by Anna Banks
She’ll cook in there; I know it. I thought I had a day—or at least, the rest of the evening—to work this through in my mind, what I would do. What I was willing to risk. As Chut digs that pit, I realize that is no longer the case. It must be soon. I’ll lose the comfort of daylight, yet gain the advantage of the cloak of night.
Rolan yawns again. He is smart enough to keep a watch—and keep awake during his shift—yet selfish enough to have Chut take the first one. After all that Chut has eaten, I’m hoping he’ll fall asleep within an hour of Rolan.
During that hour, I will have much to think about. I will have to reassess my current goals.
In the beginning, walking to Theoria and blending into the Baseborn population seemed simple enough. My most pressing concern had been food and water on my journey. I had known there was the risk of meeting someone along my way—and that that someone could be unfriendly. But having those risks become reality seemed unlikely at the start of my journey. More so after all the time I spent without encountering a single soul in the Tenantless. Perhaps I’ve been naive.
Now, I have no food or water, I’ve met someone unfriendly, and I’ve decided to rescue a potentially dangerous creature from captivity. Mother would not approve. Mother would tell me that risking myself and my identity by rescuing an animal is a selfish goal and that I’m not thinking for the greater good. And she would be right, of course.
But it’s of no use to ponder over what Mother would say. I’m going to save this Parani because … well, because of the way she’s looking at me right now. Eyes full of pain and helplessness. Her skin seems to be having a reaction to the proximity of the heat; from here, I see slivers of steam rise up from where she lies. I don’t want to see this happen. I don’t want to watch her die. I don’t want to watch her cook.
Yet, I’m hesitant.
It’s as though Mother’s words are chains keeping me here, urging me to sleep and let things lie as they are. Yet, why should I want to please her? A waif who left me to my own devices and worse—to my father’s devices. Never once did she stand up for me against him. Never once did she stop him from beating me. Now I should be the one to pay for that negligence? How is that fair? She should be the one tied up here, contemplating her next move.
Fortunately for the Parani, she isn’t.
And fortunately for me, Chut has already dozed off.
It will be a relief to Forge even a small blade. I’ve not Forged nearly enough lately aside from my “gift” to Chut and Rolan; my veins feel full of spectorium, my body faint of power. Up until this point in my journey, Forging had been simple enough. I’d either dig a hole and Forge, or sometimes I’d even Forge small orbs and throw them in the deep part of the river to pass the time as I walked, watching them sizzle at the surface and sink to the riverbed below. Perhaps secretly I was hoping to attract the attention of a Parani, to see one for myself.
Perhaps I was a dolt.
Now I ache with the need to Forge. And if I don’t do it soon, I’ll not have the strength I’ll need to save this creature. My grandfather had been the last Forger until I was born. A Forger’s purpose, Grandfather always said, is to Forge, not to become a vessel for unspent spectorium. It’s not what we’re meant for, he’d said. We’re meant to share it with others. To let such power build up inside us is selfish, and therefore it’s fitting that it makes us ill and weak.
With that thought in mind, I urge the spectorium to my palms, releasing it slowly, letting it seep into my hands and solidify, clasping it between my fingers to make it flat and hopefully sharp. I press my back closer to the boulder behind me, in case the glow of my Forging can be seen from the fireside where Rolan and Chut sleep.
It’s only a small relief, this knife I’ve Forged. My body screams to release more spectorium, to dispel it and gain blessed energy back. Perhaps when I’ve freed the Parani, I’ll still have enough time to Forge more and somehow hide it before my captors awaken. The longer I can hide my ability from them, the better. After all, it’s safer for me to travel with them to Anyar than to do so alone. They’ll likely feed me on the way, I’m sure, just as they did tonight; even Rolan would agree I would be of no use to them if I were to perish, and the wealthy merchant they’re hoping for won’t be interested in a malnourished companion for his bed. They’ll fetch more for me at the Bazaar if I’m in good health. At least, that’s what I’ll tell them.
Because truly, they’ll fetch nothing for me. As soon as we reach the Bazaar, I’ll escape. I’ll escape, and I’ll melt into the Baseborn Quarters. These two goons shall never see me again.
After the blade cools in my hands, I use it as a saw, cutting through small layers of rope at a time. The awkward angle hurts, and I must stop often else my wrists begin to ache. The process is long and strenuous; the blade is not nearly as sharp as I thought it would be, but I saw back and forth consistently and with enough pressure so that the threads of the rope snap one by one. Every now and again Chut startles awake. His eyes dart to me first, then the Parani, and satisfied that we’re still here and bound, he allows himself the luxury of drifting off again.
Finally, I cut through one of the layers of rope. I push and stretch my fingertips to determine how many layers I have left, how many times they looped the rope around my wrists when they bound me. I count four more layers still intact. This will take much more time, between Chut’s moments of clarity and my dull blade. I wonder how long Chut’s shift is. Rolan is sure to stay awake during his, and all will be lost.
The Parani will surely die, and I will not be able to tear my eyes away from it.
Hastened by the thought of entering Theoria with the weight of a death about my shoulders, I work faster as the night grows colder and I begin to shiver. The Parani is no longer watching me, just whimpering in her pit as more steam floats into the night air.
After what feels like an eternity, I cut through the last of the rope. My hands pop apart and I long to rub the ache from my wrists, but time is too precious for that. I dig a small but deep hole and press the knife into it, covering it over and stepping on it to hide the mound; there is simply no time for cutting more rope with a dull blade. Quickly, I Forge another, sharper one to unbind the Parani. I tuck it behind my back and approach her cautiously.
To my horror, she begins to whimper louder. Chut stirs, coughing away a snore. Rolan shows no outward response. I wait several moments, mere feet away from them, watching them sleep. If an insect were to land on their noses or the wind whip their hair in just the right way or the chill of the air get just a touch colder, they could both wake up. They could wake and see me standing here with a spectorium blade, ready to release their next meal.
I should listen to my mother. She is a survivor. She doesn’t let inconvenient things such as emotions get in her way. She completes the tasks set before her and complains of nothing. My mother will live a long, subservient life. And who am I to judge? Who am I to want something more for myself than subservience? I should return to my rock and sleep, covering my ears as the Parani’s whimpers grow louder throughout the night as they surely will while she dries completely out. While she dies. They’ll see I’ve managed to escape my ropes but that I didn’t leave altogether. It will gain their trust. It will make traveling to Anyar easier.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
I turn away from her and take the first few steps back to my boulder. But she cries again. A hopeless, defeated cry that sounds as though she is giving up the way I am.
I cannot do this.
Whipping around, I press a finger to my lips, sure that she won’t understand to be quiet and more than surprised when she actually ceases to fuss. I squat next to her and begin slicing the ropes that bind her arms. I’ve wasted enough time; fear motivates me to move faster despite my waning energy, and fortunately my work, though sloppy, is still effective. When she’s free, she tries to climb her way out of the pit, whipping her fin around to gain momentum, I’m guessing, and clinging to the side to push hersel
f up. Her fin gets too close to the fire and she lets out a small cry. I stiffen, my gaze falling back to Rolan then Chut, waiting for one of them to awaken and find me at my task.
Rolan sits up, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s looking right at me, our eyes lock, but his are glossed over with sleep. His head wobbles just a bit to the left when he says, “Good eating, that one. Delicious.” Then he lies back down, sniffing and stretching as he adjusts himself on the thin mat he’d been lying on.
I can’t risk that happening again. Next time, he might come to completely.
I’m going to have to carry her. Or, at least, drag her. And I’m going to have to do it quickly. But first, I must unleash more spectorium.
No, first, I must move her away from the fire pit. After I’ve dragged her several feet, my energy is gone, and I feel faint. Frantically, I stumble to behind my boulder and drop to my knees, digging a deep, deep hole. The spectorium gushes from my palms, filling the hole with molten liquid. I cover it over before it cools, fumbling with the task. This is taking too much time. Two more holes I dig, and by the time the third is filled, I’ve regained my full strength. I’m hoping the sacrifice of time is worth the payoff in energy to finish this escape.
Returning to the Parani, I tuck my arms under hers and hoist her up. She’s much too heavy for me to throw over my shoulder as Rolan had. Cursing my weakness, which has nothing to do with actual spectorium, I try other ways to lift her but fail. This is costing us too much time. I must tug her across the desert sand and hope for the best. She seems to understand that I’m helping her; she holds to me tightly, her head resting against my chest. Her webbed hands feel confident on my back, and she makes no sounds even though I know the rocks and pebbles on the ground must be scraping her fin. I hope that all the rumors about the tough skin of a Parani are true and that her discomfort is not as much as it appears to be.
Her dragging fin makes a slithering trail in the sand heading toward the river, one that Rolan and Chut will easily be able to follow.
We must move faster.
We both grunt as I stumble in general and fall twice. The river is not far ahead, just several more paces, when I hear yelling behind us. We have not been fast enough.
My muscles ache and my wrists shake with their new task, but I hoist the Parani higher on my torso and dig my feet to gain more traction in the sand. My breathing comes in gasps, and my companion begins to whimper again. She knows we won’t make it, just as I know.
We reach the water’s edge and I all but dump her in, stomping and splashing into the water as I pull her in deeper. “Go!” I scream, chucking the blade into the river behind her.
In her dark eyes, I see the glow of our captors’ torches gleaming behind us. If she doesn’t go now, they’ll catch her again.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. A big hand that could only belong to Chut. “What do you think you’re doing?” he roars. “That’s our food you’re letting go!”
But I’m not letting her go. That is to say, she’s not leaving.
Oh no.
A webbed hand pulls hard on my wrist, jerking me away from Chut. She brings it to her mouth and I’m sure she means to bite me so I struggle against her. Now that we’re in her element, she’s able to overpower me, and using the strength of her fin she surges forward. With a quick motion, her tongue lashes out over my palm. Once, twice, shaping an X of venom there. Then she disappears under the surface, hardly making a ripple in her wake.
I can’t decide which hurts worse, the sting of the Parani venom disintegrating the skin in my hand or my ribs from Chut’s jostling gait as he walks me back to camp thrown over his shoulder. We meet Rolan halfway. His eyes are dark again, full of venom themselves, and now they have puffed rings beneath them from being awoken so suddenly.
“You’re going to pay for that,” Rolan growls.
Chut hauls me all the way back to camp, muttering and cursing under his breath. I have the sense that Chut and I are no longer friends. A Parani feast meant a lot to him, and now I’ve let her go.
I made the wrong choice. I saved a thankless Parani. And she’s given me a painful reminder of my generosity.
Chut sets me against the boulder and turns to Rolan. “What will we do with her now? We’ve no more rope.”
Hands on hips, Rolan snarls down at me, teeming with agitation. “How did you get free?”
“I had a knife hidden in my skirts.”
He narrows his eyes. “Another secret compartment, is it?”
I shake my head. “A pocket. Nothing particularly secret about it. In my undergarments.” It’s a good lie except I hope they hadn’t inspected my person while I was unconscious. If they had, Rolan will call me on it now, the way he had when they’d ransacked my satchel.
“I should have told you about it. I’m sorry,” I say, keeping my voice calm and respectful, and lowering my head. Wrath practically emanates from Rolan and a bit of fear steals through me. I no longer have Chut’s favor. He’ll agree with whatever punishment Rolan decides is appropriate, I’m sure. At the moment, I can’t imagine a punishment more painful than the venom burning in my palm even as my fingers grow numb.
“Temple of Theoria, do you spew lies as a trade, then? Chut, check her undergarments to ascertain she’s not hiding any villages or horses in there.” He turns to me with a wicked grin. “It’s the least we could do.”
Chut hesitates. “I can’t do that, Rolan. She’s a proper mistress.”
“Proper mistresses do not carry knives, Chut.”
“It’s not fitting, Rolan. It’s just not fitting.”
Well then. Perhaps my lie was not as clever as I’d thought. Chut may not be willing to violate decency, but Rolan appears more than eager. He moves toward me and I stiffen, my instincts screaming at me to fight. But I must win their trust again. I need them to take me to Anyar. They’re capable of feeding themselves, obviously, and so they could feed me. Keep me in fresh water. For the money they expect to fetch for me, they would probably even carry me if I became too exhausted to keep up. And without Forging, I will be too exhausted.
I must let Rolan put his hands on me.
Grabbing my wrists, he pulls me to my feet. He’s thorough, patting down every inch of my skirts, turning me around and around. When his hands slide down my breasts, down my bottom, I cringe, knowing heat fills my cheeks when I face him again. His mouth is downturned when I finally muster the courage to meet his eyes.
“We’ve no rope, as Chut said, Mistress Sepora,” he says, balling his fist.
I swallow. “I won’t escape. I promise. I know it’s safer for me to travel with you. I’ll not venture off.”
He tilts his head at me. “A truth, for once in your life. Why the change of heart, mistress?”
“I’m safe with you,” I admit, baffled at his constant perceptiveness.
“But you mean to escape once we reach Anyar?”
I lift my chin. “No.”
He throws his head back and howls into the crisp night. “We would be rich, mistress, if we could only sell your lies.”
12
TARIK
Tarik removes the jeweled necklaces draped along Patra’s head and back. She fully shakes her body, her fur undulating in waves, as if she’s shuddering off the last bit of weight of her stately burden. He feels as relieved as she does. Today is one of the precious few he has to himself, and he intends on taking up the Healer Cy’s invitation to visit him at the Lyceum. Only, he has no intention of going as pharaoh. Against Rashidi’s wishes and ranting and stewing, he dons a blue beaded bib collar—a symbol that he is merely a royal servant. A high-ranking one, but a servant, nonetheless. It’s liberating to wear only the collar and the basic linen shendyt wrapped around his waist reaching just to his knees, rather than the robes and the golden headdresses and the fanciful gold-flecked paint his face and body must endure while holding council or court or being king in general.
Patra follows him throughout the palace, her ears p
erked at attention and her steps more calculated than usual; she knows this is the way they go only when they’re escaping their normal routine and the palace and the monotony of being a royal cat. He wishes he could let her loose to nurture her instincts to hunt instead of being hand-fed the choicest of meats day by day, brushed and combed and petted and groomed to no end. Sometimes he thinks it a disservice to keep cats in such splendor and comfort when their thriving depends so much on their instincts to survive, and to do it well. But to change such a traditional law, to ban the keeping of cats as protectors would throw the Superior class into a frenzy, one that he cannot afford right now. The Superiors must remain happy, else the threat of them moving to a more accommodating kingdom becomes very real.
The kingdom of Hemut has already lured many of the Superiors into purchasing ice caves and into taking frequent respites there, despite the bitter cold and the icy terrain. Though, as Tarik recalls from a visit he made to Hemut with his father in his childhood, the chill of the air is easily forgotten compared with the magnificence and beauty of the ice structures and buildings there. He and Sethos still talk fondly of the Frost Shoots, a mountain carved with many slides for the youth of the kingdom to play on. And besides, one can put on many layers of clothing, while in Theoria, only so much can be taken off, as a matter of etiquette.
Tarik glances to Patra then, noticing the sleek movement of her shoulder blades drawing together and melting apart as she takes each step. He always recognizes when she grows restless; the outings are as good for her as they are for him. They’ve been doing it since he was just a boy of perhaps thirteen, the two of them together, a boy and his cat, and while his father didn’t exactly approve, he never stopped them. That may be why Rashidi huffs and puffs but never insists that he stay inside the palace where a pharaoh can be safe and sound and bored to weeping.