The Kingdoms of Dust (15 page)

“You’re sure it’s the same woman?”

“Her scent was all over the room.”

“What did she steal in Celanor?”

“Gold and gems, as much as she could carry. My friend thought it was an ancient crown she was really after—a relic from the days of Archis, if the legends were true, full of diamonds. The Celanorans thought it was cursed.”

Isyllt’s fist clenched, the band of her ring cutting into her flesh. “I’m starting to think all diamonds are.”

They kept up their pace for the next two days, changing horses as often as they could and eating as they went. Sleep was brief and heavy and Isyllt had no strength to spend on summoning. Siddir rode with her in the carriage to spare his injured leg—after a day of bumpy card games and dozing in the heat, both of them would rather have walked.

The landscape rolled by in a rust-red blur, veined with green around lakes and aqueducts. When the road rose, Isyllt saw the shining line of the Ash, swollen across the fields like a freshly fed snake. Houses and granaries draped its flanks.

“What is it?” she asked, after Siddir’s brooding silence had lasted nearly an hour. “You’ve been on edge ever since we left Kehribar.”

“It’s…foolishness. And bad manners. But I remember when we first met. And now assassins, and the storm—”

Isyllt’s mouth twisted. “You think I really am bad luck.”

“I know better. Our troubles began before you arrived. Even before Asheris decided to send for you. The unrest in Symir certainly didn’t spring from beneath your feet. All the same, these things seem to crystallize around you. Catalysis, alchemists call it.”

She snorted. “
Catalyst
is a nicer term than
stormcrow
.”

“The way
change
is a nicer word than
destruction
.” His smile faded. “But it was you and Asheris in the heart of it, in Symir. And now you’re together again.” He shook his head. “I’m becoming as superstitious as my grandfather, but it seems an ill omen to me.”

“The catalyst isn’t consumed, remember. And Asheris is far more durable than I. We came out of Symir—we can come through your storm.”

Isyllt was proud of the strength in her voice; she nearly believed herself. But she and Asheris hadn’t been alone in Symir. Another mage had stood with them when Mount Haroun broke its shackles and burned the jungles and villages. A young apprentice, who gave her life to save the city while Isyllt and Asheris were consumed by their own loyalties and conflicts.

And now, distracted by grief, she had lost another apprentice.

Not lost
, she told herself.
Misplaced. I’ll find her
.

There was little strength in this promise.

K
illing was so much easier than kidnapping.

By the time Melantha navigated shadows to one of Quietus’s safe houses, her lungs burned and her bones ached with chill. Unconscious weight was no better than dead, and while Moth wasn’t tall, she had enough growth to make carrying her awkward and slow.

The room, a hidden space inside a dockside warehouse, was stuffy with disuse and aromatic with the pickled fish stored on the other side of the wall. An oil lamp, a pallet on the floor, and a crate filled with emergency supplies were the only furnishings. Moth’s eyes twitched when Melantha laid her on the bed, but she didn’t wake. By the fitful lamplight her lips and fingernails were tinged blue, her bare arms rough with gooseflesh. Melantha tucked the single thin blanket around the girl and chafed her hands.

The lamp-flame warmed the narrow space quickly and Moth’s color improved. Satisfied that the girl wouldn’t die in her sleep, Melantha took a skin of stale-but-clean water and a roll of bandages from the crate and busied herself washing the scratches on her face until her nerves were steady again.

She didn’t have time to waste. Iskaldur would search for the missing girl, and Moth should be well away from Sherazad before then. Not to mention the longer they stayed here, the longer it would take both of them to scrub the smell of fish pickle out of their hair. Her own skills couldn’t get them out of the city quickly enough; she had only one means to accomplish that, no matter how loath she was to use it.

When her face had scabbed, she drew a deep breath and reached for shadows. Darkness parted and she spoke a name into the abyss. She felt the shift in awareness as it heard, a vast weight turning toward her.

The rift she’d opened stretched, peeling back on itself to disgorge Kash’s gaunt shape. A smell like locusts filled the room; she preferred the pickle.

Sunlight revealed him as translucent, faded, a shadowy ghost. A ghastly shadow. Here in the darkness he was solid, sharp and gleaming as obsidian. His wings stretched to brush the sides of the room.

“You called, Arha?”

She stiffened at the name. “Nothing,” the word meant in some dead desert language, or perhaps “devoured.” The sounds rolled off Kash’s tongue like the exhalation of a dying man.

“I need passage to Qais.” She looked him in the eye—bird-like, he turned only one to her at a time. Her mother had trained her to never show fear, but his presence churned her stomach.

His beak gaped and snapped shut again. Ridiculous to assign human emotions to a vulture’s face, but she was sure of his mocking amusement as he regarded her.

Her memories of Kash were fractured and confused, like so much of her childhood. He hadn’t always frightened her. Sometimes she thought he had been a guardian, a companion during her dangerous youthful escapades. But if that had ever been true, it had changed when she was twelve. The year her mother had given her to the abyss. She wasn’t sure what had happened, but after that the jinni had nothing but scorn for her and threats and recriminations for her mother.

“I exist but to serve.” His wings folded with his mocking bow. Not that she could blame him for hating Quietus—she at least had given her service willingly. “But who’s this?” he asked as he straightened, his head swiveling toward Moth.

“She’ll be our guest.” She resisted the urge to stand between them, to shield the girl from Kash’s dark, hungry stare. “No harm must come to her. Beyond that, she’s none of your concern.”

“All of Qais is my concern. Quietus has seen to that.”

Melantha knelt, throwing Moth over her shoulder. Kash could have carried them both easily, but she had no desire to expose the girl to his touch. She grunted as she rose, knees and shoulders straining with the weight. Moth stirred and fell limp again.

“I don’t have time to gossip. Please,” she added. She’d seen how the Silent spoke to him—another reason she couldn’t fault his vitriol. “May we go?”

He watched her for a moment with one sunken eye, then smirked. How a vulture could smirk, she wasn’t sure. “Since you ask so nicely.” He extended one gnarled hand and she took it without flinching.

Together, they stepped into the abyss.

It was like her own trips through shadow, the way stepping into a shallow pool was like falling into an icy sea. There was no bottom to this darkness, no surface to break. The void was infinite—if she could survive the journey, she might find other worlds scattered in its depths. It thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.

Kash knew the path, though, a ferryman on a lightless sea. Darkness opened and they stepped into the courtyard before the Chanterie. Arid heat washed over them and Melantha sucked it down greedily. The broad rose-grey façade of the hall was as austere and imposing as ever, but a welcome sight after so much nothing. Neat rows of date palms rustled in the breeze. The scent of myrrh lingered under everything, like stepping into a temple. Or a tomb.

Moth’s ribs swelled as she drew a frantic breath. Melantha winced; she must have woken during the journey. She bent to set the girl down, only to be toppled by a blow to the throat. She landed hard, eyes watering, heels scrabbling in the dust as she fought for breath. The helplessness of choking was worse than the pain.

Over her racing pulse, she heard Kash’s harsh laughter.

Breath returned, slowly and painfully. Moth’s blow had glanced off the side of her neck instead of crushing her windpipe. Give the girl a few years’ growth and training and the outcome would be different. Melantha’s hand tightened around the memory of the plumbata.

Her vision cleared to reveal Moth struggling in Kash’s grip, her eyes wide and wild.

“I told you I don’t mean to hurt you,” Melantha croaked. “If you keep hitting me I might change my mind.”

Moth’s jaw worked, eyes sweeping the street. Melantha read the questions in her panic-dark gaze:
Where are we; who are you; what do you want?
She swallowed them all and stilled, shuddering at Kash’s cold touch.

Melantha rose to her knees in front of the girl—out of range for a kick. “I will explain this, I promise you. But you have to stay calm and stop fighting. You won’t win, and if you run we’ll catch you. Do you understand?”

Moth’s eyes flickered toward Kash and she nodded slowly.

“You’re here as surety for your mistress. No one will hurt you. But if you fight, you’ll be locked up—for your own safety. If you don’t, we can keep this civil.” She nearly said
pleasant
, but that was a worse lie than she was willing to voice.

Moth nodded again, but her eyes were sharp and narrow.

One half of the hall’s great brassbound door swung open and Nerium emerged. Melantha caught Moth’s startled blink: The white lady of Quietus was adept at looking harmless. Her pale robes were plain, the sleeves rolled as if she’d been working, her silver hair tousled. If not precisely grandmotherly, she looked the part of an academic, an underslept scholar-mage. Not someone who commanded assassins and kidnapped children.

Not someone who would throw her own daughter into a well of hungry spirits. Nearly thirty years had passed, and Melantha still hadn’t reconciled herself to that.

Nerium’s eyebrows arched as she studied the tableau in the yard. Melantha rose, brushing dust off her trousers; despite everything, that quirked brow still made her feel like a truant child.

“What is this?” her mother asked.

“Your leverage. This is Iskaldur’s apprentice.”

“Kidnapping?” Nerium’s lips pinched. “I need Iskaldur here willingly.”

“You said whatever it takes. Besides—” She glanced away, cursing herself for it. “Iskaldur’s bodyguard knows me. From a long time ago. He would never trust me if I spoke to them.”

“Saints.” Nerium shook her head. “It’s done, I suppose. We’ll make the best of it. Welcome to Qais, young lady,” she said to Moth. Her eyes flicked from Moth’s stony silence to the bruise rising on Melantha’s throat. “I would prefer your stay not be a violent one.”

“We’ve come to an understanding. Haven’t we?” At her pointed glare, Moth nodded, but Melantha could see the plans spinning behind her eyes.

“Well then, let’s get out of the heat.” Nerium gestured toward the dormitory, and turned to lead the way.

Kash took it as a dismissal and released Moth, his dark shape unraveling on the breeze. The girl startled.

“You get used to it. Eventually.” Melantha forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Come on. Have you had breakfast?”

Despite her anger and suspicion, Moth was an adolescent, and Melantha had rarely known a child to refuse food. Sure enough, while the girl held her icy silence, she couldn’t resist chilled water or bread and fruit. They ate in the kitchen—it was quiet and empty, the ovens cold. The Chanterie’s housekeeper and assorted servants baked and stocked the pantries twice a decad, and prepared the occasional elaborate meal, but for the most part the mages fended for themselves.

Moth and Melantha ate, but Nerium was pensive and distracted. The circles beneath her eyes were darker than usual and her hands trembled. She smelled of myrrh and honey and recent sorcery.

“What is it?” Melantha finally asked.

“The usual things. And—” She paused, making a show of considering. Melantha had befriended enough stray animals to understand: First they fed Moth and showed her little kindnesses; next they ignored her. Eventually she would grow used to their presence. Let her guard down.

“It’s Khalil,” her mother finally said. “He’s not well. He hasn’t been well for some time, of course, but now…” She shrugged. “I’ve sedated him. Rest is all I can give. It would be best if you leave him in peace,” she added.

Melantha nodded, swallowing a mouthful of bread gone dry as ashes. Khalil had been her friend, her first combat instructor—kinder and freer with praise than any of her other teachers, including Nerium.

“I should return to my work,” her mother said. “See our guest settled in, please.”

Melantha’s appetite had fled, but she waited for Moth to finish before leading the girl upstairs. As they climbed the second flight and entered a twist of hallways, Moth’s curiosity finally overcame her silence.

“Is it always this empty?” she asked, flinching as the stillness broke.

“Not always, but for a long while now. We have other agents, but most work abroad. My mother and a few other mages live here, but no one has taken a new apprentice in years. Qais has guards and farmers, but they live elsewhere.”

Slate-grey eyes glanced sideways. “We?”

“Quietus. And don’t ask me why—the name is far older than I.”

“It fits,” Moth muttered.

The room Melantha chose had been her own once, decades ago. The choice discomfited her, but she also knew all the chamber’s nooks and hiding places, and had long ago determined that it was free of secret passages. It had a window; denying the girl one would be the wiser choice, but also a cruel one. She hoped the drop from the third floor would give Moth pause.

The air was stale and heavy. Melantha stifled a sneeze as the draft stirred settled dust. “I’ll send someone to clean,” she promised apologetically. “And I’ll find you clothes and such.” She threw back the shutters, disturbing more dust. “When the servants come, you may be tempted to bash one over the head and run.” Moth’s cheeks darkened and she ripped her gaze away from a heavy lamp beside the bed. Melantha caught the girl’s eye. “Don’t. I may deserve your violence—they don’t. Attack me as often as you like, but if you hurt anyone else I’ll have you chained.”

Another nod, this one slightly chagrined.

“Good. Rest, for now. I’ll join you for dinner, if you don’t mind the company.”

“It won’t work,” Moth said as she turned to leave.

“What won’t? Dinner?”

“You’re using me as bait for Isyllt. It won’t work.” Her chin rose, shoulders squaring. “She doesn’t want me. I’m useless as a bargaining chip. She won’t come for me. So if you mean to kill me, do it now and have done.”

Beneath the bravado, the words held a quiet, deep-buried hurt. Melantha might have feigned such, but she doubted Moth could. Her chest tightened—Moth believed it, believed herself unwanted, and turned her grief into armor to protect her mistress.

She hated Iskaldur in that instant, for inspiring such loyalty and pain. She hated herself even more.

“No one is going to kill you,” she said. “And she will come.”

She locked the door behind her.

Melantha meant to sleep after leaving Moth, but only managed to toss in the shuttered gloom. Her current room was a small chamber on the second floor, nearly empty. She kept books and clothes and stray keepsakes, but made few efforts toward coziness. She might always return to Qais, but she could pretend it wasn’t home.

She tossed and twisted for an hour, marking time by the stripes of light creeping across the floor. Finally she rose and tugged her boots back on and went to disobey her mother.

The wing where Khalil lived was deathly silent. She remembered his tuneless whistling drifting through the halls, hearing him mutter to himself as he read—he had read to her when she was young, long after her mother stopped. If she pleaded enough, he would sometimes call up shadows to enact the fight scenes on her bedroom walls.

She once imagined doing the same for her own children, but had long since abandoned the idea; she could never bring a child here.

And now you have. Resolutions are such fragile things, aren’t they?

Melantha raised her hand to knock on his closed door, but stopped before her knuckles fell. The door was warded, bound with spells. The kind any mage might use for privacy, but the tingle she felt was her mother’s magic, not Khalil’s.

She tapped on the frame beside the door, out of the spell’s reach. No one answered. A furtive glance through shadow revealed nothing but darkness, and a single grey line of light through curtained windows. Unease soured her stomach—she stepped through the wall.

The room was stagnant—something he could never stand—and thick with salt and incense. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a thin form on the bed, behind the pale shroud of netting.