Chapter Eight Ris
chapter eight
ris
The golden hour is upon us, the rays breaking through the clouds, heralding twilight. Night is descending fast, and I hurry. The cold comes quick here. Once the sun is gone, it’s like the empty side of your bed after your lover has left.
When you live on the Spring Isle, Alev is the only place you can go.
It sits at the southern shore, the small harbour a ley line between us and the port of Umasa, on the mainland.
The tavern stands hunched against the elements, built of coarse beige stone amidst the dark, earthy brown of bricks.
Each roughly cut square, from our own quarries and those of the Autumn Isle, comes together to create a hodgepodge building that has withstood the centuries.
Time moves slowly here. Sometimes I look around the Spring Isle and think of how many generations have lived on this land, cradle to grave.
I approach Vullis’s Tap, trying not to let fear show on my face.
I catch my reflection in one of the smudgy windows and smooth the ends of my hair, which have been tugged free from my braid, noting the flush in my cheeks from the long walk.
I’ve rouged my lips and eyes tonight. I’m more used to muddy breeches and sweaty smocks, and I feel like a sheep dressed as a queen.
I take a moment to admire the fabric of the dress as it clings to my biceps.
These are rare moments when I think of myself as pleasing to the eye.
Larkin once thought so, told me often when we were happy.
I enter the tavern, slipping off my cloak.
‘Thought I was seeing the ghost of your pa, Ris,’ old Griyo makes the usual joke from his corner booth. A few other folk give a deep, rumbling laugh. I can’t help but wonder if they are making a mockery of my attempts at femininity.
‘Which one, Griyo?’
‘Spitting image of Jon,’ Griyo goes on. ‘Your girl’s going to look just like you.’
‘Another round?’ Vullis gathers their empty tankards, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
I make my way across the tavern, bending my head from the knick-knacks and tankards hanging from the ceiling.
It’s not particularly low, but my parents had the same issue.
Long-legged sort, your family. I’d left the Spring Isle with Larkin and when we came back pregnant with Biba, we only had a few months together.
My fathers had gotten word to us on the Autumn Isle.
Times had been tough on the farm, and their health was failing.
I had been away, on the Autumn Isle and on voyage work all that time, so close and yet so far, sheltered from the rest of Paranish in our little love nest. We had been foolish then – dreamers, the both of us.
I rest my arm on the bar, its wooden surface worn away from decades of elbows and palms, oil and cider staining the grain deep to the root.
‘New dress, Ris?’ Vullis asks, setting to work pouring a mug of piyata cider from the bottle. It’s thick and cloudy and coral pink. I can almost taste the heady sweetness.
I swish the linen playfully, watching the maroon folds catch the candlelight. ‘Do you like it?’
Ryla and Kopiro whistle jocularly from their table in the corner. They have their Soklan cards and wares for bartering set out already, going through their benevolent rituals. I grab the mug of cider from the bar and stroll over, sliding onto the bench.
‘Is this your big project at last?’ Ryla asks, eyes fluttering from my cleavage back down to their cards. I quirk my eyebrows; they’ve never been particularly flirtatious in all the years we’ve played.
‘She’s finally finished. What do you think?’ I ask.
‘You look lovely, Ris,’ Kopiro says, squeezing my hand. ‘It’s good to see you happy.’
Ryla gives him a smirk. Placing my deck on the table, I shuffle through the cards and recite the old words, familiar like rubbing my thumb over a smooth pebble. Warmth of my palms. Aligning stars. Bonds of us gathered here tonight. Let me read them, let me know their cards like they are my own.
‘Are you in tonight, Vullis?’ Kopiro asks as the barkeep comes over to hand us our drinks.
Vullis grins, watching Kopiro cleansing his cards over the candle flame. ‘After you smiled as you drank my twenty-year emerald vine liquor? Twenty years fermenting.’
Ryla laughs. ‘If you didn’t want to lose it, you shouldn’t have bet it.’
‘Didn’t even give me the courtesy of a dram,’ Vullis complains.
‘You gambled the whole bottle,’ Kopiro says with a shrug. ‘Tell you what, I’m experimenting with a new blend with the piyata cider. I’ll set aside some for you, if it’ll stop you being salty.’
I look up to find Vullis appraising me. ‘You’re very focused tonight, Ris.’
I smile playfully. ‘I hope you’re bringing all your wits.’
‘If he’s any to spare,’ Ryla jokes, grinning at Vullis.
‘I’ve got a bar to keep. Focus on your cards, Ryla.’ Vullis laughs.
I warm the cards, feeling them pliant beneath my fingers. ‘You ready for a good time?’
Time glides like water as slippery as a fish after a few drinks and several rounds of Soklan.
Night turns into a dark void outside the windows of the tavern as the room empties, and then we’re the last people left.
Vullis was hovering around the edges but as the evening wore on, he finally asked to be dealt in.
After feeling everyone out in the opening rounds, I’ve not been able to catch a break.
The game’s downstream and I’m watching it wash away.
I drain my seventh piyata cider, grimacing at the dregs, mingled sweet and tart.
I’m grateful Kopiro followed Ryla to Alev and set up his cidery here.
I never got used to the Autumn Isle cider, even though it’s the original source and traded all across Paranish.
I like what I know. I steady my gaze, trying to discern my cards in the candlelight.
I look at my bundles of golden thread, now part of Kopiro and Ryla’s stacks, and wince.
I don’t have anything left after badly misreading Ryla’s face last round.
The tavern door slams open and three tall, cloaked figures slink in from the rain.
They trail a muddy stain across the flagstones, ripping off their sodden cloaks and practically throwing them at Vullis.
Underneath there are the distinctive white uniforms of the Seaguardians.
But I see that they’re not just any common Seaguardians: it’s the captain of the royal guard and her lackeys. My heart drops to the floor: Salvacion.
Vullis ducks behind the bar, all shining smiles. ‘How can I help you, my fine folk?’
‘Piyata cider, naturally,’ Salvacion orders, with the low growl of a woman who has shouted orders all day.
Vullis nods and gets to work filling their mugs. The Seaguardians ignore the chill their presence has brought, warming themselves by the fire, the blue wave and sunrise of their sigils catching the light.
‘Quite a way to sail on a night like this,’ Vullis says, trying to keep the knife-edge of nerves from his voice.
The Seaguardians take their tankards without thanks, eyes still on the flames, Salvacion with a shit-eating grin on her face. ‘The cider’s not that good,’ she says. After an agonising pause, she adds: ‘I’m here to see my favourite sister-in-law. Our mistress of the loom.’
Ryla and Kopiro shrink in their seats. Everyone looks at me then, and I’m a mouse with my tail under their paws. Nothing can save me now.
‘Ris,’ Salvacion says, drawing it out serpent-like, savouring the sound. The Seaguardians move across the bar and slide into the seats next to us, movements so languid it’s torture. Ryla and Kopiro study their cards furiously, and the silence is choking.
‘Nice dress, Ris.’
‘Good to see you too, Salvacion,’ I say, not meeting her eyes.
‘It looks like you’ve been spending your time well,’ she says. She takes a slow sip of her drink and sets it down, smacking her lips together. ‘You know why we’re here.’
‘I told the steward last time. I can’t pay yet,’ I mumble, staring down at my cards.
Salvacion knocks them from my hand, and they scatter across the table. She barks a laugh. ‘Look at me when we talk – it’s only polite,’ she says. ‘You have to settle your debt, Ris.’
I swallow hard, my tongue thick in my mouth.
Her lackeys touch the hilts of their swords. The manner is offhand, as you would adjust a sleeve.
‘The sheep are sick,’ I explain. ‘I’ve tried finding out what’s wrong with them. They can’t produce more—’
Salvacion slams her drink across the side of my head. The room swings and it feels as though bells are clanging inside my brain.
Vullis lurches forward to steady me. ‘Are you all right, Ris?’
Something wet trickles out of my ear, and I wonder how it can be warm and cold at the same time. Ryla proffers a handkerchief, and it comes away covered in a sickly cocktail of blood and cider.
‘Take a walk, lads,’ Salvacion tells her Seaguardians, and they get up, moving as if they are patrolling the tavern.
She leans forward, face set in grim determination, and whispers, ‘You’re out of options, Ris. They know about Biba.’
‘What?’ I hold the kerchief to my bloodied face, unable to think straight.
Salvacion brings her mug back to her lips, alcohol and blood sloshing together down the sides. ‘For the love we both bore my brother,’ she says.
Salvacion reaches towards her hilt, and I feel my friends tense beside me – but her fingers brush past to reach into a pocket.
She removes a waxed, yellowed piece of paper, the edges frayed where it’s been folded over the years.
She unfolds it like undressing a lover. Salvacion swipes the contents of the table onto the floor – drinks, cards, and tokens go flying, unheeded.
She lays the paper on the table, glancing momentarily at her lackeys who are now at the bar, liberally helping themselves to Vullis’s supplies.
‘Do you trust these fools?’ Salvacion asks, and I nod. She indicates for us all to come closer.
I ignore the stabbing behind my eyes and the dripping of my blood and focus on scrawls of spidery ink.
They are meaningless to me, so I desperately try to understand the images.
I spot the mainland, the Bastion atop the hill, the other isles like fingers disjointed from a palm.
I remember the tale of Paranish’s founding, the great otter-cat who jumped across the waters and left an imprint of his paw.
Our islands, our home. There we are: the Spring Isle.
‘This is a map of Paranish,’ Vullis says.
‘Glad you’d recognise your own arse, barkeep,’ Salvacion says. She hovers a finger near the corner of the map, where a dark void fills the emptiness of the ocean. ‘Look here.’
‘Looks like a tea stain to me,’ Kopiro blurts. Salvacion wags a mischievous finger.
‘The Lahon Maelstrom,’ I say grimly, staring at the map.
Salvacion nods.
I touch the map gently. ‘How did you get this?’ I ask.
‘The same way I got Larkin’s,’ she says, crossing her arms.
My stomach drops. We’ve all heard the stories: tales of unspeakable treasure and, inevitably, the dangers that guard it.
If you survive the Lahon Maelstrom, you might just be able to steal it.
That’s what Larkin tried to do. It had been our dream, until I became pregnant, and my parents fell ill.
Those everyday anchors that hold you back.
Or at least, they had held me back. Larkin had gone anyway, like a thief in the night. And Salvacion had helped him.
‘This is a death sentence!’ Vullis protests. ‘No one has ever come back from there.’
‘Then where do the stories come from?’ Salvacion asks, sourly. ‘Look, this is your last chance. Unless you want to give up Biba to the Temple. They’ll come for her, Ris, and you’ll never see her again.’
I stare at Salvacion and see Larkin’s stubbornness in her eyes. She wouldn’t have risen through the Seaguardian ranks without it.
‘I’ve seen several priestesses in my time,’ Salvacion says, meaningfully.
One royal and one priestess was tradition, but our queen has gone through as many priestesses in almost as many years.
Her words are ice in my bones. We all know the horrors, spoken in whispers: families screaming as their children are snatched in the night. As soon as that power shines bright enough, the Bastion knows it. No one knows how. We live in fear that someone we know may disappear next.
Biba’s past miracles have been embers compared to the otter-cat. This has been enough to get their attention. Biba will be taken from me and raised on the Winter Isle and serve them until she dies.
The map lies there, quietly biding its time. The pursuit of a promise. A phantom treasure. My husband knew the folly of adventure.
Eventually, I ask: ‘What is the queen looking for?’
‘I don’t know. But you’ll know it when you find it,’ Salvacion says.
‘And you’ll certainly be in the queen’s good graces.
I’m sure everything could be forgotten.’ She stands and adjusts her jacket.
‘It may just be fisherfolk talk, but there’s an old woman, touched, on the mainland in Umasa.
She might be able to help you understand what’s happening to Biba.
Good luck, Ris.’ She claps me on the shoulder, hard.
The lackeys abandon their drinking and throw open the door for her exit. I stare at my blood on the soles of their shoes until they leave.
‘I need air,’ I tell my friends in the silence of the abandoned tavern.
Ryla helps me outside while Kopiro and Vullis begin to clean up.
It’s raining hard, the wind and rain lashing at my face.
It slaps me hard as I lean against the stone wall, doubling over, my head between my knees.
I retch, but nothing comes up. The bile is stuck in my throat.
I can see the fabric of my dress torn asunder, underskirts flashing through the tears.
Most likely caught on a nail or splinter when I was on the floor. Ruined, like so much of what I make.
My knees buckle and I fall to the ground. Ryla pushes their short hair behind their ears and crouches next to me, helping me up to lean against the wall. They rub my back. When they go to wipe the blood from my mouth, I tear a scrap of material from my hem and wad it against the bleeding gums.