48. Forty-eight
Chapter 48
By the time we reached the harbor, the chain was already down for the night. This inconvenience afforded us the time to purchase supplies. I could not have made myself wait for them, otherwise. But Oraik insisted on buying food and blankets.
I asked him if I could borrow money, not that I knew how to pay it back, to buy a pigeon in a wicker cage. At the dawn bird market he fell half in love with one whose iridescent neck reminded me of the Ward’s flicker. I silently bought the plainest, calmest one I could find at the dockside market. Oraik told me I was making a mistake, until I quieted him with a grim look.
We left in early morning after staying up all night. I was able to get us a few hours west before my eyes kept closing on their own, and I had to drop anchor. I woke at noon, impatient to keep moving.
“Should I take over?” Oraik offered when he woke two hours later.
“Maybe later. I’m alright for now.”
He nodded and went to the wolf’s chest to get breakfast. We sat on opposite sides of the small boat, the pigeon nestled up against one of the benches to keep the cage from jostling too much with the sea.
“Can you heat these up?” Oraik asked, turning to show me a basket. Inside were diamond-shaped pastries, a soft cheese wrapped in flaky dough. I blinked at him, then glanced down at the compass to adjust our course.
“No. It’s too much power.”
“Don’t be serious. It can’t take much,” Oraik said. “They’re no good cold. Don’t make me eat them cold.”
“Oraik…”
“Fine,” he muttered airily. “But it seems very rude to make your blood sacrifice eat cold food. Isn’t that right, Taavi?”
“Don’t name the bird,” I warned him.
Time passed. The sea undulated. Oraik talked.
“Land,” he announced on the third day, looking with curiosity at the hazy shape forming on the horizon. “It’s not—is that Doregall?”
“It ought to be,” I told him. We’d been sailing long enough. It had seemed like the safer of the two stones Oraik could open, with the whole of the Protectorate evidently going after Colynes, and in any case I couldn’t be certain which stones were still standing, apart from his mother’s homeland.
“Ah.” I heard his soft breath. He got up from where he’d been sitting beside me. Oraik crossed the deck and stood there, at the edge of the wolf. The wind ruffled through his clothes as he stared out across the sea.
Doregall, as it came into focus, was rosy forests and high craggy cliffs. I saw a crumbling watch-tower emerge from a stand of trees, and a delicate pale city peeking up behind it.
“I’d like to go ashore,” Oraik said quietly.
“We don't have time.”
“I know. Not now,” he said. His voice was still soft. Tender? “But someday. I’d like to go.”
“You might not find much cheer there.”
“I know.”
He stayed like that, staring at the island, until we were finally past it and in the channel.
From there we swept off the Etegen and into a broad river mouth. It would take us towards the Doregall stone, on the small strip of continent which had once belonged to Doregall. I got more nervous as we drew closer. I could feel the pull of the Ward now, and yet nearly everything in me wanted to turn back, instinct clamoring to live.
Surely the witches inside the Ward had all learned to put limits on their castings, as I’d been doing, after the first stone broke. Or the second, or the third. Surely I’d not kill anyone by bringing down the Doregall stone. Even if it did bring the Ward one step closer to breaking entirely.
It was dark. We pulled the wolf to one of the banks and spent the night. The stone kept its steady drag on my heat. I could feel how it ached to consume me. I don’t know how I ever slept through it.
Then morning came.
The Doregall stone lay on the left bank of the river, where we’d slept, within walking distance. It was as tall as two people put together. Moss covered its bottom third; tall golden grasses licked around the base. Mountains ranged on either side of us, here and through the Ward. We were in a river-valley, standing on the border of one world and the next.
I was staring moodily at the stone when Oraik rose to his feet. The prince covered a yawn.
“Well?” he asked, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Are we doing this?”
I nodded slowly. There was no sense in delaying now.
“You don’t have to come with me, you know. To the other side.”
“And miss it?” Oraik asked. “You must have lost your mind.”
“It’ll be dangerous.”
“Ah, I wonder what that will feel like,” he joked. “I’m not letting you go alone. You might need somebody with charm. Anyways, how would you get home?”
I didn’t answer that.
We trekked in silence towards the stone. Oraik carried the basket of food, almost empty now apart from a few stale loaves and Kalcedon’s melon. I had my bag over my shoulder, and the wicker cage in my arms. The pigeon hunkered down inside, head drawn back and wings fluffed.
When we finally reached the stone, it pulled so hard my teeth felt like chattering. Oraik pulled out the little knife, rolled up his sleeve, and paused.
“I might need help,” he said quietly.
“With what? I can’t touch the stone. It’ll kill me.”
“With this ,” he said, his voice inching higher. “The cutting part. The blood .”
“My hands will be full,” I told him sourly. “You’re going to have to figure it out.”
He clucked his tongue and eyed the blade warily. Opening the small bird cage, I reached my hands in and received a sharp jab between my thumb and finger. A sear of pain, and then my hands wrapped around the flapping body in a mess of feathers and blood, and pulled the struggling creature loose with both hands. I clutched it tight against my chest until it stopped struggling. The pigeon panted.
Oraik held the knife to his forearm an inch from his elbow. I didn’t want to see it happen, I realized. I turned to face the stone.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Yes. Tell me when.”
I readjusted my hands, finding the bird’s neck. It shuddered under my hands, not fighting but anxious.
“I’ve never done this before,” I told him.
“Me neither. Count down?”
“Three, two…” I braced myself and twisted my fists in different directions, snapping the neck in as clean a motion as I could manage. The bird thrashed. With a curse I tightened my hands and tried snapping it the other way.
“I don’t know if it’s dead ,” I wailed, but it had stopped moving in my hands.
Oraik stepped up to the stone. I almost warned him instinctively, and had to remind myself he was human, and safe from its pull. The prince hesitated with his arm a few inches from the obelisk, then gritted his teeth and pressed the wound to the stone. Nothing happened. He drew his arm back and looked at me.
“Am I missing something? More blood?” he asked. I bit my lip.
“Maybe the timing wasn’t good enough.” I set the pigeon down, my hands still shaking, and fumbled for my notebook. Maybe I wasn’t as good of a translator as I had bargained. Tied to life. Keyed to blood. A sacrifice of both, but I saw no reason they had to be the same source. Was I missing something?
I was interrupted by a crack so sharp it thundered. Oraik jumped back as I threw my hands over my ears.
The stone slid neatly apart down its center, and the Ward came crashing down.