Chapter Twelve

Caiross was an impressive enough place, considering it had been built by animals. It was a bulky citadel of pale gray stone built on top of and into a hill, with sheer cliffs on the river side and a gentle slope to the west. Zyran knew nothing about castles or the storming of them, but it looked impenetrable to his eyes, surrounded by great walls and towers. The keep itself, at the easternmost point of the hill, had somehow struck a balance between ponderously imposing and gracefully beautiful. Its eastern face stretched vertically down to the river, dotted with windows and balconies.

The city sprawled around the hill, surrounded by tall walls that jutted out of the farmland around it. They came at it from the southwest, Mathi in the lead, Zyran on Mossal’s back behind her, Sull walking next to him, and Fuller bringing up the rear. Zyran had not appreciated the size of the city’s walls for a time. He kept thinking that they were nearly there, but the walls kept getting bigger. When they finally arrived at a gate, the sun just past its zenith, he craned his head back to see the top, and saw tiny figures looking down at him from the battlements. He found himself rather more in awe than he had been prepared to be.

They entered without incident. There were five guards at the gate, and they all looked incredibly bored, hardly watching the humans streaming in and out of the gate, until they saw Mathi, when they promptly stood up straight and saluted. Zyran looked back at the guards as they headed into the city, and saw them slouch again.

Passing through the gate took a while. The walls had to be four or five times his height across. When Mossal stepped out of the gate’s shadow and into the city street, Zyran found himself unable to stop looking around.

There were animals everywhere, for start, human and otherwise. The humans milled around, their voices a constant chaotic babble punctuated by shouting and laughing. They pushed carts through the streets and yelled to advertise their wares, or ran by carrying bundles, or stood in the street arguing with each other, or laughed in doorways, or sang while strumming instruments that reminded Zyran agonizingly of the Song. Other animals, like iveri and dogs and cats and sheep and goats and pigs, were mixed in, adding brays and barks and bleats to the noise. A mangy cat sprinted between Mossal’s legs, causing the iveri to snort. Zyran put a hand on its neck reflexively to reassure it.

Buildings rose up around them, one or two stories high. They were built of timber or wattle and daub for the most part, but some were stone. Chimneys sprouted from the high peaks of wood-shingled roofs. Grass and shrubs grew in alleys and spilled out onto the street, which seemed to be a fairly even mix of stone and mud, occasionally interspersed with wooden beams to help keep everyone’s feet dry. Flags and laundry hung from lines overheard, and signs stuck out into the street, advertising pubs, winesinks, bakeries, public baths, and more. Zyran was vaguely troubled by his ability to read the signs.

They passed through much of the city. It seemed to go on forever, filled with noise and living things beyond count. Occasionally the street would open up into a square or plaza, usually with a large tree or statue or fountain at the center, and these would be even more packed with people. Zyran had never seen anything like it.

He began to catch sight of another wall through the buildings, another great stone wall. It had to be the castle wall. He was being taken to the citadel. He wondered briefly what might happen, but kept being distracted by new things. Humans with different voices, their skin covered in strange patterns, sold stinking silvery fish and brilliant shining gems and gleaming metal jewelry. Other humans, with dark skin and long robes like the ones that Zyran had seen when he first arrived in the desert so long ago, called that they had dates and figs and rich carpets and Rakkinen steel. Humans that seemed to be local sold grain and rakka and iveri hides from bulky wagons.

It never ended. There was always something new to be seen, always another strange good for sale or a singer playing some tune or odd smells coming from odder cauldrons.

Then they came within sight of a wagon with a broken wheel, stuck at the entrance to an alley. It was filled with wood, and there were animals milling around it, trying to unload all the wood and brace the wagon so that it could be repaired. As they passed it, Sull caught Mossal’s lead with his bound hands and yanked the iveri past the wagon and into the alley with Zyran on its back.

Fuller yelled and lunged after them, but Sull had already toppled a pile of wood behind them and was running through the muddy alley, Mossal loping along behind him, snorting.

“I’m not certain this is advisable,” Zyran said, clutching his bag to him with one hand, hoping desperately that the sakiru was still inside, and holding onto the iveri’s mane with the other.

“Yeah, well—“

Something flew past Zyran with a whoosh and plowed into a building ahead of them with a thunk, quivering. Sull cried out and stumbled. He clapped his free hand to his shoulder, and Zyran saw blood leaking between his fingers, but he kept moving, and Mossal followed obediently, tossing its head.

As they passed the sword-staff, Zyran caught its handle and yanked it out of the building.

They made it through the twisting alley, emerging in a street on the other side. Sull pulled them into another alley on the other side of the street, yanked them around a corner, and then pulled Zyran down from Mossal’s back. Zyran gasped in pain as his feet hit the ground, sending shocks through his legs.

“Sorry,” Sull panted. “A rider will draw more attention. Come on, we’ve got to move.” He pulled Zyran’s arm over his shoulder to help support him. Zyran held the sword-staff tightly with his other hand, using it as a crutch as Sull helped him through the alley.

Their flight through the alleys seemed to take forever. It went on and on, each step another jolt of pain. Zyran let Sull guide them and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Running was so much harder than walking, so much harder, and he kept slipping in the mud or stepping on Mossal’s foot.

But eventually they reached a street with no alley on the other side. A square, really, a small one with a tree in the center and a gate on the other side. It wasn’t as crowded as the rest of the city had been. Sull pulled Zyran across it, and they headed through the gate, smaller than the one they had entered the city through.

Zyran found himself on a harbor. He smelled mud and fish and water, and there was wood beneath his feet. Docks and quays lined with boats and small ships stretched to his left and right, and ahead of him was a short, splintery wooden jetty with a single boat moored at it. A fat man was stepping into it. Beyond that was a glittering river, and beyond that broad expanse was the far bank, with trees that seemed tiny covering gentle hills.

Sull led them to the boat at a run. “We’d like passage,” he told the fat man. “We’d like passage now.”

The man, an older human dressed in rich plum-colored fabrics embroidered with golden fish, simply blinked at them. “I’m not offering passage.” He looked around at the five other people on the boat for help. They all shrugged at him, as if to say that it was his problem, not theirs.

“We’ll have it regardless,” Sull insisted. “We’ll settle payment later. Just cast off, and do it now.” He forced Mossal into the boat with a few well-timed shoves, then helped Zyran in and hopped in himself. “What are you waiting for? Cast off!” He took the sword-staff from Zyran and leveled it at the fat man.

The man raised his hands in surrender, horror written all over his face. “All right, all right!” He untied the ropes that secured the boat to the jetty and pushed the boat into the river. A woman at the till shrugged and directed the boat out into the middle of the river, and then upstream. The other four women loosed the boat’s single red triangular sail, casting a scarlet shadow on Zyran, and then took up oars and began moving them upriver.

“So,” Sull said. “Who are you all?”

The days that followed were the best that Zyran had had since coming to Rune. The fat old man, who had light brown skin, like most of the local humans that Zyran had seen, turned out to be some sort of dignitary called Hofnis. His lands had been taken by an enemy from across the sea, and rather than fight to regain them as the queen at Caiross had ordered him, he had purchased an interest in this boat, the Marq Batar, in order to head north and escape into Unai.

The crew consisted of five people. The captain, Ilssissemmiyat, who liked to be called Ilyat, had shaved off all her hair and replaced it with intricate patterns, scratched into the skin with ink. She called herself an Irrissussk, and said that her people lived at sea. She wouldn’t tell Zyran why she had come inland to sail the river, nor would the two Irrissussk crewmen, Jelvinnissi who liked to be called Jel and Sirritinnissin who liked to be called Sirrit. Ilyat did, however, enjoy telling Zyran stories of anything and everything that they saw from the boat, from interesting trees and rock formations on the shores and islands to the great turtles and catfish that swam in the river to the keeps and towns that they passed.

Jel and Sirrit were less knowledgeable about the river’s features, but more knowledgeable about its human inhabitants. They told Zyran about river gypsies who spent all their lives on the Elmwyves, sailing in a long loop on its two great forks, peddling their goods to peasants and lords alike, making offerings to the water spirits and weather gods of the old times, dressing in bright clothes that revealed some of their skin on the river, and then covering up with jackets and cloaks when they made landfall. That was how Zyran learned that the humans of Eldden and the neighboring country of Cuisienne were very sensitive about revealing skin, which eased a nagging doubt in his mind about the cut of his robe that had been mildly bothering him since the iveri farmer’s wife had criticized it. Sirrit laughed when he told her, and let him borrow a sewing kit and repair some of the holes in it. She was unenthusiastic about actually teaching him to sew, but Jel volunteered and showed him a basic stitch.

Wasan, a Rakkinen with skin darker than Zyran’s—although of a shade of brown rather than bluish gray—and long hair bound in dozens of tiny braids, was everyone’s favorite cook, though the crew took turns at it. She made dishes that smelled so strongly that Zyran almost wished that he required food, and they always looked nice too, full of color and texture. Once he tried to drink a sauce through the Veil; he was successful, but it burned horribly and he had to lurch over the side and stick his head in the river to recover while the crew laughed. The Veil had attached itself to the spoon, and it took a lot of frantic shaking to detach it, and then he had to fish it out afterward. Wasan also showed Zyran how to play a game called khest that involved rolling little cubes with dots on them. Zyran had nothing to bet with, so he only played with Sull, who was also a novice, but watching the crew play each other for jewelry and buttons was entertaining.

Keller, from eastern Eldden, had paler skin, more pink than brown, though somewhat tanned from the sun. She sang with a high, clear voice while she rowed, and plucked a wooden instrument with gut strings—lute, she called it—when she didn’t. Her voice was often so tired by the end of her rowing shift that the rest of the crew had to sing along with the instrument, and sing they did. All day, every day.

It was the singing that made things at once infinitely worse and infinitely better. It wasn’t the Song, only a pale animal imitation, but it was a song, a song, filling the yawning hole in Zyran’s mind where the Song used to play. He hummed along when he could, but his voice was so limited. Voices couldn’t call fire, voices couldn’t move earth or water or summon gusts of wind. But they could distract him from the pain, and they did.

The humans had vast differences in music, but one thing that they had in common was that their songs changed depending on the time of day. In the early morning, when mist swam over the purple river and the sun was only a lightening of the eastern sky, Keller would start, a high, slow, quiet cry that seemed to float alongside the mist. As the sun rose, it would become louder, and others would join in as the world woke, taking the music in different directions, depending on who was singing loudest. It would continue through the day, following the sun, interrupted by laughter and talk, growing into quick, darting tunes that rose and dipped until Zyran wanted to laugh. Sometimes Jel and Sirrit would leap up, linking arms in dance, kicking and clapping and stamping their feet, and Ilyat would yell at them to stop rocking the boat and get back to rowing.

As the sun began to sink, the songs would become bawdy, and Keller would say things to Sull that made him turn fiercely red, and the crew would laugh. Hofnis turned out to know a surprising number of songs for this time of day, and would croak them in a horrible baritone, which amused the Marq Batar’s occupants to no end.

As the sun set properly, though, as the sky darkened and the Marq’s lanterns were lit, the music would change. Sometimes the ribald songs would persist until the last reds and golds were gone from the west, but that was rare. Usually, as the sun went down, the singing became slow and sad.

The Irrissussk sang windsongs, which seemed at the edge of what humans called music. They were deep and low, either wordless or with only one or two words repeated over and over, calling low into the dark. They made Zyran’s blood thrill, and he would draw his cloak more tightly around himself.

Keller would pluck her lute in the evening, slow and repetitive, starting low, peaking high, and coming down again, like waves on a shore. She said, in a voice rough from singing, that the songs were about the moon and stars, and the lights of the northern sky. Sull knew some of them, and would add his voice.

Wasan’s nightsongs were closer to chants, rhythmic and far-reaching. They told of stone and earth and lost kingdoms in the trees, of the deepest wilds where no fire had lit the night in a thousand years, where the nameless spirits of ancient times still whispered in the shadows that no dawn could reach. Mossal would bob its head gently.

Zyran became better at finding sleep. The Marq was a small boat, but it had a cabin at one end, and a little space below the deck. But Ilyat said that it was not cold enough to sleep inside, and anyway the hold was full of goods. Hofnis ignored her and took the cabin, but the rest of them slept on deck. After the Marq Batar was moored to a tree or stone, its—no, her, humans gave boats female pronouns for some reason—sail reefed, Zyran would mimic the others and recline against the side of the boat with a thick iveri pelt beneath him, his cloak serving as a blanket against the nightly cold. Mossal would curl up next to him like a massive cat. The sakiru would nestle against his chest. Zyran would lean back and gaze up at the stars.

And the stars were infinite. Wasan showed him constellations, named patterns that humans had found and agreed on, and sometimes he would trace them at night. Or he would simply lie there and look, taking everything in as the boat rocked gently beneath him. Eventually, he would fall asleep.

The river grew narrower and swifter as they went north. Progress slowed, but they still covered the miles well. The wind remained favorable, pushing up from the southeast. Ilyat said that it came from the sea, far away, and that the windsongs called it to them. Jel explained that the Irrissussk could draw the sea’s winds to them, even inland. Zyran didn’t believe it, but he kept that to himself.

He was getting stronger. His arm was healing well now that it was clean, and it didn’t hurt constantly anymore. His legs were still weak and painful, but he could walk from one end of the boat to the other unassisted now, though he didn’t dare remove the splints that Illy had made him.

Sull had been all right for the first few days, when there was still doubt about whether he and Zyran would be kicked off the boat or killed in their sleep. But then they had bought their passage with Zyran’s two remaining belt stones—he identified them as gemstones this time, as he could not get away quickly—and the good luck that Ilyat said the sakiru brought, and Sull had time to think.

Zyran watched him curiously as they made their way upriver. The human was young, younger than his sister, and apparently had cared for Illy a great deal. It was strange, and it didn’t tally with Zyran’s knowledge of animals.

If Sull had been mourning the loss of a helper, someone who supported him, helped him gather necessities, Zyran would have understood. But when Sull spoke of his sister, he spoke of the way she hummed as she worked with animals, soothing them, or the way she smiled, or the way she lined her boots up at the end of the day, which didn’t seem to have anything to do with the benefits that her presence had offered Sull.

It was baffling. It was far more consistent with the behavior of people, but that was ridiculous enough that Zyran didn’t entertain the thought for more than a few seconds. Perhaps Sull was not an ideal example of his species. That would be understandable.

But Zyran didn’t pay much attention to Sull. The river and the land around it was too interesting to dwell on one unhappy human. They went mostly through lowlands and gentle hills, passing forests and fields, though occasionally stony cliffs would rise along the river.

The variety was fascinating. Zyran was accustomed to Death’s Hollow, a small bubble of existence populated with mist, dead trees, and a few rocks. Compared to the wide range of landscapes and inhabitants in Rune, the Hollow was…monotonous. It made Zyran feel slightly guilty to admit that Death did not have the finest realm, but this place was full of stone with fascinating colors, rushing waters, bustling towns, brilliantly colored skies, warm sunlight, cold stars, and more kinds of life than he could count, let alone name, though the humans took it upon themselves to educate him.

There were turtles longer than his arm colored dark brown and green, and turtles the size of his hand with black heads. There were vast gray catfish bigger than he was, and slim silvery fish the size of a finger. Sirrit could catch all of them, whether it was with a net, a line, or her bare hands. There seemed to be an infinite variety of birds, from tiny iridescent humming ones to swooping hawks and owls. Dragonflies danced on lily pads, and gnats buzzed in the mud. Small, furry animals with thin tails made homes in the banks of the river. “Water rat,” Keller proclaimed them when she caught them and gave them to Wasan to roast with peppers, but for her the name seemed to apply to any low-slung mammal with a tail, from the ones with striped tails and strange little hands to the ones that really did look like rats with large eyes and rough fur. Sometimes larger animals came to the river, iveri or deer or elk or foxes, to drink or graze or fish or hunt.

Zyran watched them all with equal absorption. There were so many of them, so many things living and nonliving, and they all interacted with each other. It was all so complex, so different from the Hollow. A person could learn everything there was to know about Death’s home in a year, but there was too much happening on this world for him to understand all of it. It would take a hundreds of years, perhaps thousands. Many and more mortal lifetimes. It was exquisite.

The boat had been sailing upriver for ten days and most of an eleventh when they rounded a bend and Hofnis announced, “I see the lake!” There were whoops from Sirrit and Wasan, who were rowing, and Ilyat commanded that Jel and Keller join the rowing so that the Marq Batar could make landfall on the far shore before dark.

Zyran made his way to the boat’s rear end and hoisted himself awkwardly up the ladder to the top of the cabin, where Ilyat was at the tiller, guiding them along the banks where the current was weaker. He stood carefully out of her way and looked ahead.

The river was widening again, spreading out farther than anything he had yet seen, flaring into a great open body of water. The lake was a deep blue for most of its expanse, going green and brown where the forested hills to the north were reflected in its choppy waters. It stretched far in either direction, but the northern shore was nearer. To the west, some miles distant, a spit of land stuck out, and Zyran guessed that there was a small town on it, judging by the winking lights of windows catching the sun and the docks on spindly legs perched out over the lake. Beyond that, the lake ended in distant blue hills, fading into purple as the sun crept downward. The eastern shore had less trees, and he saw a few houses, including several that stood on stilts in the water. There were two islands at that end of the lake, one large and forested, the other little more than a glorified sandbar.

The Marq forced her way through the last of the river’s current and set off at a quick clip toward the northern shore. Zyran saw a small cluster of buildings on the lake, too small to be called a village, with boats docked all around it.

“This is Lake Eldreysa,” Ilyat said. “That’s Tatchton to the west. They fish there, and trade goods from all around the Elmwyves. We’re headed north, to Camp there.”

“Camp?” Zyran asked, squinting at the buildings.

“It started out as a camp, but then the river gypsies who made it never left. It’s more than a camp now, but no one’s ever bothered to give it a name. It’s just a stopping point for people headed up into Unai, people who maybe don’t want to run into Elddener soldiers. We’ll dock there, eat, drink, and hear what Hofnis plans to do next.”

The lake turned gold and purple as the sun set, and its waters glimmered brilliantly in the light. Tatchton grew bright slowly, as its inhabitants lit torches and braziers and lanterns, but Camp lit up all at once, a great bonfire roaring up on the sandy shore as the colored lanterns on the boats began to glow.

“You’ll be wanting to cover up,” Ilyat said as they drew closer.

Zyran made his way down the ladder and dug in his bag for his cloak and head covering. The sakiru, nestled in Mossal’s fur, took the hint and dove into the bag as Zyran wrapped himself up, hiding most of his less human traits. The Marq’s occupants had grown accustomed to him, but he always concealed himself in the presence of other humans. He didn’t want to be attacked, especially not by animals that used tools.

They docked the Marq at the lake edge of Camp, roping it to the creaking posts of a questionable jetty next to a number of other boats. The boats were painted in bright colors and intricate patterns, and filled with objects of all kinds. The decks looked almost like sitting rooms, the planks covered in pelts and even carpets, with hangings that could be drawn over the boat to keep out sun and water. “River gypsies,” Wasan told Zyran as she secured the sail. “Most of those boats are a hundred years old or more, passed down in families.”

Camp’s buildings were made of wood and supported on stone pilings. They leaned badly, bending over the wooden walkways that connected them to each other and to the shore. Most were painted bright colors, like the boats, and had similar outdoor living spaces that spilled into one another. But they were empty.

The walkways took them to the shore, and Zyran saw why. Dozens of humans were gathered around the bonfire, eating and laughing and dancing. A small group was playing a variety of instruments, including long bone pipes that made sweet birdlike sounds, and hollow wood and hide constructions that made deep booming noises. A slightly smaller fire off to the side had a spit the size of a small tree over it, speared through a great fish sized to match it. Humans were cutting portions off of the huge fish, poking sticks through, and eating it. Mossal stared at it avidly, and Zyran made a mental note to keep a tight grip on the iveri’s rope.

Ilyat led them around the bonfire to an old woman seated on a rich carpet, supported by pillows in many colors, who regarded them imperiously. A thick red coat, heavily embroidered, was belted loosely over a billowing, dark red shirt. Her long gray hair flowed around her face. A silver plate of bread and cheese lay on the carpet next to the her, and five bulky humans in mail sat on the sand behind her, weapons on their knees. One had a helm on, hiding her face, and a few pieces of plate.

“My lady Enith,” Ilyat said with a bow.

“Captain Ilssissemmiyat,” Enith said. Her voice was rough with age, but deep and strong. “What wind brings you here?”

“Cargo, my lady. I bring a Cuisienne, two Elddener pilgrims and their iveri, carded sheep’s wool, salt, pepper, beer, and iveri pelts.”

“And what gift have you brought me?”

“A full barrel of Caiross Royal Wine, my lady, and a set of blue glass goblets to drink it from, my lady.” Ilyat presented the old woman with a wooden box.

One of the bodyguards took it, opened it, nodded, and held it out to Enith, who lifted out a blue goblet edged with brass tracery. “The gift is kind. You are welcome to this gathering, Captain. You may deliver the wine to the Nellerenthine.”

Ilyat bowed again. “Thank you, my lady.”

Enith smiled, a quick flash of remarkably white teeth against her wrinkled brown skin. “Go on, then, girl, sit. You’re back quick, eh?”

Ilyat sat next to Enith and helped herself to the woman’s bread and cheese. “Ran into this Cuisienne at Caiross, desperate to get a ride to Unai, paying triple the usual rate.”

“Enough to buy him an interest in the Marq?” Enith asked, eyeing Hofnis shrewdly.

“Yes,” Hofnis said, standing there awkwardly with Zyran, Sull, and the crew. “I own a portion—“

“Ain’t talking to you, Cuisienne.”

A corner of Ilyat’s mouth curled up in a smile. “Aye, my lady, he owns a portion of the Marq, but he can’t stay in Eldden to do anything with it, and he doesn’t own enough to bring us along with him.”

“A criminal Cuisienne,” Enith mused. “Well, just being Cuisienne’s enough to be unusual. I hear your country’s walled off, and it’s not as if you came here much before that. What did you do, then?”

“Walled off?” Hofnis said, bemused.

“Oh, aye,” Enith said. “The Elmwyves is blocked at the Broken Bridge. My people tell me it’s an invading army that’s done it. Voss or something. Let them have Cuisienne, I say. Dirty mud grubbers.” She glared at Hofnis, daring him to respond. When he didn’t, she continued. “So what did you do?”

“I elected to leave the war to those who know how to fight,” the old man said.

Enith hooted. “Did you now! A coward as well as a Cuisienne! Well, well. I suppose you’ll be looking for asylum in Unai, then? A nice place at court up in Arau?”

“Yes,” Hofnis said. “And I would like iveri to take me there, and an armed escort, if possible.”

“Hm,” Enith said. “Well, I’m sure you can get an iveri somewhere around here to take you as far as Blueside up on Broken Lake. From there, I imagine you can find a boat to take you north, and maybe even an armed escort too, hah. You go on, now, Cuisienne. Tacker over at the cookfire will feed you, not that you need it.”

Hofnis made a funny little jerk that might have been an attempt at a bow, adjusted his purple velvet hat, and left.

“Now, you two,” Enith said, nodding at Zyran and Sull. “You, boy, you look like you might be a pilgrim.” She turned her gaze to Zyran. “But you, lame one, what are you, then? Honest people don’t hide their faces, not unless they’re soldiers, and you’re no more a soldier than my left tit. Show your face, then.”

Ilyat leaned in. “My lady, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Why, he a leper?”

“No, my lady, but he’s not human. People might not like the sight of him.”

Enith raised one gray eyebrow. “Hm. Well, I’m curious now. What is he then, girl?”

Ilyat hesitated. “I’m not necessarily certain, my lady, but I don’t believe he means any harm. He’s on his way north with a sakiru.”

Both eyebrows flew up. “A sakiru! Now, that’s interesting. Show me, then.”

Zyran opened up his bag and held it out so that the old woman could see inside. The sakiru stuck its golden-orange head out, its light catching the threads of the carpet.

Enith inhaled sharply, and her bodyguards gazed at the bag in unguarded awe. “My, my. I’ve never seen one of those before. Well, boy, if you’ve got a sakiru, I think maybe we can let you slide.”

“Slide?” Zyran asked.

Enith’s eyebrows went even higher at the sound of his voice. “Aye. We had a little trouble with Eldden recently. Seems they took offense to certain acts of theft and murder and so on and so forth. Didn’t leave us much choice but to scratch their backs a little.”

Ilyat was staring at her. “My lady?”

“Nothing too awful, girl. Just they had three criminals escape Caiross a bit ago, a bandit and a monster and a diplomat, all headed north. Well, Eldden being the beacon of law and order and all, they can’t have any lowlife scum escaping Queen Tieryn’s justice. Except river gypsies, apparently. So the long and short of it is, they’d like three heads. I meant to deliver them, but I think Eldden will have to settle for two. Can’t go killing a man with a sakiru.”

Sull had gone gray. “You can’t. You can’t do this.”

Ilyat sighed. “I wish you’d told me, my lady. They’re decent sorts.”

“Ah, did you get to liking them? Sorry, girl, but Eldden didn’t trust us enough to let us send you word. They seemed to think we’d spirit the criminals off just to spite the queen, which we might’ve, truth be told, especially if they could pay. Oh well. Kill the boy and the Cuisienne, and we’ll send their heads to the captain in the morning. Get the sakiru man something to eat, and we’ll send him off in the morning with his head still on.”

The bodyguard with the helm rose to her feet. “You old snake. I knew you wouldn’t keep your word.”

Enith got to her feet and turned to look at the woman. “You’re not one of my people. Show your face, now!” The other four bodyguards leapt up and held their swords ready, circling the helmed one. The music stopped, and silence spread across the beach.

“You take orders from me, gypsy, not the other way around. It’s Captain Mathi, fool.”

“You?” Enith said in disgust. “Was it not enough to stick your nose in my business? You had to come into my home, kill one of my guards, conceal yourself? You’re making me angry, Captain. Very angry indeed.”

“I assure you, I’m angrier,” Captain Mathi said. “Now do as you promised, and I may be merciful.”

“Merciful? Seems to me I’m the one in a position to give mercy. You’re a mighty warrior, Captain, there’s not a one here who doubts that, but you’re alone, without your axe, and I’ve got the might of the gypsies of Eldreysa and the Elmwyves.”

Captain Mathi snorted. “The might of a few thousand fools in painted boats. You and your people only live because of Eldden’s mercy. Defy me, and that mercy will end.”

Enith crossed her arms. “And with you alone, how’s Eldden to know you’ve been defied? Nay, Captain, it wasn’t the gypsies that killed you. We just fished you out. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to go swimming in armor?”

Captain Mathi’s stance shifted. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Drown her,” Enith said. “We’ll leave her in the water overnight, make it a little more convincing.”

Captain Mathi grabbed Ilyat, spun the captain around, and held a dagger to her throat. “You’ll give me three heads and a boat to take back to Caiross, or I’ll take a head of my own.”

Enith’s wrinkled face froze. “You let that girl go, and might be I’ll let you live. You’re in rough waters now, Captain.”

“Three heads,” Captain Mathi said. “Boat. I don’t like repeating myself.” She pressed the dagger so it drew blood. Ilyat stared straight ahead, anger on every line of her tattooed face, her dark eyes narrowed.

“Three heads,” Enith said. “Get the Cuisienne.” Her eyes never left Mathi.

Hofnis cried out at her words and made to run, but a pair of gypsies caught him easily. They dragged him to Enith, kicking and screaming. One of them knocked the velvet cap off the man’s head, exposing a balding, spotted scalp.

“Stop!” Hofnis yelled. “Stop, I have money! Don’t do this, please!”

“Stay still, Cuisienne, and it’ll go easier for you,” Enith said, still watching Mathi. “Take his head.”

One of the gypsies forced Hofnis down onto his knees, pushing the old man’s head against the sand. He was screaming incoherently now, spitting sand out of his mouth, struggling ineffectually. The second gypsy drew a short sword, raised it, and brought it slicing down. Without a block, it took two more strokes to sever the man’s head. The first gypsy lifted it by the hair and put it in a sack. Blood quickly began to soak the bottom. Mossal was tossing its head and snorting, the violence making it uneasy.

“Good,” Captain Mathi said. “Now the bandit.”

Sull had been creeping away, and had made it nearly to the other side of the bonfire. When he heard Mathi’s words, he broke into a sprint, making for the trees. It took four humans to drag him back to the fire.

Zyran found himself breathing quickly, sweating, and in the unexpected position of very much not wanting a human to die. Sull had helped him, gotten him this far. And it didn’t seem to Zyran that he had done anything particularly wrong. Surely Death would have no issue with Zyran delaying an animal’s death. It wasn’t as if it would be a particularly long delay; he couldn’t imagine that humans lived very long.

Sull was on his stomach, screaming, with a man sitting on his legs and a woman kneeling on his torso, pinning his arms. The gypsy with the sword was standing next to him.

“Stop!” Zyran said.

Enith didn’t look at him. “Be quiet, sakiru man. Your head’s next. Jina, take his head.”

“No,” Zyran said, shocked. “No, no, don’t—“

The sword came down. Time seemed to slow as Zyran watched its descent, the glittering, red-stained arc…

Sull flung himself out of the way. The tip of the sword drew a red line in his neck. The humans lunged to catch him, and Enith struck.

The old woman moved with a speed that Zyran hardly expected from a human, let alone one so old. Captain Mathi was distracted by Sull’s sudden movement, and had let the dagger slip an inch away from Ilyat’s neck. Enith snatched the dagger, shoved Ilyat away, and plunged the blade through Mathi’s mail shirt into her stomach.

Captain Mathi made a noise that did not seem dramatic enough for the situation and slumped to her knees, agonizingly slowly. Then she grabbed at Enith’s throat with a bare hand, trying to pull the old woman down with her.

Enith yanked the captain’s hand away and twisted. There was a sickening crack. Then Enith was dragging the much larger woman toward the shore, where waves lapped pleasantly. “You listening, Captain?” She stepped into the water, paying no heed as the water soaked her fine brocade trousers, dragging the groaning captain behind her. “I fucking hope so.”

She shoved Captain Mathi’s head underwater. At first the captain’s struggles were slow, almost dreamlike. Then the direness of the situation seemed to strike her, and she became more violent.

“You come to my home,” Enith said. “You kill one of my people. You disguise yourself. You have the audacity to give me orders.” The captain’s muffled screams could be heard from beneath the water. “I could have forgiven that, maybe, if you apologized, played nice, paid me tribute. But then you did something I couldn’t forgive, Captain. And I’d like you to fucking hear it, so pay attention.” She pulled Mathi’s head back out of the water, gasping and choking.

“You tried to kill my girl!” Enith’s yell was earsplitting. Mossal leapt backward in surprise. There was a blinding fury in her voice that Zyran had never heard from anyone. “You tried to kill my little girl!” She forced Captain Mathi’s head back underwater. “You thought you could get away with that? Did you?!” Mathi was flailing violently, her arms clawing back to get at Enith behind her. “No one hurts my little girl! No one! No one!”

Captain Mathi took a long time to drown. But eventually, her movements slowed, then stopped. Enith held her head in the water a while longer. Then she turned around, just as Zyran registered that there was blood in the dark water, more blood than might have been expected from an abdominal wound dammed by a blade.

Enith’s injuries, inflicted by the dagger that Captain Mathi had pulled from her own stomach, were bad enough, a dozen wet rents in her fine clothing, pouring blood, clearly fatal. But Ilyat’s agonized scream as the old woman collapsed in the water was worse.

It was the same sound that Sull had made when Illy died. It was packed with pain, overflowing with it. It called up all the pain that Zyran had ever experienced, and made him relive it. His grief at losing the Song, being cast out by Death, Ilyat’s grief at losing whoever Enith was, they seemed like one and the same, and suddenly all he could do was stare, watching in horrified anguish, remembering and remembering.

Ilyat ran to Enith, wailing all the way, her face contorted in misery, and fell to her knees before she reached the body in the water, throwing herself the remaining distance on her hands and knees.

He was lying in the sands of Rakken, waiting for Death to save him.

Ilyat pulled Enith out of the water and hugged the old woman to her chest, sobbing, blood soaking into her coat, water and tears and blood all on her face.

He was dying, and Death was standing there like nothing was wrong, telling him he was mortal.

People—they are people—were running to Ilyat, touching her, hugging her, but she was still screaming, because the world had ended, and Zyran knew exactly how she felt.

They feel. They feel. They are people. Death was stepping through the portal, waving, leaving him, and all the people were standing in the water with Ilyat, surrounding her with sympathy, trying to draw the pain away, and Zyran was alone on the desert sand, and Death had left him, and he was alone on the sandy shore of the lake, and his throat hurt, and there was liquid coming from his eyes.

Then Mossal pressed up against him, skeletal and poky and saturated in his signature odor, but warm. Zyran leaned against the iveri, tried to be angry at himself for being mortal enough to cry, gave up, and stood there silently, feeling tears drip down his face.