Karys arrived in Boäz as the storm rolled into the bay. Late afternoon, and the light over the sea was strange and red, the clouds bloated above the water. She had taken an awrig as far as Feln and hitched a ride on a farm wagon to Boreth before walking the last two miles on foot. With every step she took toward the ocean, her apprehension increased, and when she at last laid eyes on the village, all she could feel was dread.
“This is it?” asked Ferain.
Boäz rested in the gully between two sheer cliffs, like a marble lodged in a throat. Small, it was home to only a hundred or so people, most of whom could trace their family lineage back six generations to the village’s founding. Every few months, a merchant vessel would arrive and exchange linens, spices, and sugar for Boäz’s exports of dried fish, pearls, and brine-cryst. At all other times, the village existed apart and alone, governed by its own laws and vices.
“This is it,” she confirmed. “Home.”
“Seems quaint. Prettier than I expected.”
She loosened the tension in her shoulders. “It is what it is. As soon as the send-off is done, we’re leaving.”
The slope down to the village was bordered with long grey grass and violet sea holly. Gulls circled above the jetty, their cries echoing over the low boom of the waves hitting the shore. By the look of the clouds, the storm would be an ugly one, and as Karys reached the outskirts of Boäz, people were already shuttering their houses. They looked up as she walked by, eyes narrowing in suspicion at the sight of a stranger.
She found their lack of recognition curiously satisfying. Don’t remember me? She didn’t smile at any of them, although she picked out a few familiar faces. Petrus, the roofer, now grey-haired and walking with a cane. Jashane, scolding a black-haired child that might have been her own. Ané, Nuliere’s priestess, proud and cold as ever—her gaze lingered on Karys a little longer than the others’ had.
The village temple overlooked the ocean. It was the largest building in Boäz, and the most richly decorated. The walls had been painted blue and orange, and the rafters strung with silver chains of pearls that clicked together in the breeze. A small bowl of blood stood in the offerings hold before the open timber and iron doors. Beyond, tallow candles burned on the floor of the main hall.
“Never thought you’d actually come.”
Karys stilled at the sound of the woman’s voice, a voice she would have recognised anywhere—at once rough and soft and clear. She turned, and found the speaker leaning against one of the temple’s pillars. In the years since Karys had left Boäz, Haeki’s bright red hair had grown long, and she had gotten broader across the shoulders. Harder-looking. There was a mean scar that stretched from her jaw to the line of her clavicle. Her ears were pierced at the lobe and along the upper ridge, and ringed with small gold hoops.
“Got rich, it seems,” said Haeki. “Got important. It’s so nice of you to grace us with your company.”
Karys was lost for words. Haeki sneered at her.
“Forgotten me?” she asked. “I should have guessed.”
Karys found her voice again, made it cool and indifferent. “Been waiting there long? I wasn’t expecting a welcome.”
Haeki’s eyes darkened. She jerked her head toward the building. “I was with Oboro. No one here would wait for you, Eska; don’t flatter yourself.”
“I won’t, then. If there’s nothing else…?”
Haeki lowered her chin and gave Karys a look of utter contempt. Karys met her gaze evenly—if they were to play at juvenile staring contests, so be it. But Haeki seemed satisfied; she straightened up and brushed past Karys, far closer than necessary.
“I hope you’ve got somewhere to stay,” she said under her breath. “The storm’s coming in tonight.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Haeki scoffed, and carried on down the temple stairs, her steps loud and quick. Karys staved off the temptation to watch her go, and entered the temple without looking back.
“What was that all about?” asked Ferain, bemused. “Who was she?”
“Nothing and no one,” muttered Karys.
Her shadow snorted. “Sure.”
“Quiet.”
The Boäz temple was dedicated to Nuliere, Lady of Brine and Urchins, Herald of Boäz. Despite the Slaughter, the village’s adherence to the old faith persisted, undaunted and uncompromising. Hundreds of candles burned over the dark-tiled floor. Karys walked slowly between them, her breathing shallow. Seeing Haeki again had flustered her, that was all. The echoing, heavy quietness of the temple pressed close. Never thought I’d be here again. It was in the past; she no longer kept the faith of her childhood; neither Nuliere nor this oppressive place held any power over her now. The mosaic murals on the wall gleamed, the glass tiles newly polished. The smell of salt water and iron seared her throat.
A young man stood before the door of the interstitial chamber, serving as temple guardian, and it took her a moment to identify him. Tion—when Karys left, Ané’s son had been ten. Now grown, he had inherited his mother’s severe jaw and narrow-set eyes, but his gaze lacked her sharpness. He spread his hands in an unsmiling welcome.
“Blessings of the Embrace and her heralds upon you,” he said in a rumbling baritone. “Be humbled in the temple of the great Nuliere, most powerful of the Mercian Bhatuma, most beautiful and most righteous. Heed her voice in the waters, in the skies, and in the storms.”
Karys inclined her head. “May her watch be peaceful. I’m here to see Oboro Eska.”
A flicker of recognition. “Karys Eska?”
She stretched her mouth into a smile. “Hello, Tion.”
The man’s forehead wrinkled in consternation, and he rubbed his jaw. “Nuliere alive. You came for the send-off?”
“Correct. I won’t stay longer than that.”
“You look so different.”
“That’s the nature of aging, yes.”
He still appeared perplexed, like she was an exotic and possibly venomous animal. His fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his green tunic. “Did your Da send for you?”
Karys suspected that the man was not actively trying to needle her, but was simply dense. “No, he didn’t. May I see my brother now, please?”
“Maybe I should call my Ma—”
“You’re welcome to,” she cut in, “but let me see Oboro in the meantime.”
The resting chamber adjoined the main body of the temple; a windowless room twelve feet by nine. In the middle of the floor stood a large wooden bench, where all the dead of Boäz lay in state for eleven days before they were committed to Nuliere.
And there was Oboro: his eyes shut, his dark hair swept back from his face. A yellow quilt covered his legs, and boiled copper pennies had been laid across the exposed skin of his arms and chest. Sugar crystals frosted his lips.
Karys approached the bench, her heart beating against her breastbone. Since she had last seen him, her brother’s face had thinned, his shoulders had widened, and his jaw had gained a jut that looked sullen or stubborn. Fine wrinkles bunched around his eyes, a host of unfamiliar scars patterned his sun-darkened arms. But still, it was him. He looked like their father now. And like her too; she had the same heavy eyebrows and downturned mouth. Uncanny to see those features reflected on the face of a corpse.
And yet: no grief. She barely felt anything.
Karys glanced toward the door. Tion had left, presumably to summon his mother, and she was alone in the temple. This would probably be her only chance; she could not afford to deathspeak when anyone might see her. If the send-off was Saturday, then Oboro must have passed at least ten days ago—his death impression would be near-gone by now. It would push the bounds of her abilities to recall his apparition at all.
Still, she felt an odd reluctance to touch him. The man lying on the bench appeared unreal, somehow, despite his solidity. Oboro, but … not. She extended a hand toward his cheek, then hesitated, her fingers hovering over his face. Do I truly want to know? That was why she had come to Boäz, but this close to his body, this close to his death …
She lowered her hand and opened the Veneer.
The temple thrummed with the weight of old sacrifice and Bhatuma workings; generations of history stained the walls. Karys exhaled, sending her consciousness into the fog, sinking through the gossamer weave of the world.
Oboro’s apparition no longer held its shape. The cluster of memory and feeling that comprised his ghost appeared only as a gentle silver haze haloing his body. Karys coaxed it toward her.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, pitching her voice low. “Oboro?”
“… dark.” Her brother’s dry death rattle set her teeth on edge. “Never going to get out … the dark.”
His apparition was fragmented; he had been dead too long already. There were no clear boundaries to his presence—Karys could feel him all through the room, all through the temple; he had dispersed like mist. She tried again. “Listen to me, Oboro. I have some questions you need to answer.”
“… to get away before … I am becoming…”
“I’d like to know about the last thing you remember seeing. Can you describe that?”
“The only option left … didn’t want to turn into … the way I used to…”
Karys kept her emotions in check. She could make no sense of the apparition’s stumbling half-thoughts, and she had a feeling it could not understand her either. “Were you on the water? Or in the village?”
“… unless I ended it. What if…”
“I don’t like this,” muttered Ferain.
The effect was immediate. Oboro’s ghost fell silent, and, like lightning, his scattered presence shrank down to a single point just above his body. An eye blinked open in midair. It stared right at her.
Fuck, thought Karys, and slammed the Veneer closed.
The eye winked out of existence. She stumbled back from Oboro’s body, knocking coins off his shoulder. They hit the tiles with a sharp metallic clatter.
“Did you see that?” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Ferain. “I think it’s still here.”
What was that? When deathspeaking, the apparitions were always aware of her; most seemed to draw comfort from her presence. This had felt different. When that eye had opened, it recognised her. Karys’ nails bit into her palms. Even with the Veneer closed, she could still detect its presence in the room, a warm humming in the air over Oboro’s body, a watchfulness.
A revenant?
Her shadow flowed over the floor and onto the bench, darkening Oboro’s torso. It paused for a moment, holding stock still. Then it retreated to her side.
“We should go,” said Ferain, calm and assured, but with no trace of his usual lightness. “Not too quickly. And don’t turn your back on the body.”
Her throat was tight. “Why not?”
“Call it a hunch.”
Karys slid her feet backwards over the black tiles, the hair on her arms standing on end. She had heard the stories, read scattered accounts. Incidents when a deathspeaker had agitated or provoked an apparition, drawn them too far into the world, and the echo had turned into … something else.
“It’s not moving,” said her shadow.
“Can you see it?” she murmured.
“No, but I know where it is. Watch the step behind you; you’re almost there. Don’t knock over the candles.”
She was in the main hall now; she could feel the breeze coming in through the open doors. The sea of candles guttered in the wind. Ferain was right; her sense of the apparition’s presence was growing fainter as she moved away from the resting chamber. A hard knot of anger tightened in the pit of her stomach. He had done this. Oboro’s apparition had only changed when her shadow had spoken. Ferain had woken it up.
“You’re probably clear,” he said.
She had reached the entrance. Karys breathed out slowly. The temple lay still and quiet and empty.
“That was me, wasn’t it?” said Ferain quietly. “Your brother heard me.”
Strings of pearls clicked in the cold breeze, and the crying of the gulls rang shrill between the towering grey cliffs. Her shadow was dark at her feet. His voice held a strange undercurrent, something almost like longing.
“My brother is dead,” said Karys flatly. “The apparition is not him.”
“Those things he was saying—”
“I shouldn’t have come here.” She shook her head, and the words spilled out before she could stop herself. “Why can you never just be quiet?”
“Karys—”
“No, just…” She pressed her hand to her forehead. “This was a mistake. If I leave now, I can still make it back to Boreth before nightfall.”
“Not unless you run all the way.”
“Then I’ll run.” She turned. “Leave now, and I can be back in Miresse before…”
She trailed off. Tion was climbing the stairs to the temple, shadowed by his mother and a second, older man.
Dayon Eska’s hair was more grey than black, and his skin had weathered to a deep leathery brown flecked with age spots. Dark rings shadowed his eyes; his gaze had a haggard, slightly vague quality, like he wasn’t fully present—but he walked upright, as straight and proud as ever. His blue mourning cowl hung loosely around his neck. When he saw Karys, he paused, and there was a small falter in his stride, enough to make Ané look at him. The priestess said something, and he shook his head, then smiled.
Karys remained rooted to the spot. She had known that returning to Boäz would mean seeing him again, but his appearance still hit her like a punch to the gut. How many times had she imagined this reunion? She had expected him to be angry, aggrieved by what she had done, but he was smiling. And now all three of them had reached the pavilion, and he had opened his arms, and she still felt frozen in place, and he walked forward and hugged her.
“Welcome home, Karys,” he said gruffly.
She felt dizzy. Her father’s arms were corded with muscle, but he held her gently. When he drew back, he studied her face, marking all the ways she had changed. No sign of resentment, no light of accusation in his eyes.
“Did you need to travel far to get here?” he asked. “You look tired.”
Karys struggled for her voice. “Not so far.”
“None of us knew you’d be coming for the send-off,” said Ané, and there was the reproof that was absent from her father’s voice. The priestess’s tone bordered on scornful. “I could hardly believe it when Tion told me.”
Karys had not experienced a tenth as much emotion when she saw Oboro’s body. What did that say about her? Get a hold of yourself.
“Blessings of the Embrace, cas,” she said. “It’s been a while.”
“Coming in with the storm too. A day later, and you wouldn’t have been able to reach Boäz at all.”
“Nuliere still offers me grace, despite my failings.” Karys’ words emerged more smoothly, and she inclined her head in a practised show of respect. “I give thanks for her blessing.”
Ané bristled, and offered a sour little grimace. “May she bless us all.”
“I’m so glad you’re home,” said her father. “It is … it is such a comfort, for you to return, after Oboro…”
He coughed, and gave a small shrug. Karys wished he would stop smiling. She wished she could be anywhere but here. Why had she let Ferain convince her to return to this forsaken place? “I heard the send-off would occur tomorrow.”
Her father hesitated, and glanced at Ané. “If the storm passes. Otherwise we’ll wait for calmer seas.”
“Of course.” She swallowed. “How did he—the letter I received did not say—”
Her father gestured toward the path back up the cliffs. “We can discuss it at home.”
Karys shook her head quickly.
“It wouldn’t be right for me to trouble you,” she said.
“No daughter of mine will sleep out in the rain,” he replied. “It has been so long, Karys. Come home.”
What could she say? Tion and Ané were listening, one with curiosity, the other with disapproval, and no excuse Karys could offer would make any sense. She nodded mutely, and her father beamed.
As they descended the stairs, Karys noticed a glimmer of red hair below the sloping eaves of the skinner’s house. Haeki scowled when their eyes met; Ané and her father were talking, oblivious, and did not see her. For a second, Karys thought that Haeki might say something. It seemed like she wanted to; her expression was angry, conflicted.
The moment passed. Haeki turned, and walked away.