhord Strait, which was also fine, and then turn away from the mainland, towards the island country of Zelan, which was less fine. Then she continued around the island’s perimeter, landing back on the far side of Amora. When July indicated a much shorter route––down the strait, across the Old Amoran Sea, landing in the ancient capital, Amor––Mel shook her head, grim. The Lhord’s Army patrols the Amoran Sea, she had explained. We would be hailed in days. But the Bal’Lhord Empire has no interest in Zelan––we’ll be safer there, even if it means sacrificing the highway.
July glanced to Mel now, asleep on the deck in a cocoon of wool blankets––the boat was too small for a sizeable cabin. She rolled over, her expression briefly troubled, but whatever bothered her dreams passed quickly, seemingly whisked away on the channel’s cool breath. July smiled, touched by something like love, and returned to the side of the boat––starboard, she corrected internally. A sailor would call it starboard.
She looked back to the surface of the channel, reeling in her spear for what felt like the hundredth time. She wondered if Mana would have smiled under their strange, featureless mask if they could see her now, fingers deftly navigating the body of the spear. She wished she could’ve said goodbye to Mana, and to the captain, Mercury. But she didn’t blame them for staying in the Chitinwood, just out of her reach––reconstruction had begun from the day the men and women of Aja arrived, hard but friendly, food and blankets in hand. The Shribe was full of survivors, not the least of which were the captain and her ward.
July’s mind fell naturally on Mana’s words, in the midst of the fire––how Amelia surrendering in the interest of peace was ‘very Amoran’. She had tossed those words over more than once in the weeks following. It was another coal to tend in the dark; not as comforting as the words the pair had shared on that eventful night in the barn, but warm and curious all the same. What exactly was that supposed to mean?
She rested the spear on the ship’s wooden deck, being careful not to make much noise. That was enough spearfishing for one day––for a week, even. Although she was improving, it was still an exhausting exercise in patience. If she had wanted to do nothing, she’d be much more content looking out over the horizon, imagining the places she might someday see, the places a sail full of wind might take her––the places Circumstance might take her.
A word drifted over to July’s tired ears––home. She turned to the sleeping doctor, wondering if she had really heard the word at all. That troublesome cloud had settled on Mel’s dreams once more, and this time it looked ripe to stay.
Uneasy, July sat on the wooden bench at the ship’s back end––stern, she corrected. She watched the horizon, and occasionally the compass in her pocket, but always returned to that troubled expression.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mel dreamed of Cloudless.
She pulled the cloak tighter around her body, frowning at the harsh wind that ruffled the lawns of her childhood neighbors, tossing flowers astray and smacking the wood panels of the ruinous dwellings against their frames. That steady smack seemed to summarize Amelia’s misgivings; a persistent feeling that this was not her home at all––only a beast, lying in camouflage, reeling her into its colossal jaws. At home, the houses never creaked and moaned; the sky was never painted such a violent gray, exempting the day that she left it all behind.
Amelia continued on, scuffing her feet on the cobbled path that wound through the town’s residential sprawl. She kept her eyes mostly to the rounded stones, choosing to ignore the haunting constructs at the end of the brief dirt walkways. It felt somehow shameful––as if she were desecrating her parting memories by feeling anything but nostalgic, happy nothings.
She didn’t consciously head to the clinic, but when she found herself there, it was no great surprise. She spent more time here than almost anywhere else in Cloudless, and her feet knew the route as well as her head did––better, likely. She hesitated only briefly at the door, noting how warm the dull copper knob was in her hand.
The reality of her uneasiness settled in once more as Mel passed through the clinic’s lobby, a short hallway that ended in two doors; the supply closet and the examination room. Ordinarily it took only ten strides to cross––she had counted in the lonely days before leaving, desperate to anchor her memory of the plaza. She remembered this about twenty-three strides into the dark corridor.
She turned back to the front entrance, but it had sunk away into the dark behind her; ahead, the supply closet was also mired in darkness, leaving only the examination room, from which an unnatural yellow-green light flickered. She started to jog, then sprint as the blackness continued, the door still fixed in space ten strides from her. Her stomach began to writhe in discomfort as a familiar smell filled her nose. Her eyes began to water.
All at once, Amelia was at the door, her hand on its splintered wooden frame. It was uncomfortably warm to the touch. She spilled into the room, just barely catching herself. Her vision was obscured by gouts of smoke, which only served to aggravate her tears. What she could see of the room was in ruins––shelves overturned, bottles cracked and emptying on the warped floorboards, windows gray with ash. She stumbled forward, moving bed to bed and trying to see their occupants, read their faces, spy the movement of breath in their chests.
Each one was as stiff as stone, their faces smooth and featureless. Their clothes were damp and sticky, and their skin bore the texture of melting wax. Most horrific of all to Amelia were the shallow grooves her fingers left in their pale bodies, which warped and dripped under the intense heat.
She held a deep, wracking cry in her lungs and waded through the smoke, closer to the source of the fire. Surely if she could extinguish that, everything would be alright, everything could be salvaged–
She stopped as if slapped, her eyes catching on a dark shape at the end of the room.
The figure, its edges sharp and mean, watched from the smoke, cast in shadow by the ill yellow-green light of the fireplace. His eyes burned, even obscured as they were, cold yet somehow hot––cold like the sharp wind that haunted the town, hot like the endless sweltering flames that consumed everything in their path. Below his eyes, a smile peeled open, belching forth a black haze of ash and embers. Four words tumbled forth from his scorching maw, a mantra with the screeching quality of steel against stone, launching her heart into an uncontrollable stutter.
“Come
home, Amelia Saul.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mel’s eyes snapped open, her body splaying with enough force to dismantle her blanket chrysalis. The breeze bit at her clammy face and burned her heaving lungs. Her mind still resided partially in the burning clinic, searching desperately for the hellish iteration of the prince; but as she took in her surroundings, her panic as well as her dream began to unravel, the sun’s warmth cutting through morning fog.
As the events of the day before returned to her, Mel glanced around for July, a bud of rosy embarrassment blooming in her cheeks. Had she been speaking in her sleep? Screaming, even?
Not that she wouldn’t understand, Mel thought. I’m sure she’s had a few nightmares of her own recently.
Spotting July at the stern, she folded the blankets loosely and stood up, crossing the deck with experienced sea legs. July may have discovered her innate talent for sailing, but it was not Mel’s first journey by boat––far from it. In fact, she had crossed the Sul’Lhord Strait twice before; once on a medical expedition to the far side of Zelan’s Pink Hills, where a chain of villages had suffered through the interest of a pack of desert wolves; and once more visiting the Dune King, Balthias.
The girl sat on a cracked wooden bench, her eyes lidded and glassy and her hand resting on the tiller. Mel was ludicrously reminded of the archetypal slovenly sailor, back slouched, hand on a pint of ale. This was another image left over from her handful of sea-bound travels, and it made her smile––a good thing after such an upsetting dream. It was times like these Mel remembered how young July really was––hardly into adulthood, and already travelling the world. It was equal parts reminiscent and worrisome.
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