The only body we have to work with is mine, Munayair reminded him.
He shifted in the back of her mind. Your teeth are useless in this situation.
Finally, Chanda’s tears ran dry and she lifted a wretched, tear- and dirt-streaked face. “I’m so hungry,” she moaned.
Munayair rummaged in her pockets and produced an egg and two pieces of sweetbread. “Here. These are for you.” With an exclamation, Chanda snatched the food, shoving it into her mouth. “Slow down. You’ll choke.” Munayair held out a waterskin.
After one sweet cake had disappeared, Chanda glanced up. “Your hair is like mine, and your eyes, apart from the color. Are you a Bui-taran, like my dog of a father?”
Munayair choked, and Avlingai chuckled. She gets right to it, doesn’t she?
A little too direct for my taste, Munayair thought back. To Chanda she said, “No, dear. Bui-tarans and Sayakhun have the same ancestry, but we live very differently. I’m from the western plains.”
“Ah.” Chanda nodded, although her eyes were still wary. “I knew you weren’t from around here when you swore to the spirits instead of the five gods. Are you a dust eater, then?”
Munayair stiffened. “In Sayakhun, we do venerate the spirits, yes. We don’t worship them.” She breathed out slowly. “And we don’t eat dust.”
“Oh ... I see.” Chanda’s brow furrowed. “So how did you become an adept?”
A smile twisted Munayair’s lips. “There was … a journeyer. She was very persuasive.” She shifted. “I brought more food. Didn’t you say there was someone else?”
The desperate munching ceased, and Chanda’s fingers tightened around the egg until it crumbled. Her eyes were big and dark as she looked at nothing. “He ain’t here,” she said finally, voice a rusty creak. “My brother, my twin. I’m older,” she clarified, and returned to the egg.
Munayair’s stomach dropped. “Where is he?”
Chanda didn’t speak, eyes flickering over Munayair’s shoulder. Following her gaze, Munayair’s breath stopped in her throat. The statue of the Night Watcher sat in its alcove, winking at them.
“Miss Sarem-ori?” The door swung open and Sisue stepped inside, eyes narrowed in the gloom. “Ravi said I might find you in here ...” She saw Munayair and raised a hand in greeting.
Munayair rose as Sisue approached and turned to find Chanda had disappeared once more. She stood dumbfounded, gazing around the dusty gloom. Not a trace of the girl remained. No footprints, no warmth in the straw, not even a dust mote had been disturbed. Her foot hit something. She picked it up, contemplating the item with a palpitating heart.
“I hope Radhan didn’t offend you ...” Sisue trailed off. “Whatever’s the matter?”
“Was someone next to me?” Munayair looked up quickly. “When you came in, was I alone?”
Sisue blinked. “I ... I’m sorry, dear. There’s no one but the horses and goats.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Munayair turned over the object in her palm. Not a single mark marred the smooth surface of the egg. “It’s about Chanda.”
“What’s that?” Sisue frowned. “My hearing’s not what it once—”
“Your stable hand, Chanda. I need to know—”
“Chanda?” Sisue shook her head. “Why, dear, where did you hear that name? There was a pair of twins, Chanda and Mehan Das, who used to work in the stables. Children of my late sister’s girl, who got with child from a Bui-taran soldier passing through. We took them in when their mother abandoned them as babies.”
Daystar, Avlingai swore. Does she mean ...
“Where are they now?” Munayair pressed urgently.
In response, Sisue pointed towards the back wall of the pony’s stall. For the first time, Munayair noticed a symbol burned into the wood:
Sisue’s voice was a whisper. “It was left there when the Night Watcher took them, four moons ago.”
Chapter 17: Town Drunk
Sorath was somewhere near the horizon, obscured by the thick clouds. Trees rose into the grey sky, silent apart from dripping leaves. Clouds hung like a musty blanket and the air seethed with the muttering of insects. Birds chirped a greeting to the sun. The dew-drenched grass had soaked Munayair to the waist, and her skirt clung like clammy hands. Sweat prickled along her hairline, dripping down into her eyes. She ignored the discomfort and her heart beating like a drum in her ears, approaching the grove at a steady pace. A moon had passed since their arrival in Adasari. Tonight, the Night Watcher would take a new victim, unless she could find a way to stay his anger. She halted just in front of the tree line, the metal edges of her offering biting into her fingers.
You ought to be singing, Avlingai muttered. He had spent most of the night trying to dissuade her from approaching the Night Watcher’s grove. Now he walked just behind her like a thundercloud himself. A dawn ritual needs singing.
“The birds are singing,” she pointed out.
A huff was her reply. Not in this place, they aren’t.
The trees loomed over her, dark and silent, watchful. Avlingai was right. No birds sang within the grove. Breathing deeply, she held out Mother Mishra’s silver salt cellar, unwittingly lent, and prepared to sprinkle some expensive salt. Dame Savra had drilled the harmony ritual into her at a very young age, and the words flowed smooth as water. “Great guardian of the forest, accept this offering as a symbol of my pure intent. Let what enmity stands between thee and the people of Adasari—” She broke off with a yelp. Something was coming out of the woods, an alarming bellowing proceeding it. The voice was slurred and broken. Inhuman. She started back and a handful of white granules spilled. Quicker than thought, Avlingai placed himself between her and the sound. Sparks flew from his usually soft blue eyes, lips peeling back to reveal fangs as long as fingers. Munayair croaked through the fear clogging her throat, “Spirit, I summoned you for ...” She trailed off, narrowing her eyes at the mist-obscured figure. The staggering walk looked strangely familiar. Weaving unsteadily through the trees came the drunk from the inn, singing at the top of his lungs.
Avlingai chuckled, stepping back. A fearsome sight, indeed.
“Goodman Hashemi?” she cried. “What are you doing in there?”
The tuneless roaring cut off and Bast stumbled, one good eye squinting at her. “It’s th’ adept oo ain’t an adept.” His voice came out garbled. “Wantz t’ know what ahm doin’ ... in there.” He beamed. The expression aged him backwards, a child under the beard.
“It’s Munayair Sarem-Ori.” She hesitated, on the brink of offering an arm while not wanting to offend. “What are you doing in the grove? Isn’t it dangerous?”
Avlingai lifted his head and sniffed the air, huge nostrils flaring. He came out unscathed, he said thoughtfully. How curious.
Avoiding her eyes, Bast chewed on nothing. Munayair recognized the look from the whites she had taught. Fear and bravado, a child with a secret. She coaxed, “Is there something you want to say?”
Discontent crossed Bast’s face and he scrubbed a hand through already-disheveled hair. “I know, I know. You think I’m a useless drunk, like the rest of ‘em. They whisper an’ giggle, you think I can’t ‘ear ‘em? None of youse understand. I have to drink. I have to.”
He stinks of cheap liquor, Avlingai complained, backing away. I can’t smell anything else. Send him away so we can finish this travesty.
Munayair frowned. A curious thought came into her mind, an idea so insane she could not help wondering if it were brilliant. “Goodman ...”
But now that he’d warmed to his topic, Bast rolled on with increasing fervor. “Anyone can make a mistake, there’s nothing to get so het up about. All that shouting and screaming, anyone ‘ud think I’d whistled at the wind!” He stumbled and she leaped to steady him. The cellar tumbled, spilling the rest of its precious contents. She grabbed his arms, cringing from the scent rolling off him. It was a wonder he could walk. Avlingai watched in silence, displeasure rolling off him like waves of heat. Bast tu
rned to Munayair, eyes brimming with worry. “I never did, I swear on my mother’s grave. I always spit in the river before I take my boat out, and I’ve never left a house by a different door than I went in. You don’t think I’m bad luck, do you?”
Wordlessly, she shook her head. Not for the first time, a pang of compassion shook her, for his uselessness and aimlessness. She released his arms and squeezed his hands instead, trying to convey that she would help him if she knew how. As was her habit now, she mentally compared him to Adept Ajhai’s words. Golden son, man who is no man, deathbringer. It was hopeless. No matter how she approached it, Bast could not be the one.
Daystar be praised, Avlingai muttered in response to her thoughts. I cannot fathom a crisis requiring his involvement. Unless you needed to make it worse.
Stop it, she thought back. It’s me you’re annoyed with. Don’t take your spleen out on this poor man.
“In truth are all things set free.” Bast savored the words like a delicious joke. “That’s my family’s motto, you know.” His chuckle turned into a roar. He came to a halt, tilting his head back until his laughter rang from the still, listening trees.
“Bast?” She recoiled from the loud noise. It felt out of place, even dangerous, in this deep silence. “Goodman Hashemi?” She chafed his hands between her fingers. “Bast?” She only had time to gasp before his hands clamped on her wrists, dragging her closer.
“You have to help me,” he sobbed, “please.”
Avlingai let out a long, warning growl. Silently, Munayair shushed him. They stood for several long moments. Bast’s wide, bloodshot eyes searched her face while seeing something leagues distant. This close, the alcohol on his breath washed over her in overpowering waves. “I wasn’t always like this,” he gasped, tears leaking down his cheeks. “Do you know what it’s like? When the ones who are supposed to stand at your side turn their backs on you? When they leave you all alone?”
She drew in a shuddering breath and gripped his arms firmly. “I know,” she said. “You can trust me.”
Slowly—so slowly—his gaze returned to her face. His hands trembled. “Trust you?” He tasted the words. He glanced at her hands, fastened around his wrists.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Frozen in place, fingers seizing painfully. She was pulling away when he grabbed her wrist, gaping at the mark. Avlingai’s hackles had risen and his claws dug into the earth. Then Bast yanked her close, searching her eyes for an answer written there. The mark burned white-hot.
She leaned back. “What are you ...”
Avlingai’s charge caught them both off-guard. His speed belied his great bulk, and when he hit, blue sparks shot from Munayair’s hands, chest, and hair. Bast’s eyes rolled back as he flew through the air and landed with a thud among the tall grass.
“Av!” Munayair yelped, but the bear was already gone as Sorath’s searching fingerbeams tore through the clouds. She ran, high-kneed, through the wet grass. Bast lay sprawled among bent stalks, eyes closed. For a moment she feared the blow had killed him, until a snore escaped his lips. She chuckled disbelievingly. Through fear or drink, he had fallen asleep where he lay.
Leave him, Avlingai’s voice sounded in her mind. He was still filled with rage. He should learn what happens when he touches people without permission.
He almost told us something useful. I hope you’re proud of yourself.
Bast slept the entire time she was checking him for injuries. He snored as she levitated him through the village, much to the entertainment of the passers-by. Sisue met her at the inn door with a half-amused, half-exasperated expression. Between the pair of them they got him into a cot to finish sleeping it off. When she stepped outside, Munayair had to take a moment to slump against the wall, bending over her shaking knees. She pulled back her sleeve to look at the mark.
Are you hurt? Avlingai asked. He was beginning to sound contrite. His volcanic anger never lasted long.
“No,” she replied comfortingly. “Just a shock.”
Good.
She laid a hand on her mark, still warmer than the surrounding skin. “He knew what this is, didn’t he?”
It did seem so. Curious.
For a while she leaned against the wall, thoughts whirling. The disappearances. Falean’s expression of silent resignation. Bast’s terror. It all added up to something, but she could not quite understand what. And the smell in the village ... she shuddered. Somehow everything led back there. Bast, Sisue, Sachin, and even the village council had implicated the Night Watcher as the culprit.
“Something’s not right here,” she muttered.
She thought of solid warmth keeping her upright, sarcastic words. Berries and grubs piled carefully on leaves in the endless forest. That creature, the Night Watcher, abducting people from their homes? Destroying villages? She shook her head. Whatever had caused the awful stench at Samak, she could not reconcile it with the one who had saved her from the well.
As for her idea … she pondered. Perhaps it was too crazy even to try, but what other options did she have?
“Why am I even thinking about this?” she muttered, rubbing her aching head. “We should have left weeks ago. This is the keepers’ job, not ours.” Anjita’s, she corrected herself silently. I’m not an adept anymore, so this isn’t my business at all.
The spirits’ voices mocked her in chorus. “You will never be an adept of the order of words.”
Avlingai said nothing, but his worry clung to the back of her mind like the bitter aftertaste of tea.
The stable stood empty for the third day running. No more ponies, or horses. Even the goats had been sold downriver. Munayair peeked around for Radhan before stepping through the doorway and whispering. “Chanda?”
“Here, miss.” The voice came from her elbow. Chanda sat in the doorway, face lifted towards Sorath. The sunlight revived the girl, as had days of regular food. Her cheeks had filled out, and light glinted in her dark eyes. She was older than Munayair had originally thought, sixteen or seventeen, but small and thin-limbed.
Munayair nodded greeting and fished a box out of her pocket. When she took off the lid, the smell of mint wafted into the air and Chanda sighed. With one hand, she clutched the box tightly to her chest and with the other she shoveled rice and creamy yogurt into her mouth by the handful. As she ate, Munayair looked around.
No tachoul today, Avlingai noted.
So far. She sank to her haunches. “Mehan around today?”
Through a mouthful of food, Chanda mumbled, “He’s somewhere. Probably crouched in a corner, drawing flying chelka or some such nonsense.” She blinked, dark eyes lit to amber by the sun. “Why?”
A lump rose in Munayair’s throat. “No reason.”
They sat in silence as Chanda chewed. With a sigh, Munayair ducked into the cool stable, seeking refuge from Sorath’s heat. She retrieved the salt cellar from her pocket, fingering a new dent on its side and thinking ruefully of all the wasted salt. After walking a few idle steps, turning on the heels of her boots, she passed in front of the Night Watcher’s shrine. Golden chips of glass blinked at her and she came to a halt, entranced by the ambiguous figurine. Could it be a natural shape? Or had some skillful craftsman, moved by the gods, carved it? It was impossible to tell, as impossible as deciding what the shape represented. Today, a sharp, foxy face eyed her, curled around itself in the darkest corner of the shrine.
She smiled, tilting her head. “You remind me of an idol I saw near my grandparents’ camp once. In the Antamak mountains, overlooking the plains. The wind never stopped blowing there, and the faithful had written their desires on flags for the breeze to carry into heaven.” Thoughtfully, she pulled the empty salt cellar from her pocket and placed it in the alcove. Then she fished in her purse for her only puhka, placing it next to the Night Watcher’s statue. Even the gold coin looked flat and dull beside those glittering eyes. Bowing low, she folded her hands as a sign of respect. “I bid you good day, noble
spirit,” she said. “Thank you again for saving me.”
Chanda scoffed from the doorway, spitting around bulging cheeks. “How can you bow to that monster?”
“There’s no such thing as an evil spirit.” Munayair settled next to Chanda, keeping her gaze on puffy white clouds drifting across the brilliant blue sky. “Would you call a storm evil because it blew down your house, or a river evil as it drowned you? Whatever has angered the Night Watcher, he must have good reason for what he does.”
Searching out the last smears of yogurt from the box, Chanda licked her fingers one by one. “It’s not the spirit that’s evil, miss.” They both turned their gazes down the grassy hill to the trees gathered by the river. Despite Sorath’s glare, the shadows lay thick there, impenetrable and black. Chanda’s lips pressed together and her nostrils flared. “Everyone knows where to find him. Why do you think no one ever enters the grove?” She turned determinedly back to her food, concentrating on stuffing rice into her already-full mouth.
Munayair was trying to think of a reply when she heard raised voices. Peering around the corner, she found Falean a few dozen paces away in close conversation with Radhan. The usually-calm journeyer’s expression held more animation than Munayair had ever seen, trembling in the grip of fury. Creeping forward out of sight, Munayair caught a few whispered words. “The decision was not yours alone! I was given a deciding vote—”
“It’s done, and dusted,” Radhan growled. “I did what was best for Adasari, not you freeloaders in your fancy house.”
“How dare you, kuttoch!” Falean’s voice dropped.
Munayair heard her continued hissing but could not make out any words. She was contemplating trying to creep closer when a voice spoke in her ear. “What are you looking at?”
The unexpected sound nearly scared Munayair out of her skin, and she glanced around to find Chanda watching with interest. She held a finger up to her lips and pointed at the arguing pair. The girl stiffened, eyes going dull and dark, and she huddled behind Munayair.
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