The Dew of Flesh
Chapter 82
Abass pulled at the neck of his new shirt. The light blue linen made him sweat and choked him so he could barely breathe.
“It’s too tight,” he said as they turned at the next intersection. In the warmth of early evening, he felt like he was being turned over a spit. He gave the shirt another yank and heard a stitch groan alarmingly.
“It’s fine,” Isola said with a smile. She hadn’t stopped smiling, even as she cried, since they had embraced in that nightmarish cavern. The last day and night had been like a dream, escaping from the burned ruins of the temple only to find the eses broken and disbanded, and much of temple already ransacked. They had spent the night there; Isola had been so weak by the time they reached the surface, Abass had carried her until he found a bedroom in the temple complex that had not caught fire, one that he could barricade. “You look very handsome.”
Abass reached up to tear the shirt once and for all, but Isola took his hand and gave it a single pat before letting it fall. “Enough,” she said.
A light breeze stirred the air and broke the constant summer heat of Khi’ilan, but Abass wiped his brow again and wondered how he could be so hot. The air felt too thin. His pulse pounded, the way it had when the dew had burned inside him, but the brachal was cool against his flesh—the only part of him that was cool, in fact. He drew more rapid breaths, trying to calm himself, but the street spun around him.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked again. “You weren’t there when they threw me out.”
“Of course I’m sure,” Isola said. “Tair fend, you’d think they hated you the way you act. You know Father has a temper; he’s never regretted anything so much as what he said to you that night. And Mother—tair bless us, not a day goes by that she doesn’t cry about you.”
Abass plucked at one sleeve, since she would not let him adjust the neck anymore, and let out a sigh. She had not been awake the night of the fight; she had not seen their father’s face. Or their mother’s. Her grief had been almost worse than his anger. Abass sucked in another breath, but it did nothing to steady the world around him.
He could see his house now. Their house. It sat at the end of the street, not far from the Sleeping Palace and the Perch, where he had watched for so many years, longing for this moment. For the day he could return. Now everything happened too quickly, and Isola’s steady pace ate up the distance between them and the house. His pulse climbed with every step, until he thought the frenzy of the dew would be a relief.
He pushed that thought away. Responsibility. He had to take responsibility for his actions. After all these years, it was time.
Abass stumbled once, on the steps, the toe of the leather shoes he had taken from the temple bedroom catching on the wooden edge. Isola caught his arm and steadied him.
“Ready?” she asked, the smile still splitting her face like sunshine.
His tongue was too thick for words, so he nodded. She opened the front door without knocking—it seemed strange to him, as though they were walking into a stranger’s house—and they stepped inside.
It felt no different than any other time he had entered his home. The familiarity of it wrapped him in the past, startling him with its immediacy, with what he had thought forgotten. The smell of onions came from the kitchen, mixed with the dusty odor of the worn padding on the chairs and the smoke that had worked its way into the grains of every board in the house. His father sat in one of the chairs, his immaculate beard long gone to gray, and with little hair left on his head. He held his face between his hands, but when they stepped inside he looked up.
Shock painted his features. Forest-green eyes, the same color as Isola’s, caught Abass and held him fast.
“I’m so sorry,” Abass said, his voice breaking. “It was all my fault.”
His father knocked over the chair as he stood and walked in a daze toward Abass. Without a word, he took Abass into his arms and began to sob. Abass clutched his father’s back, eyes burning, and listened to the pop and sizzle of onions cooking in the kitchen. Never had he been so aware of the brachal against his arm, pressed between his flesh and his father, or of the disi strapped to his back.
His father stepped away, wiping his eyes, and said, “Come, your mother will want to see you both.” He took Isola into his arms, crying again, and then, leading her by the hand, he started toward the kitchen.
Abass followed them.
He was home.
Appendix
Cenarbasi
A nation occupying the southern part of the Karasal continent. Cenarbasin society is heavily divided along gender lines, with women studying what they term ‘the skills,’ a variety of sciences, while men are entrusted with aesthetic and religious duties. Worship in Cenarbasi is primarily Cehulet, a religion that centers on the solars, celestial deities who inhabit the Iris, a shimmering protective dome that covers most of the country.
Cenarbasin people are typically black-skinned. The climate ranges from moderate along the Danma Mountains, to sub-tropical at the farthest southern borders.
Cam-ad
Plural: cam-adeh. Pieces of glass infused with light from the solars. These magical objects release specific effects when shattered; the effects depend on the color of the glass, and the color, in turn, is representative of the varying solars from whom the energy is drawn. Cam-adeh, when powered, have a faint sheen, as though light were always reflecting off their surface.
Istbya
A nation east of Nakhacevir and west of Sethora, Istbya was once the dominant power of the Karasal continent. After the Raindrop Rebellion, Istbyan power waned—much of their military might had been expended in the drawn-out battle with Sethora, and after Sethora achieved permanent independence, Istbya never fully recovered. It continues to be a significant force in Karasal, but with its archaicized love of ritual, Istbya is being eclipsed more and more by its neighbors.
Istbya is most famous among other countries for the type of novels known as Istbyan romances, prose works which detail the lives of people following the courtly tradition known as the Thousand Suffering Breaths, an elaborate, codified system of love.
Nakhacevir
Also known as the Thirteen Paths, Nakhacevir is more a collection of city-states than a true nation. Before the rebellions that swept the country, the tair ruled in the individual cities, performing harvests that kept the lands in a state of perpetual summer. With so many of the tair dead, and the harvests all but ended, it is unclear what the future holds for Nakhacevir, both politically and geographically.
Sethora
The easternmost nation of Karasal, Sethora is an ancient country that has recently regained its independence from the once-powerful Istbyan Empire. Following the Raindrop Rebellion, Setin presence in Karasal politics has grown steadily, and they now wield almost as much influence as their former masters. Sethora is famed for its alchemical products. Setin dream-dancers are among the most feared warriors of the continent; regularly employed as assassins and bodyguards, dream-dancers fight with two long knives and no armor, with a style that is jealously guarded.
Tair
Plural: tair. The gods-made-flesh, the rulers of the Thirteen Paths of Nakhacevir.
Terhequr Republic
A collection of independent cities along the coast of the Ne Mase continent, the people are known more for their individual cities (Qete, Celu, Vale) than for the loose coalition that is the Terhequr Republic. Qet and Celan traders are famous throughout Karasal, particularly for their ability to pass through storms that sink other ships.
Sample of Fold Thunder