The concern in her voice melts my anger faster than a flame on wax. I stretch out my injured arm, holding very still while she peeks under the bandage.
“Doesn’t take a healer’s Sight to tell this isn’t infected.” She releases me, brushing away a strand of dark hair that’s fallen across her forehead. “What’s really hurting you?”
I reach for Kasmira’s hand, telling her everything that happened last night, starting with Master Nicanor’s death.
I’ve barely finished describing how I cut my arm too deep when Kasmira winces, pressing a hand to her forehead. She sways a little, so I steady her with an arm around her shoulders.
“What is it?” I whisper. She wouldn’t want any of her crew overhearing that she’s not feeling well. They’d give her more lip than usual, and they’re hard enough to control as it is. “Do you need me to fetch a healer?”
But as Kasmira rubs her temples, I realize what’s ailing her. “You’ve been changing the winds again.” I try to keep the worry from my voice, but I can’t help it.
She nods, and the slight motion makes her grimace. “There was hardly a breeze to speak of on our latest run. I had to shift things in our favor to get home before His Majesty could miss us, if you get my drift.”
“Kas, you should rest more often. Hire another weather mage to do half the work or something.”
A shadow crosses her face at my suggestion. “Another weather mage? There are only three in Grenwyr, so far as I know. Besides me,” she adds, a hint of pride in her tone. “And they all have jobs that pay better than anything I could offer. Maybe I could train someone. But let’s be honest. How many blue-eyed people actually bother with all the training needed to become a necromancer, assuming they’re even chosen to try?”
I sigh. She’s made her point. There’s me and Evander, and our teacher, Master Cymbre. Then there’s Jax and Simeon, who trained under Master Nicanor. As far as I know, we’re the only necromancers in Grenwyr City, perhaps in the whole province. Each of Karthia’s eleven provinces have a few blue-eyed mages, but that’s still not many. And from what I understand, weather mages are even rarer, and harder to train into masters.
“Just take it easy for a while, all right?” I squeeze Kasmira’s hand before dropping it.
She grins. “No promises.”
I hesitate, then plunge ahead. “Can I ask you something strange, Kas?”
“No question’s too strange for me. Go ahead.” She takes a seat on a low stack of crates. Her head must still be bothering her.
“What’s out there?” I nod toward the harbor.
Kasmira presses her lips together as her eyes crinkle at the corners, like she’s holding back a laugh. “Water. Lots and lots of water. No place for a Sparrow to land.”
I frown at her dismissal. I’ve never wanted to know anything about her journeys before, but after last night, I can’t get Evander’s plan out of my head. “This is serious.” When Kasmira’s amusement fades, I ask, “What about the ports where you get the coffee and spices? What are the people like there?”
“The people are just . . . people. Their skins are brown and black and white, like Karthians’. Some wear bright silks, and some wear rags. They like to eat and dance and gamble. And have a romp. It’s the same everywhere.” She tries to smile, but winces and rubs her temples again. “They talk in different tongues. It startled me at first, but we figured each other out pretty quick. Coins for goods.”
“And the land? Are there shores full of coffee beans?”
This time, Kasmira can’t contain her laughter. “Not exactly.” Her expression turns thoughtful. “But why the sudden need to know?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” I grumble, thinking of Evander’s raven, wondering if he sent it after all that was said—and unsaid—last night. A glance at the sun tells me it’s nearly time to meet Evander and Master Cymbre. I drop my voice to a whisper in case any of the dock workers have keen ears. “Can you get me the goods now? I have to be somewhere.”
She nods and disappears into the hold, leaving me alone on deck.
As I wait, I skim my gaze along the shoreline, where tangles of crimson seaweed from the ocean’s depths have snagged on rocks. The seaweed’s red hue makes my mind flash to Nicanor’s final moments. I lean against the ship’s rail and try to dredge up a happy memory to push back the darkness, but my stubborn brain is stuck on the horror of last night.
“What’s the matter?” Kasmira demands when she returns with the coffee beans. “You look like you’ve seen a Shade.”
My face hot, I stammer, “No. Not today, anyway.” I force a grin, because Kasmira is giving me a deep, searching look, and she needs to be worrying about her health, not mine. “And neither will you, so long as you keep floating in this old bucket.”
Kasmira clutches at her heart. “Old . . . bucket? Master Necromancer, you must be thinking of some other ship. Not the vessel that brings you your beloved coffee beans. Not the one that survived not two, not three, but—”
“Six massive storms, with hardly a scratch,” I finish for her, grinning effortlessly now. Kasmira has that effect on people.
Filled with the calm only friends and coffee can provide, I dash off the ship, bound for my meeting with Master Cymbre. It’s only when I’m well out of sight of the Paradise that unease steals over me again, and I jump at every shadowed alley and wind-tossed tree I pass.
VI
The graveyard behind Noble Park is the size of several manor homes put together, but I know exactly where to find Master Cymbre once I’ve leapt the wrought-iron fence and landed among the broad cypresses and oaks.
The caretaker’s cottage.
Like all retired necromancers, Cymbre took up residence at a graveyard when Evander and I completed our training. Now she tends the land inside the iron fence and polishes the marble monuments of dukes’ and counts’ and barons’ families. Those who, for whatever reason, weren’t raised from the dead. Those nobles whose spirits have left the Deadlands for whatever lies beyond.
The cottage is unlocked when I arrive. Sun streams in from the many windows, yet the air turns cold as I spot them: a bouquet of wildflowers on Cymbre’s dining table. Hot-pink rhododendrons. Tiny white clusters of dogsbane. And even a few of those rare bright-red blossoms, star glories.
My pulse quickens at the sight. “Where did those come from?” I demand, unable to rip my gaze from them just yet. If they were growing over any of the graves outside, we’re in trouble. Flowers only bloom over graves when the spirits have a message to send to our world. Part of a retired necromancer’s duty as grave-minder is to watch for flowers, then send a raven to the right person when there’s a message. “Where?” I ask again, breathless.
“They were all over. On too many graves to name,” my friend Jax says from beside the hearth, as if coming out of a daze. “Simeon and I saved a few and burned the rest.”