Bast regained consciousness with a yelp and began drumming like he had never left off. The matron jumped in as well, and soon the dancers swung around in gleeful abandon again. Despite this, a somber mood blanketed the room, and most of the crowd returned to drinking, talking in low voices. Munayair struggled to keep her eyes open. Several men sitting at the next table began to talk, words washing over her like a gentle current. “Any bets on who it’ll be tonight?”
“No point. The only thing we know is who it won’t be,” someone replied darkly. Murmurs of agreement went up and down the group, followed by the thud of cups hitting the table.
The atmosphere in the room was strange, Munayair thought as she took another sip of tharra. Wild, almost frantic. The beat of the drum pounded like a heartbeat, and the dancers leapt and clapped and spun. All colors blended apart from the vivid red of the village girls’ skirts, like smeared blood. They danced like those possessed, with the fear of death upon them.
Blinking, Munayair shook her head. The room came back into focus, a simple inn with simple occupants enjoying simple pleasures. The drum was again a tool in the hand of a drunkard. And most of the girls weren’t even wearing red. Frowning, Munayair pushed away the bowl of tharra.
That’s strong stuff, Av murmured. He sounded a little unsteady as well.
The conversation behind her began again, and she listened absently. “Did you hear the regent’s issuing a draft?”
Another scoffed. “He’s been threatening for moons now. Nothing’s ever come of it. Nor ever will, as long as Antil sits on the throne.”
Most of the others agreed readily, but one voice rose in dissent.
“I had the news from a merchant what came up from Al-Thina yesterday. This time it’s real. The Bui-tarans are recalling ambassadors out of Andustava and the Chilarin Isles. The high lords have been summoned to Bui-konut to begin conscription.”
The doubter guffawed. “The emperor would never risk an open attack on the Alliance. He might be immortal, but his people ain’t.”
“The Sayakhun are raided from over the river multiple times each moon now. They’re wearing them down. Soon they’ll be at our border, doing the same thing.”
Munayair jolted back to wakefulness, shivering hard in the warm room. She gripped her knees hard and tried not to listen.
A bowl banged on the table. “Serves ‘em right. Bloody idolaters.”
Voices chorused agreement. A gentler voice spoke: “They’re a brave lot, I’ll give them that. Without the clans, the war would already be on our own soil. They’ve held the Bui-tarans in stalemate for almost twenty years now.”
“Trademaster Aref saw another battle along the river two nights ago. Burned wagons, dead cattle, stolen horses. The Sayakhun don’t dare go far beyond the river, not with them mages waiting.”
Munayair’s eyes stung. Vomit rose in her throat and the room spun. She clasped shaking hands together, screams and smoke rising unbidden in her mind. Scorching flames dragged the air from her lungs.
Breathe, child, Avlingai whispered. Breathe. You are safe here.
“Five gods!” Anjita dropped into her seat, cheeks glowing and hair a sweaty snarl. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” She leaned toward the cooling spell.
Munayair cowered amidst the roar of flames, heart racing inside her chest. The screams grew louder and louder, approaching from behind ... When she tried to breathe, the air caught in her chest and choked her. It smelled of smoke. Gods, would she ever get that stench out of her nostrils?
“Naya, is everything all right?” Anjita peered closer. “You’re white as a sheet.”
She couldn’t bear to be seen right now. “The tharra—” she replied, pushing herself to her feet as the room swayed around her. “Fresh air ... don’t mind me.” She stumbled out of the courtyard into the yard.
It is not real, sister, Avlingai said, but even he sounded less certain. Could she not hear the voice of the fire, smell the scent of smoke? How could she know what was real, if her very senses betrayed her? She patted her empty pocket and fear jolted down her spine. She needed Tel, as the panic overtook her. She needed his constancy, the smoothness of his forehead under her thumb. Only he could keep the fear at bay. The memories ate away at her mind until she could no longer tell vision from reality.
If they come for us again, Avlingai said, deadly calm, this time we will kill them all.
“No!” she cried aloud, not caring who heard. “Control—I need control! Spirits, Tel, where are you?”
Fumbling in her pocket, she pulled out her chelka call, a rod about the length of her hand carved from mahogany wood. She dug the pointed end into the dusty earth and activated it with a spell on her right calf. The glyphs flashed, then rose humming into the air. It throbbed like a heart, sending out a signal to any of her chelka within range. If Tel still had power left, he would come.
Stars wheeled overhead. Stew and tharra churned in her stomach and she gagged, leaning against the stony well. When the nausea passed, she slumped back and looked up at the sky to see Howler grinning down maliciously. Hunted across the heavens by the Lady of Spirit, and still he grinned. It was a kind of madness, to enjoy being hunted. As she stared up at the wolf moon, understanding stirred inside her. Doomed to flee for all time, why should he not have fun while he did it?
In her dizzy and disordered state, Munayair began to feel she was also running. Wildly, through a plain of darkness. Silvers of light fitfully illuminated the way ahead. Something dark and formless was coming from behind. She ran on four paws, tongue lolling. Was not a wolf made for running, with long legs and a strong heart, lungs like bellows and muscles of steel? Lady Tulokh might pursue in all her righteous sternness, but Lord Tatakh would mock his own fear.
Then she made the mistake of glancing behind. It was not darkness there, or a placid round moon. It was a field of fire racing faster than a horse could run, roaring hungrily. It sought to devour her, flesh and bone alike.
In her mind, Avlingai growled, Let them come. They’ll get a taste of their own terror.
“Oh spirits,” she gasped, clawing at empty air. “Where’s the river? I can’t find the river! The fire is nearly on us!”
She staggered and nearly fell, catching herself on the crumbling well. All her meals from the past moon returned in bursts until she bent double, struggling to breathe. She shivered, night air cooling the sheen of sweat on her skin.
Sister! Avlingai cried. Don’t lean on that wall!
“Gan,” she whispered, pitching forward, “where are you?”
Warm hands took hold of her shoulders and pulled her back. “Whoa, careful,” a voice said.
She shivered, not with cold. “Gan?” she rasped. Her head dangled and the stars whirled. The well’s mouth gaped, black and cold. “Gan, why did you leave me?” Icy chills ran down her cheeks and she realized she was crying.
An arm grabbed her around the waist and turned her gently. “You’re about to topple into the well. Are you ill?”
“No, drunk on stupidity.” She could see little except for a pair of golden eyes, gleaming like an animal’s. Curiously, she reached up to touch the wind-roughened face. “I mistook you for someone else. Are you a spirit?” One of the hands stopped her before she could touch him. The other tightened around her waist until her feet dangled above the ground. She saw they were going towards the inn and stiffened as voices filtered through the windows. “No!” she cried. Their pace faltered, and the hand around hers tightened. “Please,” she whispered.
“Goddess preserve us, are you always this demanding?” the voice wondered. “Where would her majesty prefer to be conducted, I wonder?”
“I’d like to go to the stables,” she said with dignity. “And it’s actually her highness. My father is a moriezen of Sayakhun. Clan leader, you know.”
“I bet that impresses all the boys,” he chuckled.
This must be a song spirit, Avlingai said. Watch out, they can talk for days.
On the sh
ort walk to the stables, she had to stop twice more to retch piteously, bringing up only water. Finally, she raised her head, drinking in the warm scent of hay and droppings. Already her hands shook less. No moons shone inside, and she knew little about her escort apart from a vague impression of a shadow settling her on a bed of straw. One hand leaned her head against the split-rail stall. Apart from a pony nickering nearby, and hooves shifting in the darkness, none of the animals showed any alarm.
“You must be Onzii, guardian of drunkards,” she murmured. “You always had a soft spot for my family.”
The spirit said something, she couldn’t quite make out the words. A moment later, something warm touched her. She looked down and saw a small cat sniffing her hand, dark grey in the gloom of the stable. Munayair rubbed its soft crown and it headbutted her knee before climbing into her lap and settling down, purring.
Munayair looked back up at the spirit. “Why do you have an owl’s eyes, Onzii? My grandfather said you were a fat old man.”
The shadow sat back. “Old?” it repeated.
Munayair bent hastily in an abbreviated bow. Dame Savra would whack her on the back of the head if she could see this. “Never be impolite to a spirit,” the crone would cry in her wavering voice. “And never forget to thank them for their gifts.”
“Thank you, spirit. I am in your debt.”
The shadow paused. “You are, aren’t you?” The voice was playfully thoughtful. “You should know, I always collect my debts.”
Munayair suddenly realized they were alone in the darkness and isolation of the stable. Not all spirits were kind, or even friendly, and they had odd notions about repayment. Who could tell what this one would demand in return?
“Spirit, I ...” she stammered.
“Fat old man,” the shadowy figure chuckled as it rose. Hesitated. “Stay away from the well.” Then it vanished.
It’s a good place to wait, Avlingai said. He sounded ashamed. I’m a little dizzy.
She leaned back against the stall. On top of everything, her head had begun to pound. For a moment she sat debating whether to stay in the stable the rest of the night or go back and face Anjita’s questions. Then something shifted in the straw behind the napping pony.
We’re not alone! Avlingai snapped.
Munayair jumped and ignited her witchlight. Thrown from her lap by the sudden movement, the cat ran from the stall with tail fluffed. The light illuminated glittering eyes, a slight figure crouched against the back wall. A child, by the look of it, scrawny and clad in filthy rags.
“Spirits!” Breath exploded out of Munayair. “I thought Onzii had come back to collect his debt. What are you doing, hiding back there?”
An obstinate growl was her reply. “Goodman Mishra lets us sleep here, as long as we feed the beasts and brush them down.”
The innkeeper keeps a child in the stable? Avlingai’s words were a growl. Are the dark days of slavery not behind us?
Munayair blinked, trying to keep the bear’s anger from affecting her. “Where are your parents?”
“Never had any.” The child lifted a dirt-smeared chin. Under the mat of tangled black hair hid a pair of fiery eyes. “Mother Mishra took us in as babies. We keep to the stable ‘cuz Goodman Mishra doesn’t like the guests to see us.”
“That’s barbaric!” Munayair didn’t trouble to disguise her indignation. In the back of her mind, Avlingai rumbled agreement. “Even during the rains?”
Spindly shoulders lifted fractionally. “The hay is warm, and horses are better company than people.”
Munayair regarded the child. A spindly creature, all knees and elbows. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Chanda.”
“Beautiful.” Munayair smiled. “Your mother must have loved you, to give you so precious a name.”
“I suppose. Wouldn’t know.” The girl shrugged. Her sharp dark eyes gleamed curiously as she glanced at the witchlight floating in the air. “You’re one of them adepts from above.”
“My name is Munayair.” She gestured, and the witchlight drifted down to her palm. “Would you like to touch it?”
Chanda’s eyes widened. She unfolded one limb at a time, moving towards the glowing green ball. She flinched back once but returned with growing confidence. A smile flashed across her face like lightning. Munayair held her breath.
“So you are one of them.” She narrowed her eyes at Munayair. “I thought you’d forgotten us.”
Us? Avlingai repeated.
Munayair scanned the slumbering animals. “Is someone else here?”
Chanda’s eyebrows lowered; lines of suspicion etched her gaunt face. “Did I say that? My stomach growls so, I don’t know what I’m saying.” She shrank further into the shadows.
Gently, Munayair asked, “Have you eaten today?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking, miss!” the girl snapped. “Mistress Sisue is kind to us. She brings us hot soup almost every night. It’s just … these past few moons she seems to forget most of the time.” She shrank back and her head lowered.
“I can give you something to eat,” Munayair said. Her heart ached. She pulled the last, withered apple from her pocket.
Chanda’s eyes widened. She snatched the offering and devoured it in five bites, core and all, then licked her fingers clean. “It eases the ache,” she murmured, pressing on her hollow stomach. She flashed a guilty look around. “I ate it all.”
“I’ll bring more,” Munayair said quickly. “I don’t have anything now, but I’ll come tomorrow.”
Chanda’s lip twitched. “The nice ones always say that. They stop coming after a while. Hunger never forgot me for a single day.”
Munayair laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder and bit back a gasp at the cold. “I promise, I won’t forget.” Shrugging, Chanda’s eyes fastened on the witchlight once more. Munayair hid a smile. “Would you like to try?” She held out her hand. “All you need to do is—”
“I know.” Chanda touched the spell on Munayair’s finger eagerly, her lower lip clamped between her teeth.
Nothing happened.
Munayair let out a breath, looking carefully at the girl’s face. Chanda sat back abruptly, face hidden behind a curtain of straight black hair. “It ... it didn’t work,” she muttered.
“If you were born with the gift, the spirits would have made it known.” Munayair offered. “You would have been found a long time ago.”
“I don’t understand,” Chanda cried. “It used to work. I did lots of spells with the Adept from above. She always said she would teach me one day ... Why not now? What did I do wrong?”
The stable door banged and Anjita shouted Munayair’s name with a note of alarm. “I’m here,” Munayair replied. When she glanced around for Chanda, the girl had vanished back into the dark.
Now that’s interesting, Avlingai said.
Any ideas? Munayair asked. Have you ever heard of magical ability vanishing like that?
Ask me again when this poison isn’t hurting my head.
Anjita charged into the stable, witchlight ablaze, rudely waking the pony. He danced for a moment before calming under Munayair’s hands. “There you are.” Anjita frowned around the stall, hands on hips. “I was sure the wolves had got you. Or the guardian spirit, whatever.”
“Not so loud, please.” Munayair pressed a hand to her forehead.
Anjita sat, as far from the pony’s hooves as possible. She held out a sticky parcel. “You didn’t stay for dessert. It’s your favorite.” Munayair looked at her hand on the straw and said nothing. Shame roiled in her stomach, and the sweet scent of the treat made her feel even more ill. After a moment, Anjita put the parcel back in her pocket. “I know what,” she said, “this stable is plenty comfortable, and warm to boot. Why don’t we stay out here for the night?”
The warmth in Munayair’s chest had nothing to do with the heat of the animals. She nodded. Quickly they both stripped down to their shifts. Then they snuggled in the clean straw facing each
other, warm and drowsy. Anjita let her witchlight drift over them. The sound of the horses nickering and the sharp smell wafting from the goat pen comforted Munayair more than anything else could. “How far do you think the sea is from here?” she whispered. She tried to picture it while knowing her imagination could never approach reality. How could so much water rest in one place without running away? She had never seen a body of water larger than a river in her life.
“It’s still leagues away, isn’t it?” Anjita replied. “A moon to Al-Thina, and we’ve been traveling eleven days.”
They were silent, lost to drowsiness. Then Anjita spoke again, sharply. “There’s good folk here, that’s sure. But I think I know why the innkeeper is keen to get on our good side.”
“Why?” Munayair asked.
“The water spell in the washroom has been tampered with.” Anjita’s eyebrows drew together. “Hidden in the back, so naturally it caught my attention. I’m no expert, but it looked like the kinetic energy had been renewed illegally. I’ll bet breakfast all the spells are the same. Oven, lights, everything.”
“So the innkeeper is falsifying his taxes?”
Anjita nodded. “It stands to reason they wouldn’t report whatever’s happened to that village. They couldn’t risk a full keeper inquiry.” Her hand fiddled with the pin on her collar.
“What will you do?”
“One thing’s sure. We can’t stay after tonight. We’ll go find the enclave—a city the size of Upper Adasari is bound to have one.”
“How long are you planning to stay?” Munayair asked.
“As long as it takes,” Anjita replied. “The more I think about it, the stranger it feels.”
In her mind’s eye, Munayair saw once again silent grey figures massing around the terrified ghost. Color and life faded as her eyes begged Munayair for help. And the smell, the terrible scent of something foul. It haunted her until she fell asleep. She kept patting her empty pocket uselessly, heart sinking lower each time she found it empty.
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