Chapter Four
Chapter
four
The quake hits in the dead of night, startling me out of a dark dream.
At first, I think I’m still asleep, that the shaking bed frame is another fragment of the horrible visions that haunt my subconscious—a sea of sand threatening to swallow me whole as carrion birds circle in a sky streaked with lightning, waiting to pick my bones clean.
But as I jerk fully awake, I realize it’s happening again.
Another quake.
A strong one, at that.
That makes three in the past month. It’s hard to believe they were once a rare occurrence.
Tremors plague us with increasing frequency as the blight spreads across Anwyvn, sickening the realm in slow degrees.
Even here in the Northlands, where they were so long spared the grasping clutches of evil, it has begun to creep over the Cimmerian Mountains with skeletal fingers.
In response to this invasion, the earth heaves and shakes like a terminally ill patient too strong for his own good, fighting against that forthcoming doom with an obstinance that only drains his dwindling strength more quickly.
For if the earth itself can feel pain, surely this is how it manifests—not with a quiet groan of acceptance but in great shudders that threaten to split the world in two. All of us along with it.
Bolting out of bed, I stumble toward the doorway.
The planks beneath my feet are unsteady as a ship deck, pitching me to and fro against the walls of the narrow hallway.
I drop into a crouch and scurry the rest of the way into the parlor.
Lestyn is already awake, jostled out of the sound sleep I left him in on my sofa several hours ago, his book abandoned on the floor along with his eyeglasses.
With sleep-tousled black curls sticking in several directions and his copper skin atypically pale, for once he looks every bit the boy of thirteen instead of the competent novitiate I’ve come to know over the past few months.
“It will be over soon,” I call, gripping the doorframe as the quake begins to lessen in intensity. “Feel it? It’s already slowing.”
He nods, swallowing down his fright. After a few more moments of turbulence, the world stills and falls silent once more.
“There.” I breathe deep. “See? It’s done.”
I walk over to him, one hand pressed to the fabric of my nightgown, as though I might subdue my racing pulse through sheer force.
He looks faraway, his eyes not seeing me nor the room around him but something else.
Something worse. Cautiously, I drop down beside him, mirroring his pose—back pressed to the sofa, knees curled to my chest, arms looped tight around them.
“Hey, now. It’s all right. It’s over.”
Lestyn does not respond. His body trembles, as though still feeling the effects of the earthquake. His stare bores into the bookshelves, through them, reaching memories so painful I am afraid to pull him out of them.
There are things about the boy I’ve learned without needing to ask, without him explicitly telling me.
I know he lost much in the battle—more than most. Just as I know he does not come to my apartments merely for access to the apothecary tomes, however he might pretend.
He does not like to sleep at the barracks where other displaced orphans spend their nights.
He prefers the lumpy cot we set up for him in the cold back room of the infirmary.
Sometimes, though, he needs the semblance of home—even if he is not yet ready to express it.
No matter how sharp-eyed or quick-witted, he is in many ways a lost little boy still learning to navigate this lonely new reality.
He is not alone in that.
We sit in silence for a while, until the aftershocks of the quake have subsided completely. When his breathing has evened out and his eyes have lost some of their bleakness, I get to my feet and pull him up after me.
“Come on. Get your boots on while I get dressed,” I say brusquely. “Neither of us will be sleeping anymore tonight. No use sitting around here when we can be of use to others.”
He nods, shoulders stiffening. “Okay, Rhya.”
“Let’s hope no more buildings collapsed under the tremors.
The infirmary is finally clearing out. I’d like to see it remain that way for a few days before another disaster strikes.
It would give us time to catch up on that pile of laundry in the storage room.
If it grows any higher, it will rival the range. ”
His amused snort chases me down the hallway.
In a matter of moments, we are walking the dark stretch of High Street.
We pass by Carys’s dress shop. The windows are lit up, lanterns burning bright despite the late hour.
If I strain my ears, I can hear the faint cries of a fussy baby being soothed back to sleep after an abrupt awakening.
Longing ribbons through me. I wish I could knock on the door.
Offer to make Carys a cup of tea and take a turn rocking Nevin back to sleep while she gets some rest. Perhaps begin to make things right…
“Are you okay?”
I glance over at Lestyn and find him watching me with concern. Wiping my expression clear, I force a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Right.” He shakes his head, muttering, “We’re all just fine.”
“Have you been tending Carys’s garden, as I asked?”
“Every other morning.”
“And bringing the care packages?”
He nods.
“Good lad.”
I can practically hear his eyes roll skyward. “I don’t know why you make me go there so often. I could just leave the packages on the stoop.”
“What about the garden? Who will tend it if you don’t?”
“I plucked all the weeds ages ago! And it will be months and months before anything’s ready to harvest. Besides, why can’t the lady who lives above the shop do it?”
How can I explain to a thirteen-year-old boy that my sending him there has nothing to do with the herb garden and everything to do with the woman who owns the courtyard in which it is planted?
How can I tell him his visits are more about getting a set of eyes into a dear friend’s world without intruding where I am no longer wanted?
I cannot.
There are no words for such matters.
“Because,” I say stiffly. “The lady who lives there is…She’s…”
“Sad,” Lestyn finishes for me, exhibiting an insight beyond his years. “She’s so, so sad.”
I swallow hard. “How do you know that?”
“She doesn’t cry or anything. She even tries to smile at me, some days.
And she shared some slices of the apples you sent last week when I was done with the watering.
But her eyes…” His slim shoulders move up and down in a shrug.
“You can see it in her eyes. They’re empty.
Like a corpse at the infirmary after the fever’s won.
Except when she’s looking at her baby—that’s the only time she seems alive. ”
Gods.
My throat is so tight, it’s tough to speak. “You should know…Carys, like so many of us, lost someone during Fyremas.”
Lestyn glances at me sharply. He, more than anyone, understands the losses of that night.
“She’s not sad. She’s grieving,” I continue. “And though some people may say those are one and the same, they are not. Sadness is a fleeting reaction; grief is a state of existence. One it takes time to work through.”
The apple bobs in his throat. “Who did she lose?”
Uther’s steady gray eyes flash inside my mind, a painful bolt of memory. “Her husband. He was a member of the Ember Guild. A good man.”
“Oh.”
We round the corner of High Street and cross onto the wider avenue that leads toward the infirmary. Every building—the few that are still occupied—is shuttered against the night.
“Anyway. That’s why it’s so important to keep up your visits.” I force a brighter tone. “Come autumn, we’ll have a whole stock of medicinal herbs to treat our patients. We’re running low on just about everything and Osain isn’t one to share his personal stores.”
“Grumpy old bugger,” Lestyn mutters.
That is the truth.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. He is long legged for a lad, easily matching my strides. All too soon, he’ll be taller than me.
The barracks are abuzz with activity despite the hour.
Foot soldiers in brown uniforms are streaming from their sleeping quarters, forming lines in front of the sparring pits.
Their shields gleam in the torchlight, each bearing the sigil of Dyved—the flaming mountain.
A dozen elite Ember Guild members are leading saddled horses from the stables, their deep maroon uniforms blending in with the darkness, their expressions solemn amid the chaos.
I catch sight of a familiar face in their ranks and rush toward him.
“Farley!”
His head whips around at the sound of my voice. “Ace, what are you doing here?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you. Is there damage from the quake?”
“Minimal. It seems we were spared this time.”
“Then why the ruckus? It’s two hours till first light.”
“We’re headed out. Cadogan has called for reinforcements by the North Sea. Apparently the Frostlanders have been even more aggressive than usual.”
Behind me, Lestyn lets out a soft gasp. I grimace at the mention of Dyved’s eastern neighbor—an ice-capped, inhospitable wasteland inhabited by marauding pirates, whose lack of fertile land leaves them more inclined toward raiding unsuspecting enemies than growing crops of their own.
Usually they turn their opportunistic gaze to lands across the sea.
Judging by the armed brigade gathering before me, they are taking a look at plunder closer to home.
“Their longships have been spotted not far off the coast,” Farley continues. “They circle like vultures, thinking to strike when we are weak. We plan to remind them there is nothing weak about Dyvedi forces, even after Fyremas.” He pauses, voice dropping with intent. “Especially after Fyremas.”
“Will they truly attack us?” Lestyn interjects, sounding scared.
Farley’s light green eyes flicker briefly to the boy. “Hard to say.”