“Why are you here?” he asked, answering her with a question.
“My father sent me to get your blessing.”
The sadj did not speak. The house was so quiet that she could hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls. Snow fell in gentle tap against the thatched roof. To her right, a puddle formed from a slow drip overhead. “You do not need my blessing,” he answered finally. “What I can tell you is this,” he continued in his raspy, unused voice. “Before you leave the Fields, there is a question that you must ask, and an answer that you need, but it is not something I can give you.”
Sibba felt the return of the now familiar rage. She had come here because her father told her to and would be leaving with more questions than answers. She was so tired of the not knowing. She wanted to hear that this one thing would go her way, that was all. No wonder Darcey thought this man was a fraud. “Will you give me nothing, then?” she asked.
He lifted a hand, and at the invitation, Aeris floated down from the rafters and alighted on his bare arm. The sadj did not flinch as most would when her talons wrapped around his wrist. His free hand stroked her silky feathers. Sibba envied him briefly, knowing that she would never be able to exist in the dark with such certainty. She was blinded by her own sight, limited by what her eyes could show her.
“There is one thing,” he said. He tapped his lips, tipped his hood back, and rubbed a hand over his bald head. Tattoos coiled around his ears, runes representing wisdom and longevity, but also some she'd never seen before, unfamiliar letters and designs from a lost language that blurred in her vision as Evenon’s tattoos had. Finally, he spoke again. “Soon the rains will fall and the tides will rise, and it will be up to you to decide on which shore you stand.”
Sibba waited, but he said nothing else, simply extended his free hand to her, palm up. She took it and gazed down at the tattoo inked there, the eye looking back at her, then brought her lips to the papery skin and kissed it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rayne
Orabel was like no city Rayne had seen before. A labyrinth of bright colors glowed in the sinking light of the sun. The Clement River wound through the marshes and beneath a massive arched bridge, seeming to reach its fingers directly into the city. And above it all, the Malstrom palace rose like something out of a dream, its silver spires twisting into the twilight, poking holes in the darkness. It was larger even than the estate in Iblia and was surrounded by curtain walls with towers at every corner. As the ship drew nearer, fires began to glow from the turrets as some servant made his nightly walk around the parapets. Beyond the city, one of the curtain walls butted up against the ocean that stretched gray and bleak for miles out into the distance.
The sailors rushed around Rayne, bringing down the sails for their approach. They had grown used to her presence; the general had not locked her door again, instead giving her the freedom to roam the ship by turning a blind eye. The only place she wasn’t allowed to visit was the hold belowdecks where they kept the hostages. Imeyna and the other Shadderns were under constant watch. Once, a guard had seen Rayne down there and turned her away, making it very clear that if she were to be found there again, he would recommend that the general return her to her room.
“This is no place for a princess,” he had said to her back as she retreated.
Unable to help her friends, she had instead spent the last two days on deck, watching the world fly by—towns and farms and wild woods, people pausing in their daily chores to turn and watch the ship pass. No one smiled or waved, probably because of the flags they flew. They simply stared back stonily, silver or iron bands glinting on some of their arms.
The general was always there, too. He seemed to double as the captain, influencing the wind and the water to bend to his will, carrying her quickly and inexorably to her fate. What waited for her inside those walls? A cruel king, a powerful prince, a resentful sister? Were they suspicious of her as the general was? Would she be able to win them over with her sad, invented story? It would have to be the greatest act of her life.
He was barking orders, but in a moment of silence, caught her eyes and held her pinned in place. It wasn't magic—she hadn’t felt it touch her since that first night—but a different kind of power. He also hadn't spoken to her since then, but Rayne preferred it that way. He had a way of saying just the wrong thing, of seeing past her mask to the very heart of her secrets. And she had too many secrets to allow that to happen. He was in his usual spot on the quarterdeck where he could oversee his men, and she was just below him, pressed against the rail to drink in the sight of the city.
“Welcome home, princess,” he said in that tone she had come to understand, even through their limited conversations, meant he was taunting her.
Well, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. “This has never been my home,” she admitted, “but it is a beautiful city. I look forward to getting to know the people of Orabel.”
His face didn't change in any way that Rayne could pinpoint, but his eyes softened into something resembling pity. “I'm not sure that they feel the same way.”
Who was he to pity her? His life belonged to someone else; his magic wasn't even his own, so weak that most of the time she couldn’t even tell it was there. Irritation welled inside of her, no intelligible response coming to mind. Thankfully, before she had time to retort, the watchman on the bridge hailed them, giving the ship the go-ahead to pass beneath and enter into the city.
The general made easy work of docking, the ship gliding gracefully into its slip. Sailors jumped to the floating dock with practiced feet and quickly tied the boat down and lowered the walkway. Rayne went first, her footsteps clunking loudly against the wood, with the general close behind her. They were greeted by several servants from the palace, many of them banded with iron or silver. Rayne was glad to have her feet back on solid ground but hated the way that these people looked at her, like they had just seen a ghost. It had been easier on board with the soldiers and sailors who had grown so used to her presence as not to even see her. She tried smiling at them but felt like it was more of a grimace, and so she wiped her face clean of any emotion.
“This way, my lady, general,” said one of the stewards, bobbing his head much like a chicken, and turning to lead them away. Rayne looked at the general, who swept a hand out in front of him, one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk.
After you.
She swept past him as gratefully as she could in her dirty, green gown, but was stopped by a voice.
“Sir,” a man’s voice said, “the hostages—”