“I COME FOR YOU!” it rang, terrible in its thought-shattering intensity.
“I COME FOR YOU, CHILD. AND THERE IS NO ESCAPING ME.”
Sehin came to the world wrapped in a stomach-churning dread that blurred her senses. She did not feel anything else for a while. The fear pulsed hard against her eardrums and drove its sharp nails along every nerve of her body. When it finally receded a bit, she realized that she was intensely cold and that she was shivering uncontrollably, although she could not tell if it was from cold or fear.
A dull headache slowly made its way to the forefront of her perception. She tried to move her head, but it proved too much of an effort. There was a sticky froth on her mouth and a stink filled her nose, making her stomach convulse painfully. Through the fog of emotions, pain, and the jumbled mess of her thoughts, she struggled to remember where she was. She tried to open her eyes but the sun stabbed painfully at her eyeballs.
Sounds made their way to her. Voices were buzzing around her. The stink was still there, but more distant somehow and, despite all her pain and helplessness, an unusual warmth and comfort enveloped her. A pleasant scent eventually pierced through her sensual doldrums. She felt a rough fabric against her face and became overly aware of the hard muscles rolling under it. She forced her eyes open against the bright afternoon light, her eyelids fluttering madly. A face slowly came into focus. Then mortification washed all other emotions right out of her.
Brahin was holding her!
She tried to sit up and push herself away from him, but she only managed to jerk faintly in his arms. She closed her eyes, reigning in tears. Embarrassment burnt through her like a red-hot coal, and she found herself wishing to be miles away. The buzz around her grew in intensity. A good dozen of her sisters must have been surrounding them.
“Arhan have pity!” she silently implored.
She felt awkwardly humiliated. She was being held like a child -“or a lover,” started a small voice she tuned out before it even spoke- and her sisters were the witnesses to her shame. If she could have turned herself into a speck of dust to escape her situation, she undoubtedly would have. She was laying there as helpless as a newborn in Brahin’s arms. Before she could dwell any further in the awfulness of her situation, Mother Magdal’s voice cut through the small crowd’s hum.
“Take her to her room immediately!”
“Concern in her voice…”
“Someone must have fetched her.”
“He’s holding me…”
She felt Brahin lift her effortlessly.
A few minutes later, she was lying on her bed. She felt exceedingly tired, as if the world itself was pressing down on her. Fear lingered, flashing its macabre face through the pulsing ache on the side of her head.
“Sleep would feel so good,” she thought.
But she also wanted to hear what Mother Magdal and Brahin were saying. They stood by the door, talking in hushed tones. Her mind felt heavy, her thoughts laboriously rising through a thick swamp of emotions and exhaustion. Their voices came to her in irregular spurts through the thickening blanket of her slumber.
“-a vision…” Mother Magdal was saying.
Brahin’s voice, so hard to hear:
“-fell, and hit her…thrashing… hurt…”
And then again, later, coming from still further away:
“-Arhan’s mouth… -means… -alright?”
Then the weight of sleep became overwhelming and she surrendered to it.
When she woke up the next day, the sun was already high in the sky. Its light washed across the threshold of her room alongside a soft salty wind that brought with it the familiar wailing of seabirds. Her first thoughts were of Brahin, of his touch. She now knew beyond a doubt that he was the one inducing her visions. His touch, its physicality, lingered in her mind atop that knowledge, a soft pulse that radiated a comforting heat in her chest.
She sat up slowly and listened for hints of someone’s presence. She was alone. She closed her eyes and tried to let the remnant of her last vision wash over her. It had been something important, she knew that. It had left an urgent aftertaste in her mouth. But again the knowledge was a breath too far for her to reach it. Arhan’s mouth came up in her mind, empty words devoid of emotion or meaning, little more than an assemblage of syllables.
“Arhan’s mouth…” she mused, “is that important?”
She felt tired and for the first time in a good long while, she also felt lonely.
Remembering her face being dirty and the stink of bile, she felt her mouth with cautious fingers but did not find anything there.
“Someone must have washed me while I slept; how embarrassing!”
She got out of bed, undressed and slipped into a fresh pair of pants and a shirt. She moved slowly; the side of her head hurt if she moved too brusquely.
“I must have hit my head pretty hard,” she thought.
Once dressed, she ventured into the afternoon heat and headed toward the day quarters wondering if Brahin would be there. She slowly walked the path she had walked countless times. The fresh wind felt good on her face and the sunrays warmed her deeper than skin. Despite the events of the previous day and the dull throbbing of her head, she felt good, she decided. The day had fresh accents to it, a bright quality that swelled into unsung melodies in her breast. She felt light on her feet in spite of her aches. She smiled at her sisters as she crossed the northern gardens and assured them that she was fine. Seeing them, she was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for their presence and company, and for them being who they were.
She felt great in truth.
As she walked in the sun, down the hot, creaking staircases, the old wood under her bare feet was like the cherished touch of a loved one. In the lower gardens, the sight of the cacti, the flower-beds, and the small bushes she had tended to over the years brought her untold satisfaction and joy. The world radiated goodness and lifted her onto new winds.
She crossed the bridge leading from the libraries to the day quarters and the sea breeze playing with her hair filled her with a rare, childish giddiness, its soft pull on the roots of her hair eliciting a strangely satisfying tickle.
She was… happy. She felt bright and alive. Everything around her was beautiful and serene. It all sang of life and joy. By the time she came in sight of the day quarters and their leafy roof, she was lightheaded with a deep sense of blissfulness.
“And Brahin is here!” she thought, her heart swelling with renewed elation.
She rounded up the lush corner of the day quarters. The northern arcades shone bright in the sun light. She stepped onto the wooden planks that led to the hillside arcades and the day quarters’ entrance. Light-footed, she pranced into view of the tables and chairs in the shade of the great Chet trees, and the calm sea beyond.
She spotted him at once.
Brahin was sitting by the western arcades reading an old manuscript. As had become his habit since he came to live amongst them, a couple of the low bamboo tables, strewn with volumes, were next to his chair. She stopped on the threshold of the entrance and looked at him. An unadulterated smile of joy glowed across her soft features. She took a deep breath and thanked Arhan for giving her such a glorious day. Seabirds glided high above, their laugh a sweet song to her ears, and the trees rustled gently in the wind, praising the beauty of the day. Brahin looked up and saw her. He waved and smiled back at her, a genuine, wholesome smile.
Her heart pounding away the exuberance of the day hard in her chest, she took a step toward him, feeling the pull of her smile deepening as she got closer to him. He was about to say something to her when his eyes fixated on something behind her and his face froze into place. His smile melted into a removed, placid mask and faster than she thought possible his blade was up and he was rushing toward her.
The pinch came without a warning. At first she thought that her heart could not take so much happiness and that it had started hurting. In a blaze Brahin was by her side and the
n was gone. She was still smiling when the ground jumped toward her and a searing burn erupted in her belly. She crashed to the floor, her white shirt growing strange, crimson flowers. She did not understand how that could be.
“Maybe my head’s still hurt from yesterday,” she thought.
She was aware of shouts coming from behind her; of the sharp sound of metal onto metal and of the screams of her sisters. But her stomach hurt now. She wondered what she had eaten that would give her such a fierce stomachache. She lay on her side and the flowers kept growing.
“I have flowers on me. I’m turning into a garden!” she thought.
She tried to smile at the thought but could not.
“Why do I feel like crying?” she wondered.
She was confused; flowers usually did not make her sad.
“Beautiful, dark-red flowers.”
She tried to move but could not and found it hard to breathe.
“Silly me, I thought I was alright, I should have stayed in bed longer.”
The sounds around her grew distant. She felt tired now.
“I feel weak a lot lately,” she thought behind eyelids growing heavy. “I wish Brahin was holding me again.”
Then as if he had heard her thoughts, he was kneeling by her side, caressing her hair. She willed her eyes open. She wanted to see him so badly, she could not remember why, maybe she had never really known.
“Brahin,” she managed to say.
“I’m here,” he said softly.
His face was a hardening composition of pain, sadness, and guilt.
“Brahin,” she repeated, her voice hollow and rough.
“I’m here,” he said again, a hard edge to his voice.
She wanted to look at him still, but she could not keep his face in focus anymore. Her vision started blurring and took green accents. His face stretched and split into a different plane and then another.
“He looks funny that way,” she thought sadly.
The world dimmed around her. It grew faint and quiet, and took on a dream-like quality.
“I’ve never touched his face!” she suddenly realized.
That thought scared her beyond reason.
She suddenly wanted to feel his face; Arhan be her witness, she had never wanted anything so much. She reached up for him with a shaky hand that felt impossibly heavy.
“I want your face, Brahin. Your three faces.”
Her thoughts felt disconnected, as if they were not truly hers any longer.
She reached for him and yet she knew him already beyond reach.
Her arm dropped to the floor, but she did not notice it.
Brahin’s faces blurred further.
The world stretched and condensed at the same time.
“Brahin… there are three of you,” she whispered to him, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
The blur moved.
Maybe.
And her world ended.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Gray Arlung, Alymphia.
Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age.
The city-port of Gray Arlung was a long, curved stretch of rocky beach that had been turned into an immense pier with a labyrinthine array of docks stretching half a mile into the sea. Vessels of all types and sizes were attached to algae- and shell-covered bollards and rocked as one in the eastern-born swell. A natural reef in the shape of a rough semi-circle ran the length of the city five miles out at sea and shielded Gray Arlung from the brunt of the strong gale storms that broke out every so often in the open sea.
The air smelled of fish and salt and at any time of the day was full of the squawking of the seagulls and fishbeards that swarmed the skies in rhythm with the comings and goings of the fishing vessels.
The city was long and thin and did not spread farther than three blocks inland. Most of the houses were wonky wooden shacks with tangled up fishing nets, barrels, and salt blocks in their front.
On the southernmost side of the city, about a mile from the city center, was the ship factory. There, metal-workers and carpenters worked tirelessly on precarious-looking wooden scaffolds to assemble fishing-boats, merchant-vessels and warships.
The central plaza, where the main road dead-ended into Gray Arlung, was in the middle of town and one block inland. It donned one of the few stone structures to be seen in town, the main temple, a squat building with wide arches and a large fish sculpted on its front façade. Fanning in front of it was the main market where fishermen and surrounding farmers met merchants and traders every afternoon for sessions of loud barter and haggling. West of the central plaza, atop a small butte was Gray Arlung’s fort, which housed the local garrison.
The northernmost part of town was where the nobles resided. There, most houses where made of bricks, had more or less well kept front yards and the streets were mostly free of drunken sailors thanks to the increased presence of city watchmen.
Cassien arrived in Gray Arlung on the thirteenth day of his journey. Since his parting with the Longrooves, he had met other travelers and it was in the company of a group of local farmers, in town for the bustling market, that he set foot in the city-port.
It was early morning and the skies were a cold blue-gray with shards of pink highlighting stray clouds near the city-line. The air was fresh and crisp, salty and heavy with the effluvium of the sea, rotten algae, fish, and boat grease. Cassien had never been anywhere near the sea. Yet, the peculiar smell and the rippling expanse that greeted him upon entering Gray Arlung felt strangely familiar, like the fragile remnants of a dream soon forgotten. After having spent two long weeks mostly in the silence of seldom traveled roads, the sounds of the city were overwhelming and unlike any he had grown accustomed to in Syndjya. The incessant cries coming from the birds hovering over the city, the arrhythmic slapping of the halyards on their masts, and the shouts of sailors returning from a night at sea were so alien that it would take Cassien days for him to get used to the foreign cacophony.
He bid farewell to his companions at the market where they set up shop for the day, and he ventured down to the pier. The sheer number of boats fastened to the busy docks was impressive to say the leat, but even more so was the number of sailors and fishermen that swarmed them.
Most had craggy faces with short beards that shone of salt crystals in the rising sun light. Old and young alike had deep-set, wind carved features with red cheeks and redder noses. But despite their visible tiredness they shouted to one another with coarse voices full of spirit and laughter about the ale and the lasses that awaited them in the port’s taverns.
Cassien breathed in deeply of the salty air and looked around the busy pier. He had to find a place to spend the night. The city watch would have him in jail in an instant were they to find him sleeping in the streets. And Hethens forbid they made him out! He refused to entertain that thought and headed south along the docks. He only had a few coins left, probably enough to last him three or four days, but not beyond.
“I have to find a vessel to cross the Empty Sea,” he thought while maneuvering the crowded waterfront.
He strolled about for a while, taking in the city. Eventually, he decided to inquire with an innkeeper lest he walked aimlessly all day. He randomly picked an inn that faced the harbor. It was a narrow two story building with a sign that said: ‘The Gray Maiden Inn’ and a somewhat creepy figurehead pointing at the sea above its entrance.
Inside the air was stale and smelled heavily of oil and ale. Cassien walked past greasy tables to the far corner of the room where a horseshoe counter was cramped under a crooked staircase. There, a woman of indefinable age was wiping tankards with a dubious-looking rag. A heavy smell of fried food came from an open door behind her.
She looked up as he approached. Her hair was brown-gray and was held back by a colorless cloth. Her eyes were blue and sharp. They contrasted with her narrow features and the gray tint of her face. She had the look of someone who always expected the worst and had made peace with its unavoidable occurren
ce. She was thin but not excessively so. The blue, long-sleeved bodice she wore revealed sinewy forearms and strong-looking hands. She eyed him for an instant and seemed relieved not to recognize him.
“A bit early for a pint isn’t it, boy?” she said with a sneer.
“I’d like a room, actually,” Cassien replied, ignoring her tone.
“In that case, it’s four bronze a night.”
She pointed at the door behind her with her thumb and added:
“And another bronze if you want breakfast too.”
“I’ll take it, with breakfast.”
He pulled the coins from his pack and dropped them on the counter.
“You’ll be staying long?” she asked as she racked the coins off the counter.
“It depends… I need to get across the Empty Sea.”
She arched a dubious eyebrow.
“Across? What for?”
Cassien told her of his pilgrimage. He did not feel a pinch of shame as he had the first few times he told his made-up tale. The innkeeper must have been the fifteenth person to whom he fibbed and somewhere between the fifth and the tenth it had stopped bothering him.
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