“Safir....”
I walked past him, my head held high. “We like our payment fast!” the leader shouted, and his men laughed. I stopped in front of him and raised my hands, just out of his reach.
The wind halted, leaves falling to the ground.
The giant man’s eye went wide as he looked at me, truly looked at me. He hefted the hammer, but it was too late. It had been too late from the moment they stepped from the trees.
Voice soft, pictures solid in my mind, I did as I’d been taught, and flawlessly. “Golden fall the leaves of autumn. Upon the wind they split and dance, through the battle, through the lives, turning once to Ashram’s knives....”
The rest of my words were lost in the screams and the howling of the wind as it whipped up around me. Skin split, bones ground together, and fine sprays of blood decorated the hem of my skirts.
When it was over, I let my hands drop and looked back at Bashya. My left eye burned in my skull, its sight gone into the streaks and colors of magic. It was dizzying and agonizing, looking into a world that was not our own.
Pellé and Venia were nowhere to be seen. The guards still clutched their swords, faces gone pale and sickly; Tiko was bent over behind one of the wagons, retching. Bashya simply looked sad.
“Goodbye,” I said, nothing left to my voice but a hoarse whisper. “Thank you. For all that you’ve done.”
He stepped slowly back from me. “Be safe on the grand road. And... perhaps you will find a happy tale to tell instead. Some day.”
There was no answer I could give for that. I picked up my pack from where I’d dropped it on the ground and began to walk. When I was out of sight of the caravan, past a bend in the road, I fell to the side, into a clump of bushes. Thorns tore at my hair and clothes, scratching angry lines into my hands. And I wept, bloody tears from my left eye and clear ones from my right, as I fought the urge to vomit.
* * *
Two days later the scratches had faded to barely a memory as I walked through the outskirts of Tera Sal. The town was far too quiet in the tired afternoon light. Shutters were drawn, gates firmly closed. The street’s cobbles were cracked and missing in places. There were still living, breathing residents; I could sense them vaguely, afraid and waiting like prisoners behind their locked doors. None ventured outside; there wasn’t even a mangy dog to be seen.
I fought, then gave in to the urge to walk by the house of the merchant family that had sold me. What I would do there, I wasn’t certain. The house was a burnt, broken wreck. The stone fence that had once surrounded it was strewn across its barren yard. Holes gaped in the sagging walls of the skeleton house.
Perhaps those were bones I spied, in the yard among the burnt boards and shattered stones. Perhaps not. I forced myself to walk away, before either of my eyes could confirm any sort of truth. The sun was already sinking behind the mountains, painting them black against a bloody sky. I turned to put those mountains at my left shoulder and let my feet lead me down a familiar road. Nothing was quite as I remembered it; buildings fallen down, roofs with sparse shingles, once neat fences with grass growing from between their stones.
Yet how different, how new were any of these things? It was impossible to tell. My memories of the road were the golden haze of early childhood, when everything was fresh and fascinating even if old and fallen to ruin.
The light of a full moon showed me the ruin that had been my true home so long ago. The fields had long gone wild, the orchard had been cut down, and the house had collapsed in on itself. I followed the thread of remembrance, imagining that I walked along a faint dirt track that no longer existed, and made my way down to the stream that had once fed our garden.
It was brutally cold when I dipped my hands in to it, but the water still tasted as sweet as memory. I drank until my stomach threatened to cramp, then retreated to the trees that lined the stream’s little pool.
I settled among the roots of a willow and let my eyes drift shut, searching for the thread of story that ran through this place, the thread of my own story. This was where I had started, after all.
So faint that I almost missed it, so unlike me, I found that thread wrapped in the branches of a crabapple tree nearby. Soft and warm, it had no business existing so near the corpse of a house in the skeleton of a town. Reluctantly, I reached for it, hoping to find some answer beyond a reminder of what I had lost.
* * *
The crabapple tree had been in full bloom that day, the petals golden in the afternoon sunlight. It smelled so sweet, between the flowers and the gentle stream, still full with spring rains from the mountains. I sat in the tree’s branches and watched in idle fascination as the muscles rippled across my brother’s sun-browned back. Though it wasn’t warm, he was sweating, his hair dark and damp with it as he bent to his work.
The story-me kicked her dirty little feet, swinging her legs in the air. After one hundred days of mourning, eating cold funeral food and having to sit through long ceremonies where adults droned on and on, I was simply happy that it was all over, that life was returning to something close to normal. Esmerand and I were back in our normal clothes rather than our scratchy wool mourning robes, and we’d had a real breakfast that morning, apples and eggs and a bit of bacon that he’d fried too crispy.
Esmerand straightened up, grimacing as he rubbed his lower back. He made a big show of looking around, peering at the bushes nearby, even checking the tufts of tall grass. “Little sister, where are you? Did you turn in to a bird and fly off?”
I managed to still my feet, trying to hold my breath.
“Or maybe a mouse, and next I see you, you’ll be stealing my corn cakes!”
I let out a high little giggle then, and he turned to look up at me. Of course he’d known where I was; he’d helped me climb into the tree, to keep me away from the ditch he was working on. “There you are!” He held his arms out to me. “Jump, little mouse!”
Shrieking with delight, I dove off the tree branch and into my brother’s arms. “I’m not a mouse!”
He grinned at me. “But you smell like one!” He poked my cheek gently with one finger. “And look at those whiskers.”
“Esmerand!” I squirmed. “Yuck, you’re sticky! Put me down!”
“You know, I don’t think I will,” he said. Instead, he swung me up onto his shoulders, getting another happy squeal in reward, and picked his shovel back up. “I’m going to take you out to the farthest field and toss you out into the grass, since that’s where mice ought to live.”
“No you won’t!”
“See if I don’t,” he said. He started the long walk back toward our house. Among the green and golden fields, it stood out like a beacon, painted a cheerful shade of bright blue. “What do you think for dinner tonight? We could have stew, if you’re good and help me with the vegetables, or we could just have more bread and cheese.’
“Stew,” I said. “And no turnips.”
“I like turnips.”
“That’s stupid. Cows eat turnips. You’re not a cow.”
He laughed. “Mice eat turnips too.”
“Liar. Turnips are too big for mice to eat.”
“A whole family could eat one. For weeks and weeks.”
I made a rude noise, swinging my heels lightly against his chest. “Is it going to be like Mum’s stew?”
There was a slight hesitation in his step, but that was all. “No, I think it’s going to be like my stew,” he said. “And I think that’s how it ought to be. Mum and Dad have gone away. Instead of trying to be like them, we should just be like ourselves.”
I considered the merits of this as best I could. “Does that mean you’re not going to read to me like Dad did?”
“Better.” He bounced me on his shoulders. “I’m going to teach you how to read to yourself.”
I felt a little thrill of fear at the idea. “That’s bad,” I whispered. “Dad said so.” I still remembered the look on his face when he’d caught me looking at his books, and the
angry words he’d said.
“Maybe he did, but that doesn’t matter any more. Because you know what?”
“What?”
He swept one hand across the horizon. “This is ours now. All ours. It’s our kingdom. So you’re going to be the queen here, and I’ll be the king, and we get to decide what’s good and bad.”
I frowned. “I get to be queen?”
“Of everything you see.”
“Like the Rez—rez—rezzylind the warrior queen?”
Somehow, he managed not to laugh at my butchering of Queen Rezralond’s name. “Yes.”
“Then I don’t think you should be king. You can be my general, though.”
He did laugh then. “Oh, you’re too kind, Your Majesty.”
“And if you’re a good general, you can have a horse, too.”
“Well, I’ll do my best, then....”
* * *
The wind tugging at my hair woke me, the chill helping me untangle myself from the thread of that warm afternoon. Just as difficult to grasp as that wind, I caught hold of another story-thread so familiar that it made my eyes sting with tears. Hardly daring to breathe, I lunged to my feet, lurching toward the tree that stood over the bones of my parents. So faint that I thought I must be imagining it, I caught sight of my brother’s story, shining and silver to my cursed eye.
The thread of story didn’t end at the tree, or in the ruins of the house. One side of it, dimmer and older, plunged far in to the distance, to be lost in the confusion of so many lives. The other was far fresher than my own sunny memories. In an arrow-straight line it pointed into the foothills that the town sagged against, showing where I might find the next chapter of my brother’s life.
* * *
I set out immediately, walking as quickly as I was able, into the hills. There, I found a lonely but smooth path that lead in the right direction. I followed it for hours, while overhead deep night faded to false dawn, then into true dawn. My head began to feel too heavy for my neck and sagging shoulders, but I feared that if I looked down for even a moment, I would lose sight of the thread and never find it again.
The sun was well in to the sky, stretching out my shadow in front of me, when the otherwise straight path took a sharp turn around an elderly pine and ended at set of stone steps. I looked up and up—granite blocks and wood, a house so big that it might have been a church—and just trying to grasp the height of it left me reeling. Exhaustion broke through me; legs shaking, I began to fall.
A large, warm hand caught my wrist, dragging me back up to my feet. The sound of a familiar voice reached me, like a rope thrown to a castaway in the storm. I found deep brown eyes, flecked with green, so like one of my own. He had changed, but only a little. A few tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the line of a scar on one cheek, and that was all. I had to tell myself that he hadn’t shrunk; I was taller, fully grown. “Brother...,” I began; my throat felt dry and filled with rust.
He touched my left cheek, his fingers rough against my skin. “Safir? Safir, what did you do?”
I flinched away, turning my face to hide my cursed eye. “What I had to.” I tried to pry my wrist from his grasp, but he wouldn’t let me go.
“I’m... I’m sorry. You look exhausted. I just... come on, let’s get you inside,” he said, then smiled. It was the same old smile, radiant like the sun, and I couldn’t help but smile in return. “There will be time enough for talking later. All the time in the world.”
“All the time in the world,” I repeated, and let him half-carry me up the steps and through the wide doorway. There he took my cloak and satchel, hanging them on the wall. His own cloak, black and far finer than mine, he kept on.
“Sleep first, or food?” he asked.
“Water,” I croaked.
“Of course. Come along.” He took me down the hallway to a small, surprisingly sunny kitchen with a well-worn wooden table and three chairs, none of them matching. I dropped into the nearest with a sigh of gratitude. He deposited a pitcher of water in front of me; I didn’t bother waiting for a cup. I drank so greedily from the side that water spilled around the corners of my mouth and down the front of my dress.
“Still messy, I see,” he observed.
I ignored him until I’d drunk my fill. “And do you still wear black because it hides stains?” I asked, setting the pitcher back down with a solid thump.
“You ought to be nicer if you want me to cook breakfast for you.”
“Then you ought to have raised me better,” I snapped, immediately regretting it. Esmerand still smiled, but I could still tell that the blow had landed. “I’m sorry. I’m over tired.”
He waved a hand, dismissing the apology, then proceeded to make breakfast like he had in the old days: thick slices of bacon, eggs scrambled in their salty grease, crisp apples. I tore into the food as soon as he set the plate in front of me; I was halfway done before I noticed that he wasn’t eating, just staring. “What.”
“I’m sorry.... Just... you’ve changed so much,” he said. “And that.” He wasn’t rude enough to point at my eye, but there was no question what he referred to. “They don’t teach girls. Hell, they don’t teach anyone unless they feel like it.”
“I know,” I answered sharply. “I did what I had to do, Esmerand. There’s no other answer than that.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t push.” He gave me a crooked smile. “But I’m proud of you, to have learned so much. Perhaps I can take some credit, for teaching you to read.”
I shook my head, though I did smile for a minute. “What a thing you did, Esmerand.” My breath caught in my throat. “What about you, then? Why here? And now? Where were you?”
He sighed, looking away, toward the tall windows of the room. Outside, the sky was bright and very blue. “I’m sorry I left, little sister. So sorry. I didn’t have any choices by then. You didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you, but... we had nothing left to sell. When Mum and Dad died, we already had debts, from the house and from their illness. I applied to the Order first, but they turned me down. After that, all I could do was look for work. As soon as I could, I came back, but you were already long gone. So I stayed. Even if they didn’t accept me, I’ve studied what I can of the Order. I know the forms that tales take. I thought... even if I couldn’t find you, one day you’d make your way back here. All I had to do was wait.”
I laughed bitterly. Of course the Order had turned him down; Esmerand was neither pretty nor a solid work horse. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”
“I wanted to find you, Safir, I truly did. I wanted us to be together again.”
“I did—do—too. Brother... the people I traveled with say that Tera Sal is cursed, or close to it, the home of some sort of alchemist. That’s you, isn’t it.”
He smiled. “There’s more than one route that leads to power. I just found a different one.”
“Power. How hollow that sounds.”
“Good thoughts and love didn’t keep us fed,” he snapped. He stopped, cleared his throat, then continued in a more gentle tone, “I’ve the talent for the magic. The same as you do, it seems. I’ve always known it. All I lack is the knowledge. Since the Order wouldn’t take me in, I’ve just had to make my own way. So far, I’ve learned to make gold, and that was enough to build this place.”
Yet he hadn’t crossed that crucial frontier, where stories changed from simple words to living weapons. His eyes were the same as they had always been; he couldn’t possibly see the tales woven in to the world as I did. “But you’re not done.”
“Of course I’m not done. There’s more to learn, I know that. So my research continues,” he said. “I’m close, I think.”
“You can make gold, Esmerand. Which is more than I can do. What more can you need?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Gold’s just a thing. It’s not alive. It tells no tales. Maybe the Order’s forgotten that.” He finished the last bits of his breakfast and cleared our plates away. “I’v
e started to think that maybe they did me a favor, refusing to take me on. They seem like so many dusty old men, shut up in their monasteries, just worrying about what wealth they can make, what pleasure they can afford. The words and the tales... those are life. I can’t help but think maybe... just maybe, if you could change the stories, you could change the world.” He didn’t seem to notice when I shuddered. “You look worn half to death, Safir. How about you get some more rest?”
I didn’t feel so much tired as uneasy; all this talk of power, of research turned my stomach in knots. “Maybe. It’s been... a long journey.” I combed my hair away from my face with my fingers. “Do you have a library?”
“Of course,” he said. “Let me show it to you.”
It was glorious, a large room filled to the bursting with shelves of books. Some I recognized from the monastery’s library, but there were new ones as well, about alchemy and mathematics that had foreign lettering. “Esmerand, this is... stunning.”
“Well, I’ve worked hard to collect these,” he said. “Why don’t you read for a while, and just relax. I’ve got some work that I need to do, but then I’ll come get you for lunch.” After a moment of hesitation, he pulled me into an embrace. I went stiff as instincts honed at the monastery told me I should fight it, then I made myself return the embrace. It felt unnatural. He released me, then gave me that same, stupid grin of his.
I nodded, and tried to give him a smile in return. “All right,” I said. “It is good to see you.”
He paused in the doorway. “I hate to ask, Safir, but... a few days ago, there were some bandits killed outside the village. That was you, wasn’t it.”
“Yes.” Remembering it made me feel sick.
“It’s all right, sister. I wish I’d known they were there. I would have taken care of them myself. I’m sorry for that.” He ran his hand slowly up and down the door frame. “What words did you use? I’ve never seen its like.”
I covered my eyes with one hand. “Shattered sun,” I said. “At the last.”
“I see,” Esmerand said. “Don’t worry, Safir. It was what you had to do.” Then he was gone.
Beneath Ceaseless SKies #49 Page 3