Bridge of Legends- The Complete Series

by Sarah K. L. Wilson

  “Xin prepares for battle,” Etienne murmured as the first group of soldiers passed.

  “Battle with what?” Marielle asked.

  He smirked, looking significantly toward the sky.

  If he meant battle with the dragon, then that felt ridiculous. The dragon was the size of a city – the size of this city. Nothing that size could be brought down with swords and bows. And it was her fault that it was loose.

  She clenched her jaw – feeling bad about the situation wouldn’t change it. She needed to solve it. She needed to kill the dragon – if not with an army, then with something else.

  Her gaze lifted upward every few minutes as she studied the sky, looking for the telltale silhouette that could appear at any moment. How did you kill a dragon? If his scales had been so thick they had built a city literally on top of him, that suggested they would be hard to penetrate. There had been that one fissure – the one that the Lady Sacrifice kept open with her blood. Would it still be there? Could they hurt him through that?

  The bells of Xin called out the hour – a Dawnspell tradition. They would call out the hour every day from now until Dawnspell – a reminder of the time – a new time, a new year, a time to make changes.

  Large brass bells along the city walls were the loudest, gonging the hours slowly, but with enough force to drown out the voices in the streets of the city.

  Bells of all sizes rang. Smaller brass bells on chains hung over doors – a sign of observance – bells hung from gondola lanterns by wide ribbons, bells even threaded through belts or around necks or dangling from hats – tiny silver bells for adornment and reminder of the holiday that marked the passing of time, that honored Grandfather Timeless, the only one not affected by the ravages of that nameless force.

  Marielle knew the old catechism that spoke of Dawnspell:

  And why do we celebrate the passing of Grandfather Timeless? Because the time is short, and the days are numbered like the ringing of hourly bells. Because we do not know how much time is left to us or if time will ravage us or treat us with kindness.

  And she remembered what her mother always said, with a rueful laugh, “Time, Marielle, is a woman’s worst enemy. All others can be vanquished or negotiated with, but not time. In the end, time always wins.”

  But Marielle wasn’t so sure about that. These days, it seemed that she was far more dangerous than time. She was a worse enemy to herself than the years could be.

  She needed to shake out of this. No one would care about her self-pity and guilt.

  She shook her head. She was supposed to be paying attention, sniffing the air, watching the Lord My- Etienne’s back. It wasn’t easy with the scents of the city so strong that she had to wrap her scarf four times around her mouth and nose. It was the despair that was the worst. The licorice, aniseed, thick black despair. It hung in the air like fog. And underneath it, the undercurrents were no better – there was the usual everyday feeling of a city at work, but there were other things, too – worry, nerves, uncertainty.

  “Stay close, Marielle,” Etienne said over his shoulder as they pushed onto the docks toward the message tree.

  “News! Hear the city news! One copper!” a man was calling beside the tree. Etienne flipped him a coin and he smiled. “The army is looking for recruits. All able-bodied males and females who pass inspection will be paid one copper per day as salary.” Lord Mythos made a motion with his hand and the man coughed and moved on. “Lady Saga bids all the people of Xin to this year’s Dawnspell Hunt. The announcement is at noon in the Government District square. There are also sails on the horizon.”

  “Sails?” a man in the crowd asked. He was dressed as a wealthy merchant. The news caller pointed at the wooden bowl at his feet. News must be paid for.

  Marielle searched the message tree as the coin clinked in the bowl and the news caller went on.

  “Visitors from afar! But not merchants. They slew fishermen and sent their skeletons rowing back!”

  A bit of embellishment there for his coin, but mostly true. Marielle’s fingers sped down the lines of messages, looking for her name. Nothing. Nothing. She moved to the next branch.

  “And the refugees?” a woman called. “Will Yan take their share?”

  “Yan is choked with refugees. Many more went there than to Xin. It will be a hard year,” the man called back as coin clinked into his bowl.

  It would be harder for the refugees, but these people didn’t seem to be thinking about that.

  Her finger still sped along the messages. Nothing for her.

  Frustrated, Marielle found the appropriate branch of the tree where it stuck out over the canal for access by gondola. She located the cluster of messages posted under “J” and carefully jammed her tiny roll of paper into the proper hole. If Jhinn stopped here, he could read it then. He hadn’t left messages for her or Tamerlan. She hoped he was safe. Where would he have spent the night? He had food and water and even coin in his little boat, but he was just one young man in a hostile city.

  “Who do the sails belong to?” someone in the crowd pressed the news caller again as Marielle pushed back through the crowd to where Etienne stood, his shoulders back and his head held high. He wasn’t a large man, but his confidence made him seem larger than he was. So large that despite the press of bodies there was a clear ring around him.

  He was watching the crowd, studying them as if gauging their reactions. Why did he bother? They were so easy to read that Marielle didn’t even need to rely on scent. She could see their nervous expressions, their wary, closed-off eyes, and their firmly pressed lips. These were people at the edge of comfort, afraid that they were about to permanently drop off the side.

  “Brigands and Thieves, no doubt!” someone said. “Pirates and scum who would never dare set foot in this city!”

  There was the sound of cursing from further down the docks and Marielle stood on tiptoes as a scent she’d never smelled before drew her attention. Or had she smelled it before? There was something oddly familiar about it, like the sound of a song from infancy.

  “Ghosts!” the news caller claimed. “The Dead come back among us!”

  “We could destroy them all with a few fishing boats and a gondola,” another man was saying boldly, the people around him adding their own jeers as he continued. “Show them – ”

  But his words were lost to Marielle. She was completely drawn by the scent of whoever – or whatever – was coming toward them. She could smell the distinct smell of magic – vanilla and lilac – but that wasn’t all. There was a smell of salt, something floral that she couldn’t identify, and something harsh and tangy that again was past her experience. She lost her balance. She’d tried to stand too tall and toppled slightly into Etienne.

  “My apologies,” she breathed, but her attention was still riveted toward that scent. She was waiting for a glimpse of who it was – and after a moment, she realized Etienne had not replied. He was waiting, too, his whole body leaning forward like a Scenter as he waited for their quarry to emerge.

  An angry shout rang out from the direction of the eddy in the crowd and then something hurtled through the air. Marielle’s baton was out before she even thought, batting the projectile away – an old shoe by the look of it – just before it collided with Etienne’s head.

  The crowd parted at the same instant to show five people unlike any she’d seen before.

  Three of the five were bare to the waist, their skin so covered in dark green tattoos that it made it hard to make out the features beneath them. They were made up of whorls and what looked like maps – coastlines, islands, eddies in the sea, schools of fish. But no two of them matched, even though bits of coastline seemed to repeat across the three. These three carried harpoons, wickedly sharp with handles worn for use.

  Marielle stiffened. Her baton would be no use against harpoons.

  Someone from behind her threw a rotten rutabaga over her head at the strangers. A harpoon flashed out, spitting the rutabaga with ease. Was
this really a city of the Dragonblood Plains? Reduced to throwing vegetables at strangers?

  Her lips firmed. These strangers were not Jingen refugees, but they were visitors here – merchants, perhaps, from faraway lands – and in Jingen the City Watch would have put a stop to this by now. Where was the Watch? She scanned the crowd, catching a glimpse of a Watch Uniform as the officer melted into the crowd. Coward!

  “It’s them!” the news caller cried. “The visitors from the ships! The ghosts!”

  The crowd around them pulled back at the same time that a half-rotted cabbage flew between the tattooed harpooners and toward the woman at the head of the group. She spun into a defensive leap, sword out and arcing through the morning light so quickly that Marielle hardly had time to gasp before the cabbage was sliced in two, the two halves falling harmlessly into the crowd.

  There was a hiss of indrawn breath from the watchers. And no wonder. Marielle had never seen someone move so fast.

  “They don’t look like ghosts to me,” Marielle said quietly.

  The woman’s face was pure fury, anger burning bright in a flushed face. Her hair was cut short except for a single long forelock at the front. A light-colored tattoo swept across her right cheek with writing Marielle did not know. Unlike the rough harpooners around her, she wore a high-necked, closely-tailored, dark coat that buttoned up the front in a double row of buttons. The coat flared where it reached her hips, widening over tight trousers and high black boots.

  How did she move so quickly in such a tightly fitted coat? Marielle squinted as she studied the coat. Ah! There were slits cut along the sides and at the joints to allow fast movement without sacrificing the straight lines of the dark uniform. She felt a small smile form on her lips. It was a good uniform. The kind of uniform someone wore when they represented order and law. The owner of the coat had a scent of pure anger, hard as flint and just as deadly.

  The man behind the woman with the sword was dressed in the same way, though with a loose scarf hanging around his neck patterned in a way similar to the writing across his left cheek – a tattoo of pale letters in a wave-shaped whorl. He was a head taller than Marielle was, twice her age, and the scars across his face – one even marring his tattoo – spoke of a hard life. He smelled of the mint of certainty.

  Those harpoons looked promising. What if she tried to harpoon the dragon like a great oilfish in the sea? Perhaps these men were for hire. Perhaps, they could even teach her how to do it.

  “You aren’t welcome here!” the news caller yelled as the crowd turned toward the newcomers, leaning in.

  Marielle scented the red of the mob beginning – the drive toward violence. She could feel it, electric in the air. One wrong word, one threatening action and people would die here. And where was the Watch? Where were they to stop this? She didn’t see a uniform or badge in sight. If Captain Ironarm had been here she would have scathed them with her judgment. There were no cowards in the Jingen City Watch.

  Etienne caught her eye, quirking an eyebrow as if he expected her to do something here. But what? This was not her city. She had no authority here! But then, neither did he, and he’d still managed to help her last night. Maybe it didn’t matter that she didn’t have the right to act. Maybe all that mattered was that she tried to uphold the law anyway.

  She pulled her Jingen City Watch badge from her belt purse, hoping it looked enough like local ones to fool the crowd. She held it above her head as she spoke, dodging a clump of thrown mud as she bellowed.

  “City Watch!” Did they notice that she hadn’t said which city? “By order, you are to cease your attacks! Be about your business!”

  Etienne nodded, not looking at her as he strode toward the woman with the sword, speaking quietly with her before pulling her after him. Her group followed him, hurrying toward the steps leading up to the next level of the Trade District.

  “Return to your business citizens!” Marielle bellowed.

  “No offense, officer!” the news caller said as Marielle hurried to follow Etienne. Where was he taking these strange visitors? Could they really be from the ships? “If I’d known it would disturb the peace, I would have stuck to happier news! Such as the good tidings that the son of the Lord of Yan will be delivering this year’s Dawnspell Quest in the speech in the Government District today!” She was almost out of earshot when he added, “Both he and his lovely bride to be, Amaryllis Zi’fen!”

  She spun, stunned for a moment before asking, “Who?”

  7: A Sister’s Price

  Tamerlan

  Gulls calling from outside the open window were the first things that Tamerlan heard. His eyes popped open and he sucked in a long breath, looking at the white plaster ceiling above him. He could have sworn he would wake up in a gondola on the water – or not at all. The last thing he remembered was bleeding and pain, slumping in the small boat while the world fell apart around him. But here he was, back in the Alchemist’s Guild.

  It’s not a dream, pretty man.

  He gasped at the sound of Lila Cherrylock’s voice in his mind. Oh no.

  He sat up quickly – or tried to – moaning at the pain that shot through his shoulder at his sudden movement. He squeezed his eyes shut against it, shaking not just at the pain, but at the memories ricocheting through his mind. He shouldn’t still be alive. He should have died in the fall of Jingen.

  But where would the fun be in that, pretty man?

  And the voice. Had he smoked recently?

  Oh, I don’t possess you. These are only echoes.

  And behind her voice, he heard another voice rumbling, Dragons! Dragons loose in the skies again! They must be stopped.

  He was going mad. That much was clear. He needed to get away from people before he caused any more harm. Flee the city. Go to the mountains, maybe.

  Someone had left water and a thin broth on a stool beside the bed. He gulped it down hurriedly. He’d need the energy from it to get away.

  He’d been stripped, but his clothing was hanging on pegs on the wall. And his old jute bag was in the corner. Perfect. That had a little of everything he might need.

  Dressing was not as easy as he’d hoped. His arm hurt if he moved it at all – hurt so badly that he had to stop and wait to gather the energy to keep dressing. It took long minutes to slowly drag one article of clothing on at a time and he was breathless when he was finished.

  Best to fight through pain. Pain is temporary. Inaction lasts forever.

  That was Byron Bronzebow. He’d recognize those words even without the resonant voice behind them. There had to be some way to make the Legends all shut up.

  I don’t think you can, pretty man. You’re in too deep now.

  He sucked in a long breath between his teeth, shuffled his boots on, and grabbed the bag. If he was going insane, then he needed to leave. Now. Before he could ruin more lives.

  The window was wide open and he paused, leaning on the ledge and looking out over the unfamiliar horizon. The ocean was very near – or at least an ocean bay, fading off into blue where the sea met sky and merged into one. And a river ran past, faster and clearer than the Alabastru had been. That must be the Cerulean. He’d read about it. Which made this place Xin – the island city. It was going to be harder to flee an island, but certainly not impossible.

  Okay, time to climb down out the window.

  With a hurt shoulder? You are mad!

  Or he could just walk out the door. He leaned down over the ledge of the window, thinking about putting weight on his shoulder as he climbed down the wall.

  You can’t even raise your hand above your waist. You definitely can’t climb. And you shouldn’t be escaping anyway. There are worse things in the world right now than your guilt.

  He was getting used to Lila’s advice in his mind.

  Go to the door and peek out.

  Dragon! Ram moaned in the background, like it was the name of a lost love.

  He peeked out into an empty room beyond.

  Walk o
ut but keep an eye out for movement.

  There was the sound of footsteps nearby.

  Go in the door to your left.

  He slipped inside. It was a storeroom for herbs. Interesting. He could see some rare ones there, too. And was that flagleaf? He was tempted to grab a handful, but wasn’t he already in enough trouble without adding theft to the list? He fingered one of the leaves, feeling the pattern on it.

  You’re nervous about stealing a handful of leaves? I once stole a ruby crown with four rubies in it the size of your eyeballs. And that’s nothing compared to what the Grandfather will steal if he gets loose.

  I once stole the local Landhold’s underthings, Byron Bronzebow interjected, and hung them from the flagpole to embarrass him.

  They were silenced by an ominous voice – one that hadn’t spoken yet. I’ve stolen the lives of thousands.

  And just like that, Maid Chaos stole away all the fun. He dropped the leaf on the floor and snuck out, slowly making his way across the broad loft to the spiraling metal staircase.

  He should be worried about the voices in his head. But wasn’t it normal to go mad after destroying everything you loved? He’d be crazy if he wasn’t going crazy ... right?

  Voices drifted up from down below, hushed but brisk.

  “Are you really going to let him stay here? Someone will want him dead and you might be killed in the attempt!”

  “Who is mistress here, Danika? You or me? I will choose who stays with me as my guest, and I am not interested in your opinions on the matter.”

  “Will it affect the work of The Whisper?”

  “Of course not. We’ll just have to be more circumspect.”

  He stepped onto the stairs, being sure to make more noise than necessary. If they knew he’d been eavesdropping, they would not be happy. Those sounded like secrets. Except for the part about people wanting him dead. That was just a given, seeing as he’d ruined an entire city and the lives of everyone in it.

  The stairs were terrible. Each step a fresh agony that tore through him like being stabbed all over again.