Chapter 10 Daesra
DAESRA
THERE ARE cries of protest from the waiting shades, of course, as I begin to obviously cut the line with Melé and Pogli in tow.
But then I call out to the crowd—silently—and instill them all with such fear of me that they fall quiet and even back helpfully out of our way with wide eyes.
The only sound as we pass is that of feet scuffing over earth.
I feel a twinge of guilt over it, but at least fear is more merciful than violence, which is what I gave to the townsfolk who tore themselves apart.
And it’s vastly more merciful than consuming their souls to remove them from my path.
Pogli still darts oddly nervous glances at me as we reach the front of the line in a relatively peaceful if awkward silence, and Melé’s lips are pressed so tightly together they’re as white as her scars against her brown skin.
I don’t know if she’s disapproving or finally afraid of me, though I was careful not to touch her with my power.
I certainly don’t ask her which it is, because I don’t want to know either way.
But if even Pogli is growing wary of what I can do, perhaps she should be afraid.
We arrive at the wide head of the dock, following a boardwalk that carries us over the deep rust-colored mud.
Such consideration for the denizens of hell, I think bitterly.
Gods forbid that a shade gets muddy while losing their memory such that they’re forced to eat blood-grown fruit or basically sell off the old woman in line next to them.
Not surprisingly, there’s a gate barricading our way.
And yet I feel a rush of relief, because the empty ferry has just pulled back up to its docking, and the ferryman is getting off.
He’s cloaked in a simple brown hooded robe—a sensible color, with this mud—belted with rope at the waist, and when he pulls down his cowl he reveals black skin and an egg-bald head, while his face is young and angular, with cheekbones as sharp as cliffs over sunken cheeks.
His full lips purse in distaste as he sees me waving him over, and his eyes—bronze—glint at me with the threat of arrowheads ready to fly.
“Kardon, my friend,” I say as he strides toward me like he’s about to strike me down. I merely lean over the barrier with my arms loosely folded, as if this were a neighbor’s fence.
“Step away.” He plants a large hand on my shoulder and tries to shove me back. “We are not friends.”
I barely shift, which means I’m stronger than him. “Well, we could be.”
“Get in line,” he growls with a voice like gravel.
“I was hoping you might make an exception for a friend.” I pause meaningfully. “Or at the very least, a god.”
His eyes flicker from me to the front of the line, where everyone is still standing silent and terrified. “I see.” He turns back to me and smiles with exceptionally white, straight teeth, though it’s more like he’s baring them at me. “No.”
“No?” I stare back at him, affronted. “Just no? That’s it?”
“That’s it. Though it does give me pleasure to refuse a god.”
Orseus—Isha, I hiss at myself—suggested that he was surly, and he was right.
Except that Kardon has a damn near delighted twinkle in his eyes.
He must not receive many gods, after all, only an endless stream of shades to ferry.
I’m probably his first, which means this is an all-around exciting time for him.
And a terrible one for me. “What if I toss you out of my way and simply take your ferry?”
His smile only grows. “Please, god, try it.”
“Fine.” I throw back my head, seeking patience in the threatening sky and finding none. “What would happen if I did that?”
“It would sink immediately without me aboard. And even with me aboard, it won’t move unless I direct it to.”
My eyes narrow at him. I suppose I could torture him into directing it for me, but that seems like an ungainly task to undertake during a ferry ride, he looks alarmingly resilient, and there might even be some magical provision against that.
“Can she board the next ferry?” I ask, nodding at Melé.
“She can board… once she waits her turn.” His intentional little delay makes my jaw clench on the frustration building within me.
“In that case…” I flip around, leaning back against the barricade on my elbows, to survey the waiting shades. “I could make this line far shorter in an instant by consuming the souls of everyone in it.”
Melé gasps. “Deseus—Daesra, no! You couldn’t!”
I could, and yet I’m extremely reluctant myself, even if my reservations are different from hers.
I likely wouldn’t be the same afterward.
These shades might not be as repugnant as the blood farmers, but they all just died.
They could fill me with so much misery and fear and regret I might as well have chanced the river.
But Kardon doesn’t have to know how risky following through on my own threat could be for me.
Although it wouldn’t be as risky if I were to single out the more innocent souls.
They would taste far sweeter. Go down easier.
I could probably even convince them they were happy beforehand.
My eyes skim their numbers without seeing any faces—I think I might be able to differentiate between them by feel.
It would at least halve the line and might sway Kardon to take us, either to avoid further loss of his passengers or in repayment for lessening his workload.
Never mind what destroying so many innocents might do to me in other ways. I realize I’m fully capable of scarring my own soul, if I do something horrendous enough. The shades closest to me are as silent as if holding their breath—as if they know what I’m considering.
Do you think she’ll even be pleased to see you, after what you’ve done? Isha’s words echo in my mind.
I try to shrug them off, cracking my neck in readiness.
Sadaré wouldn’t have to know, either, though hiding truths from her would only add to my list of monstrous deeds.
I glance at Melé, who is gaping at me in astonished horror, even though she hasn’t even been privy to my more deeply depraved calculations.
She would know.
My eyes catch on hers. Staring back at her, I realize with another painful jolt that hollows me out: No matter what we are to each other now, I don’t want her to see me like that. Not even for Sadaré’s sake.
Besides, as I told myself earlier, if—when—I find Sadaré, she needs to be able to recognize me. And she won’t if I’m twisted beyond all redemption. I hope that’s not what it will take to reach her, even if Isha seems to think so.
Fuck Isha. And fuck this Kardon.
I can’t do it.
The latter hasn’t even responded to my terrible threat, only glaring at me as if weighing how serious I am, or perhaps how he might attempt to kill me. He doesn’t seem to have come to a conclusion on any front.
“Very well.” I shove away from the barrier, scowling at him over my shoulder. “I won’t. But just so you’re aware, we’re definitely not friends.”
His lips twist in a mockery of a smile. “My heart bleeds, god.”
I wish I could truly make him bleed, but instead I walk away from him through extreme force of will. Taking Melé by the arm, I look back only to make sure Pogli is following and ignore Kardon’s self-satisfied smirk as we leave the head of the dock.
The river it is.
The rust-orange water churns by us as we step off the boardwalk and start upstream, leaving the line of shades behind.
I drop Melé’s arm, but she takes mine again for balance as we navigate the slippery bank.
I’m surprised—oddly grateful, even—that she’s willing to touch me, after my display.
And yet she still doesn’t say anything. Mud squishes loudly between my toes, and the smell of hot iron grows stronger, stinging my nostrils. Pogli sneezes several times in a row.
I eye the river uneasily, hoping it won’t affect me.
The intoxicating waters in the maze did, but I was only a daemon then, with my power still bound by Sadaré at that.
As a god, I might very well be immune. As for Pogli, I have no clue what it might do to him, but he doesn’t have much hatred inside of his little body for the water to intensify anyway.
It will undoubtedly affect Melé. I’m more conscious of her hand on my arm than ever, and I silently curse Isha again for putting her in this situation. For forcing me to put her in this situation.
I have the ability to mold the shape of things—living or otherwise—but only in slight ways, using the material that’s already there.
Still, I try to push out the bank to form the beginning of a bridge, or to at least make the distance across shorter, but it feels like running headlong into a wall before I even shift a speck of mud.
As Isha was happy to remind me, I’m not the master of this realm—of thanar. I likely can’t affect it at all. So I give up.
After we’ve gone a bit farther, I stop and glance at Melé apologetically.
“We have to swim the river. Well, I’ll swim, and you’ll hold on to me as best you can.
” I squint at the ferry dock on the other shore, making doubly certain we’ve gone far enough upstream to attempt the crossing.
The banks are too steep on either side of the landing to easily pull ourselves out, so I don’t want to risk the current carrying us past it and sweeping us into the delta braided with the River of Regret—or, worse, out to sea. Water imbued with hatred is bad enough.
“I can swim” is all she says.
I know that, and yet I still frown down at her. “But who knows for how long? The current might be strong, along with its… influence. You might feel overwhelmed by hatred.” At which point, the current would quickly overwhelm her.