*
El-i-miir woke up with a start. Her backside ached and her back was stiff. She gasped, stood up and glanced fearfully about the hold. How could she have fallen asleep? How long had she been down there?
‘Good sleepy times?’ the unmistakable voice of Seeol enquired from less than a stride away.
‘Yes.’ El-i-miir picked herself up and put a hand to the side of her head. ‘I mean . . . no. What time is it?’
‘I can’t read clocks.’ Seeol shrugged his wings. ‘But the morning is very earlier.’
‘Morning,’ El-i-miir gasped. ‘Is anyone up yet?’
‘Lots of peoples,’ Seeol twittered. ‘Now silly El-i-miir must excuse me.’ The little bird bounced over to the cell door to unlatch the food hatch. ‘Ilgrin’s dinner is coming soon and we dine together.’ He hopped through the gap and El-i-miir was left to hear a muffled greeting pass between the two within.
El-i-miir hurried for the stairs in time to see a boot land at the top. She suppressed a yelp and scurried over to the horses. Much to Darra’s surprise, El-i-miir yanked open the gate and huddled down inside the stall. The animal stomped a hoof uneasily, but otherwise tolerated the intrusion.
El-i-miir held her breath as Raeghan descended carrying a small tray. He strode across the room and slid it through the opening at the bottom of the door, before stepping back to move uneasily toward the stairs.
‘Thank you,’ Seeol croaked from within. ‘This is scrumptious.’
Raeghan glanced back at the door with a pinched expression and then doubled his pace back upstairs. El-i-miir stepped out of the stall and hurried after him. She popped her head around the opening carefully and when she found the corridor was empty, made her way along its length to her room. She reached for the handle, but the door swung inward on its own.
‘Where have you been?’ Seteal raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Um . . . the ladies’ room,’ El-i-miir spluttered.
‘Yuck,’ Seteal wrinkled her nose, her eyes falling to the bottom of El-i-miir’s dress. ‘I think you missed!’
El-i-miir followed her gaze and felt her face grow hot when there she found a smear of Darra’s manure. ‘No, I was . . . um . . . that’s something else.’
‘Come on, El-i-miir,’ Seteal reprimanded. ‘I know the boat makes you a little unsteady on your feet, but you really mustn’t let your standards of cleanliness drop like this. People will think you’re a commoner.’
‘But, I . . .’ El-i-miir scrabbled for words, but stopped upon the realisation that Seteal was teasing her. ‘You know.’
‘Of course.’ Seteal shrugged. ‘I’ve been around horses all my life. I know what dung looks like.’ She headed along the corridor but stopped abruptly. ‘Why exactly are you trying to hide the fact that you’ve been down there?’ She turned around. ‘You weren’t talking to it again, were you?’
‘So what if--?’ El-i-miir stopped short and narrowed her eyes piercingly. She was tired of making excuses for her actions. ‘It’s about time you remembered the hierarchy here, Seteal. It’s not your place to question my judgement. What I do in my own time is none of your concern.’
‘My lady.’ Seteal curtsied mockingly before finishing her journey along the corridor and up the ladder.
After taking a minute to regain her composure, El-i-miir followed. There was a gentle breeze that picked up her hair and pushed it this way and that. Men hurried about their duties, Captain Waxnah standing watchful guard over all of it. None of this was what held El-i-miir’s attention. On the other side of the boat, Seteal stood beside Far-a-mael. The pair watched her as though she was a suspicious animal that might harbour poisonous fangs, their clothing dancing about in the wind while their bodies stood fixed as living statues.
Far-a-mael’s face was stony as ever, his piercing blue eyes revealing naught but contempt. Seteal had become Far-a-mael’s rei. And El-i-miir had become the captive.
Breaking away from Far-a-mael’s gaze, she headed to the opposite end of the boat where she leaned over the railing, gathered her jackets and cloak about herself and raised a defensive hood against the biting cold. The water below was oddly dark and moved along the hull with a consistency more reminiscent of syrup. For all intents and purposes, the liquid should have been frozen solid, but for some mysterious reason, it wasn’t.
El-i-miir reflected on the scripture studies of her youth. Could this truly have been the place where Sa’Tan the Devil tore a hole between Hae'Evun and Earth? Was this where the demons gained original entry into the world of man? El-i-miir sincerely doubted it. Silts had always existed there, much like humans or any of the animals for that matter. It didn’t do to dwell on fairy tales.
El-i-miir turned and rested against the railing before an agonised scream stole her attention. A crewmen stumbled toward her, his right hand clutching his left wrist and his face drained of colour. He toppled forward and hit the deck with outthrust arms. His left hand shattered like porcelain, leaving nothing behind but an oozing stump.
‘Get away!’ El-i-miir shouted a warning when she noticed frost slithering menacingly along the riverboat’s figurehead, which cracked loudly and split down the middle. Men abandoned their duties and ran toward the back of the boat, but one was too slow and the frozen air engulfed him. The man became a statue, which fell and shattered across the deck.
Chaos erupted, crewmen flooding toward El-i-miir from every direction, she being closest to the hatch. Before she could react, El-i-miir found herself being pushed out of the way and shoved to the ground. She winced and rolled onto her side. There was a bloody graze on her elbow. She looked up to the sound of scraping and was astounded to see sheets of ice slithered across the deck toward her from every direction. The final crewman scurried through the hatch and slammed it tight.
‘Torrid!’ El-i-miir cried as she yanked on the latch. It wouldn’t budge. ‘Let me in,’ she screamed, pounding her fists against the little door. ‘Let me in!’
The sheets of ice slithered closer, the ship’s hull deafening as it creaked and moaned under pressure. The sails became solid, gluing themselves to the masts. ‘Please,’ El-i-miir begged, her breath becoming ragged as the temperature became such that inhalation was impossible. ‘Please.’ Her flesh began to stiffen, having lost its elasticity. ‘Please . . .’
The Inner Circle: The Knowing Page 41