Chapter Thirty-two
A huge blond man crashed into Irwa. Hynnar. Irwa could not help the thought, although it sent a flash of pain through her. She stumbled back, arms windmilling, before she caught her footing. The man moved on without even glancing back, carried past her on the tide of people. She had caught a glimpse of his face, though, and it was most definitely not Hynnar. No, just another massive man who has no self-awareness, she thought.
Short, dark-skinned Jaecan sprinkled the crowd of blond giants, but Irwa did not understand how her compatriots avoided being trampled at every step. Fakholme pulsed with life, the heart of Greve Sindal. People filled Blade of Truth, the massive thoroughfare that cut north through the city, to the point that Irwa thought, for a moment, she was back in Ghiynmar, the capital of the world. A second glance at the streets, though, reminded her that she was far from the city she had once called home. For one thing, she thought, the Emperor would never allow this many barbarians in the city.
The mass of people made her wonder how she would ever find Maribah, if the woman were even still alive. Irwa pushed forward, past hawkers who towered above her and wagons pulled by massive horses with white fetlocks. More quickly than she realized, though, Irwa found herself navigating the crush of people with ease. Perhaps I haven’t been gone from Ghiynmar as long as I thought.
Brightly colored shutters, with long, dyed cloths hanging from the windows, broke up the monotony of the gray stone common to the mountains that had been used in every building. The men of the city seemed to follow the buildings, wearing solid browns and grays, their coats simply cut wool without design. The women, however, more than made up for the men’s lack of flair. Brilliantly colored dresses—even more so than the traditional Jaecan robes—and countless hair ornaments, mostly silver and semi-precious stones, but many of gold and heavy gems sparkling in the morning light. The stones, even the more common ones, were rare and precious throughout most of Jaegal, but the rich mines of Greve Sindal meant that here, almost every woman could dress like a noble.
Not that I have any intention of dressing like that, Irwa thought as a statuesque woman swept by, her hair the color of fire, a net of sapphires and bluebells in her hair matching the blue silk dress that barely covered the woman’s breasts. Even in the summer, in the south in Lajil, Irwa would not have dared to wear such a dress; she could not even imagine how cold the woman must be. No one else spared the woman a second glance, though, and many women wore dresses just as revealing.
Irwa stopped at one of the countless intersections—a broad plaza, with a large fountain in the center. Men and women alike hauled water from the fountain, but their business did not seem to deter the streams of people that flowed through the plaza, causing a whirlpool of confusion at the center. Unlike Ghiynmar, or any other Jaecan city, Fakholme did not seem to have a single forum. Irwa had come across two or three of these plazas already, broad open spaces where the streets intersected, and there were even a few merchants set up with stalls and carts around the edges. It was not a forum, though—people did not linger, chatting away the afternoon, from what she could see. There were no permanent stalls, no colonnade or portico. The city pulsed with life, but it was a life that, as far as she could see, had no outlet, no pause.
“Currants, lady?” a man called out to her in passable Jaecan. “Apples? Berries?” He stood by a small handcart loaded with fruit.
Irwa made her way over to the man, eager to talk to someone, anyone, in Jaecan. “What do you have?” she asked.
The man smiled, revealing a gap in his teeth, and his long white eyebrows lifted. “See for yourself, lady. The best fruits in the city, the very best, and cheap too. The apples are especially good—do you have pink-cheeked apples where you come from, lady? You should try one if you haven’t. How about these currants? Do you have currants where you’re from?”
Frowning down into the cart, Irwa shut out the man’s voice as she considered the fruit. She was hungry; she had found a way-house, the day after she woke in the forest, and she had stayed there for some time recovering, but now her coin was running low, and she had not yet broken her fast. The berries and currants had seen better days, but the apples, small and pink and yellow, looked promising.
“I’ll have two of the apples,” she said when the older man paused to take a breath. She selected them herself, turning them over to check for bruises. She did not have coin to waste on a bad apple.
“Two it is, lady. Pink-cheeks, sweet and tart at the same time. You’ll love them, that is, if you haven’t had them before. Five puls, lady.”
She counted out the small copper coins and then tucked her purse back inside her belt, right up against her stomach. “Here you are,” she said. Irwa took a bite of the small apple. It crunched nicely, and the taste was as good as the old man had promised. “Delicious,” Irwa said around a mouthful.
“I promised, the best in the city.” The old man beamed, long eyebrows darting up and down.
“You speak Jaecan well,” Irwa said between bites. “How is that?”
“We’re part of the empire, lady,” the man said. “We all speak Jaecan.”
“Do you really?” Irwa asked. Around her, she heard only Sinian, the language nothing more than a meaningless roar of guttural breath to her. “It doesn’t seem like it. Where did you learn?” Although much of the empire’s growth had taken place during her lifetime, Irwa realized that she knew very little about the new provinces, or about how the empire had spread. “What does it mean that you’re a part of the empire? Nothing here seems very Jaecan.”
“Many questions,” the fruit vendor said. “And no good answers, except one. I speak Jaecan well because I was a trader once, traveling along the Codense Trail for years, bringing gems and ore to the great cities along that route.”
“What happened?” Irwa asked, still eating.
“Ah, lady, that is a cruel question. What always happens? Skal.”
“I don’t know that word.” Irwa said.
The man whistled through the gap in his teeth. “It’s hard to translate, lady. Luck maybe, or fortune. But it’s more than that. It’s inescapable, what the gods of earth and stone have written on our bones. That’s skal, lady, and even that is talking around it.”
Skal. Skallid. The gods of earth and stone. Is that what Kjell and Eyo believe? Irwa wondered. That cruel gods have decided their fate, even before their birth, and that they can only race to meet it, to embrace it? The thought disturbed her, even as she tried to find its counterpart in her own faith.
“Even the worst things?” she asked. “The things that no one should ever have to suffer? Are those skal? How could the gods of earth and stone, how could any god, condemn people to that?”
“I’m not a priest of the Skallid, my lady,” he said. He gave a shrug and smiled again, apparently oblivious to the people that passed them. “But for me, it was skal. Brigands, waiting along the Aiyala river. They took everything—even the horses and wagons—and left me for dead. Old Isol, though, he doesn’t die easily.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Irwa said. “About the brigands, I mean. I ran into some myself, not too long ago.”
“Ah, lovely lady, surely you were fortunate to have survived. Most of those men have no fear, no fear at all, to treat a lady very poorly.” For a moment, Irwa felt memories rising up around her. She pushed them back, focusing on the incomprehensible babble of the plaza, on Isol’s voice. The man continued speaking, oblivious to Irwa’s discomfort. “Whatever you may say about skal, surely the gods blessed you that day. And now you are in beautiful Fakholme, lady, and perhaps you need a guide? My son, my only boy, he could help you. Perhaps it is his skal to help you? Skal does not need to be a bad thing, lady, and your attention and favor could bring my son to a better place.”
“You mistake me,” Irwa said. “I’m so sorry, I’m not anyone important, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, Isol knows importance when he sees it, lady, and forgive me if I disagree with
you. Please, let my son be your guide. A small favor to an old man who lost everything, no?”
For a moment, Irwa wondered at his insistence. The look in his eyes, the desperation, though, told her what his words did not. This man saw her, a Jaecan, as a chance for his son to find some kind of employment among the conquerors. A better place, he said. Is that what we have become? After decades, are the Jaecan still saviors for the downtrodden? The thought made her feel weary. She nodded.
“I’ll take him on,” she said. “Although I won’t be able to pay him much, I could use a guide.”
“The blade of ease be on you, lady, to sever worries,” the man said. Irwa stared at him in confusion. The words sounded formal, almost stilted, but she could not tell if that were Isol’s poor Jaecan, or if he were trying to translate something from Sinian. She smiled, though, trying to appear grateful. These people and their bloody blades, she thought. It’s enough to make me wish I were carrying my own sword, just so I’d have something to talk about. “Where shall I send my son to find you? He’s out working, now, you understand.”
“I need to find an inn,” Irwa said. “Somewhere cheap, I’m afraid, but not rough.”
“Isol knows the place, lady, the perfect place. The Mezine Quarter, south and west, but do not go farther south than Heartsblood Blade; there are bad men that live in Mezine, but north of the Heartsblood they will not bother you. On Heartsblood, you will find a cheap place, Isol thinks. Not many travelers go there, lady.”
“Very well,” Irwa said. “I have some other business to attend to first, but you may send your son to find me tonight.”
“Blessing of the gods of earth and stone upon you, lady,” Isol said, bobbing down into almost a bow.
“And on you,” Irwa said, uncertain of her response. She turned and headed north, following the swirl of people around the fountain at the center of the plaza and then breaking free into the somewhat calmer thoroughfare. Her short time in Fakholme had made her aware of how terribly ignorant she was of the people and their customs. She had known, even before entering Ishahb’s priesthood, that the people of Greve Sindal, along with the small city-states and duchies to the north and west, were pagans. After joining the priesthood, she had learned the truth—they worshipped pantheons of dark gods, gods who required human sacrifice, gods who, in all truth, were not gods at all, but demons. Ishahb’s purifying fire was supposed to have swept through the province in the first years after being conquered, casting out the demons who had taken advantage of these people for so long.
Irwa wondered, now, how accurate that version of events was. She had seen several chapels to Ishahb here already, the tall buildings open to the outside world with dozens of windows to let in the light of their god. No signs remained of the old gods—the Ruragg, if she remembered the name, although everyone had called them the gods of earth and stone in her hearing. She had seen no shrines, no altars, no dedicated buildings—although, she admitted to herself, it would be difficult to know if she had, considering she could not read the Sinian signs.
The street widened up ahead, opening into the largest plaza Irwa had yet seen in the city. The massive boulevard that intersected could only be the Blade of Woe, the east-west thoroughfare that, with the Blade of Truth, divided Fakholme into its four quadrants. As if confirming her guess, Irwa saw the buildings of the upper quadrants rise above the crowd of people. On the far side of the plaza she saw the massive stone steps that led up to the next level of the city, built at least twenty feet above the lower quadrants.
The crowd in the plaza showed the intermingling of the two sides of the city; men and women in fine silks, the women with golden nets and gemstones in their hair, mixed with people wearing unbleached wool. She saw no stalls, no carts in the broad plaza, and suspected that some law prohibited merchants from setting up shop, because men and women hawking wares lined the Blade of Woe to either side of the plaza. Irwa made her way across the plaza and up the broad stairs, into the upper quadrants.
The change was palpable. No wagons or carts passed through the streets, although she did see one old woman, her hair white, bent over with a load of firewood on her back. Aside from that lone woman, though—a servant, Irwa guessed—the streets were filled with the rich, walking leisurely as they chatted. The streets were clean, too—almost as clean as a Jaecan city. Irwa had heard that westerners let filth pile up in their streets, and lower Fakholme had born evidence of that tale. Here, though, there was only the occasional piece of garbage, almost like home.
There were more Jaecan, too—a startling number, actually. Many of the women had adopted the local customs, wearing low-cut silk dresses and fine nets of gold, while the men wore Jaecan clothing as often as Sinian. They seemed attuned to the presence of other Jaecan, and more than once Irwa turned down a side street to avoid one of her compatriots who had spotted her and started to walk toward her. There was no telling who could be Fourth Corner, not without Maribah there to help her, and Irwa had even less chance of navigating the politics of the occupation of Greve Sindal—an occupation that, as far as she could tell, was unaware that it was on the brink of war with Apsia.
Watching the way the Sinians interacted with the Jaecan, Irwa had a hard time believing the Sinians wanted war. They seemed relaxed with their conquerors, joking and laughing, Friends, Irwa thought, watching a short, stout Jaecan man caress the hand of a blonde woman a good head taller than him. Lovers. Integrated into each others’ lives after decades. No surprise, really; what other choice did they have?
Irwa found herself in the northeast corner of the city, where the great walls met. A huge castle rose within an empty plaza, surrounded by a second set of walls and a thick, iron-banded gate that stood open. Both the walls and the castle showed signs of war, but those scars had faded and softened over time, and in some places bright, clean stone marked repairs. Rebuilt, Irwa thought. Like the people. The scars heal, the most severe wounds are repaired, and everyone goes on with their life. Why fight this, then? She had asked herself that several times since the dar-molk’s estate. In ten years, in twenty years, what difference will it make if we go to war with Apsia? The Return cannot be delayed or postponed; the shaik used that as an excuse, as a goad, but I trust Ishahb; his will cannot be stopped by mortals. At the heart of the questions, though, sat the one she asked herself most often. What do I do when I find Maribah? She no longer feared to kill, nor to use her magic. But she felt . . . empty. Broken.
The scarred stone walls offered no answers. Irwa made her way back through the city until she found Heartsblood Blade, a narrow street filled with blacksmith’s forges. The ring of hammer on steel told her that she would not sleep late in the morning, but Irwa did not care. Isol had been right; she saw few people along the street, aside from boys carting coal, and no Jaecan. There was only a single inn, from what she saw, a broad, low stone building with a sign that read, “Heartsrest.” Irwa entered the room, expecting it to be as quiet as the street.
Although the inn was relatively quiet, it was nothing what she expected. Men, their almost-uniform muscularity revealing their shared profession, sat around small tables in the common room, drinking and chatting in low voices. The room was almost full, but a young woman, her blonde hair decked with purple wildflowers, approached Irwa within moments and guided her to a table near the kitchen.
After a meal of potatoes and pork—reasonably good, but not outstanding—Irwa asked for a room. A boy led her upstairs, to a series of rooms under the eaves of the building. Although the boy had to duck to traverse the slanted roof, Irwa passed comfortably, and she was pleased to see that the ceiling in her room was no lower. The boy left her a pair of candles, lit the fire on the hearth, and excused himself.
Irwa set down her pack, grateful to be alone. A quick knock on the door, though, broke the quiet after only a moment. She opened the door, wondering what the boy had forgotten. A different boy stood there, so thin that she could see his shoulderblades through the patched wool coat, his hair so blo
nd it was almost white.
He gave a rasping cough, then bowed and said, “Lady, my name is Ornen, but my friends call me Orn. My father sent me. He said you needed a guide, but he didn’t find me until I had finished my work for the day. I’m sorry that I’ve come so late.” The words tumbled out in a rush.
“Come in, Orn,” Irwa said.
The boy walked over next to the fire and knelt, warming his hands. Irwa had not felt the cold too badly, but she imagined the thin boy must feel it terribly. “Thank you, lady,” he said. “Father said you wanted to see around the city. Maybe tomorrow, not today, not this time of day.”
“Perhaps later,” Irwa agreed. “What I really need is information. How easy would it be to find someone, a friend of mine, in Fakholme?”
“Is she—” The boy stopped. In the silence, Irwa could hear the wind howling past the single window of the room. “Is she Jaecan, like you?”
“Yes,” Irwa said.
“Not hard, then. Not hard at all. In fact, I could probably find her tonight, I’ll stay out all night to find her, don’t worry, lady, I’ll find her.”
“Not tonight,” Irwa said, blushing at the boy’s frantic eagerness. Desperation, she thought. Like his father. She could not understand that feeling, not even after her time in Meik’s camp. Not desperation, just despair. Or is there any difference? she wondered. Perhaps only in their manifestation. Still, Orn’s attitude made her uncomfortable, though she could not name why.
“Not tonight,” she said again. “Tomorrow is plenty soon enough, and only when you have time; I don’t want you to lose your regular work because you’re doing a job for me.”
Another dry cough racked the boy’s body. “Not a problem, lady,” he said. “I collect trash; no better way to look for someone than to keep to the streets, and father moves around quite a bit as well. Between the two of us, we’ll find your friend, don’t you worry, not even a bit.”
“How do you speak Jaecan so well?” Irwa asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. “You have even less of an accent than your father.”
The boy’s pale cheeks flamed, and he stared at the floor.
“Never mind,” Irwa said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you; you speak so well, you surprised me.”
Still looking at the floor, the boy said, “Thank you, lady.”
“Let me tell you about my friend,” Irwa said, trying to figure out what had just happened. Embarrassed of his skill, she thought. Or embarrassed of how he learned it. But why? “She’s about my height, perhaps a little taller.” Could his mother be Jaecan? But his skin’s not dark enough, and Isol was only a trader, why would a Jaecan marry him? “Dark hair, but her skin is light—much lighter than mine, although not so light as yours.” Or does he feel like a traitor to his homeland? No, he’s too young for those feelings. “She’s pretty, too, and young.”
“Her name, lady?” Orn asked. His cheeks were still red, but he glanced up now and then, seeking Irwa’s eyes.
“Maribah.”
The boy repeated the name. “Well, lady, I will do my best, and my father as well, don’t you worry at all. I’ll come back tomorrow night, around this time, to tell you what I’ve found.”
“Thank you,” Irwa said. Orn walked to the door and opened it. “One more thing,” Irwa said, feeling herself blush again, the words forcing themselves out. “There’s someone else I want you to look for. A Sinian—blond, tall, muscular. A scar on his face that goes from his ear to his lip. His name is Hynnar.” Suddenly Irwa felt exposed, as though she stood naked before this frail boy.
“Hynnar,” Orn said. “Of course, lady. Are they together?”
“No,” Irwa said. “No, they won’t be together.” How could they be? Two sides of my life, like sides of a coin.
“Of course, lady.” The boy had every trace of the friendly, serviceable attitude that his father did. Aside from being so skinny, he could have been a miniature of Isol. “Anything else?”
“No, Orn,” Irwa said. “That’s all.”
“Of course.” The boy disappeared, pulling the door shut behind him.
Now what in Ishahb’s blessed name made me do that? Irwa wondered. It’s not like finding Hynnar will make any difference. He won’t be able to stand me—not after what he saw. Even if he could, how could I stand myself? How could I be with someone who has seen exactly what I am on the inside—broken. Maybe some day, when Ishahb has made me whole . . . She could not finish that thought; for all her faith in her god, Irwa knew that what was broken inside of her, the piece that was missing, was of her own doing, and that Ishahb could not undo that, not for anyone.
A sound at the window made Irwa turn, shaping a cheiron with her hand. She forgot the hepisteis the moment she saw who it was. Maribah sat on the ledge, feet dangling over the bed, awkwardly trying to pull the single pane shut behind her. The dark-haired woman closed the window and turned to give Irwa a smile. “Hello, Irwa,” she said. “Long time no see.”