Chapter 23 #2
“He took her back to his realm and tricked her into a bargain. Then he came and kidnapped me because he thought I was you—”
“Fuck me, Carrion.” I shoved him out of the way and grabbed the boy by the shirt. The sour tang of his fear flooded my nose. “Do you want to see your sister?” I growled.
“Y-yes!” he stammered.
“All right, then. Let’s fucking go.”
“Wait! Wait—We can’t go!” He dug his boot heels into the sand, almost losing his balance when I pulled him forward.
I was this close to knocking the fucker out and throwing him over my shoulder. “Why not?”
Hayden’s eyes darted to Carrion—wide, afraid, sad. His shoulders sagged, the fight suddenly leaving him. “We need to go back to the Third first,” he whispered. “You need . . . to say goodbye, Carrion. I’m sorry. I . . .”
I watched Carrion’s jaw set. He backed away, hands balled into fists, knuckles white.
“What is it?” I asked.
Hayden didn’t have the heart to answer, it seemed. But somehow Carrion already knew.
“Gracia,” he said softly. “Gracia is dead.”
A lonely parade of mourners trudged single file up the dunes.
Their scarves whipped in the wind, streaming westward like prayer flags.
Sand stung my cheeks and brought tears to my eyes as I fought my way up the steep incline behind Hayden.
Carrion led the way, his gait the resigned lumber of a male headed toward the gallows. He didn’t say anything. No one did.
The occupants of the Third were quarantined. They were forbidden from leaving their ward under any circumstances—apart from one. The poorest residents of the Silver City were permitted to leave their ward to bury their dead.
It was not a kindness.
There were no graveyards in the Third. No mausoleums or crypts. The corpses of the downtrodden and oppressed had to go somewhere, and Madra made sure that the friends and the family of the newly deceased disposed of their remains in a timely fashion. There would be consequences otherwise.
We had left by the south gate. No guardian had stood watch. None was required. Madra knew all too well that those who made the pilgrimage across the blistering dunes would make their way back soon enough.
The gateway into the desert might as well have been the gateway into hell. There was nowhere to go. No reprieve to be found out here among the endless, haunted dunes. Only death. The people who left to say goodbye to their dead always came back. What other choice did they have?
I was soaked with sweat and beginning to feel the first signs of dehydration by the time we reached the pyre site—impressive, considering it normally took a week or two for a member of the Fae to need water.
Thirty or more men and women stood in a silent circle around the burning stack of wood. The shrouded figure laid out atop the pyre was already engulfed in flames. A pillar of flames leaped up at the pale sky, making the air shiver with heat.
In a city of stone and sand, there wasn’t much to burn.
Everyone had brought something to feed Gracia Swift’s farewell fire.
A shawl. A blanket. Armloads of straw. The woman from the bar yesterday, the one who had screamed at Carrion for causing a scene, tossed pieces of a broken chair onto the fire, crying softly.
When she saw Carrion, she shook her head, tears cutting tracks over her dust marked cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Carrion. I would have told you. I didn’t know.”
Carrion didn’t see her. He only saw the fire. The woman placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it, and left, heading down the dunes, back toward the city.
We stood there, watched the pyre turn white-hot.
Eventually, he stepped forward and tossed a book onto the fire.
I had seen him pack it into his bag when we’d left his apartment, had noted its title then.
Fae Creatures of the Gilarian Mountains.
The book had been his only link to his people.
His heritage. His entire realm. Gracia’s family had safeguarded the book—and Carrion—his entire life.
The ancient tome went up like kindling.
“I should have been here,” he whispered. “I should have sat with her.” He frowned, confusion tugging at his features. “I don’t . . . even know why we do it. Seventy-two hours. That’s how long we sit with them when they die. The people that we love.”
I tucked my chin, exhaling. “Zilvarens do it for the same reason we do it. You sit with your loved ones to make sure they don’t rise. After three days, the chance of them transitioning ends. The dead stay dead. For us, it’s a practical safeguard. It must have become tradition here.”
Hayden hadn’t said much until now. He stared at us both, eyes wide. “What are you talking about, transitioning?”
Carrion didn’t reply. He was lost in the fire again.
“Later,” I told him. “There’ll be plenty of time for explanations once we get back to Yvelia.” The answer didn’t assuage his concern, by the looks of things. But Hayden nodded, his throat working as he swallowed.
Somewhere, deep in the desert, a haunting, mournful cry went up. Crying? No, it was . . . singing. Beautiful. Sad. Eerie. The woman’s sorrow echoed across the dunes, the melody so haunting and lonely that I knew I would never forget it.
We watched the pyre for an hour, until the heat became unmanageable and Carrion’s knees buckled.
I caught him by the back of his shirt and held him up.
The poor bastard’s face and neck were still marked from Joshin’s stingers.
He looked exhausted. Ready to give up. He nodded, breathing deep, indicating that he could stand on his own, but rather than letting him go, I pulled him into a hug.
Saeris wasn’t here. But if she was, this is what she would have done for him.
Carrion immediately tried to pull away, but I hugged him tighter—too tight, maybe—refusing to let him go. He sagged, burying a single, choked cry into my chest, and that was all I heard out of him. His body rocked with silent sobs for a minute, and I held him. And then he stopped, and it was over.
When he pulled away again, I let him go. His face was bright red, his eyes hollow. He nodded, his voice cracked with emotion. “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
This way. Thisss way. This is the way.
The quicksilver was restless today. It whispered in the back of my mind, directing me as we traveled through the tunnels beneath the city, back toward the Third.
So little of it remained in me now that its voice was singular.
Almost childlike. Easily ignored. It felt different today, though.
More insistent. It was happy when we were heading in the direction it wanted us to travel in, but the moment we changed course, it wreaked havoc on my insides.
The sensation would have been less infuriating had Hayden Fane shut up once since we’d entered the tunnels.
“It stinks down here,” he mumbled.
I bit my tongue.
“I can barely see.”
I stared ahead, jaw clenched.
“There are rats down here.”
I spun around and pinned the fucker to the wall.
“Are you done?” I seethed. He couldn’t exactly reply—not with my hand wrapped around his fucking throat.
His eyes rolled in his head like a spooked horse.
“I really think you should be. Because you’re starting to sound like a petulant, spoiled little shit who hasn’t had to deal with hardship a day in his fucking life. ”
Hayden’s eyes rolled back into his head. He passed out.
“Perfect.” Carrion sounded unfazed by the turn of events. “You scared him unconscious. That’s just . . . perfect.”
“At least he’ll be quiet for a moment.”
The moment didn’t last long. Hayden was awake and looking like he’d shit his britches less than a minute later. I crouched down and shoved a finger in his face. “Do not say a fucking word. Come on. On your feet. Move.”
The rest of the journey back to the tunnels was relatively peaceful.
We collected the bags of silver from the abandoned maintenance room where we had stowed them earlier.
I was desperate for daylight by the time Carrion launched himself up and out of an access hatch he claimed was close to another apartment that he used—apparently, he had more than one.
The smuggler lifted himself up through the hole and then reached back down again for Hayden.
I barely had to help the human up; Carrion had already pulled him through.
I followed after, irritation hot at the back of my throat.
“How is it that I had to deal with your ass in my face the last time you tried to climb out of a tunnel, and yet now you’re perfectly capable of climbing out by yourself? ”
The look Carrion gave me spoke volumes. “It’s very simple, Fisher.
If you treat me like I’m the court jester, I’ll be the court jester.
If I’m the laughingstock, or the drunk, or the idiot, then you’re not thinking about who I really am, are you.
I survived here for over a thousand years.
Do you really think I’d have been able to do that if I couldn’t pull myself out of a fucking hole?
If at any point, you underestimate me . .
.” He smirked, arching a dark copper eyebrow.
“Then I’d say that was your mistake rather than mine. Wouldn’t you?”
There were posters on the walls, now, as we slipped through the Third.
Thick, blocky text screamed:
DANGER! ENEMIES OF THE CROWN!
Wanted for:
Unauthorized Magic Use
Murder
Theft
Intent to Incite Violence
Harboring these criminals is an offense punishable by death. Remember: Magic is a disease.
Keep Zilvaren Safe!
My face wasn’t drawn in caricature this time. The rendering was faithful enough. Carrion’s face was plastered up there with mine now. Images of our faces stared out of scores of posters as we made our way through the ward.
With our hoods drawn up and our scarves concealing our features, we were safe from the prying eyes of those we passed. Men and women gathered around the posters, arguing among themselves on every street corner.