Karys’ jaw hurt like someone was boring into the bone with a burning drill. The skin remained cool and unblemished.
There must have been a better way of getting across the border. She stepped down from the worked tram, out into the morning sun. If I ever see Rasko again, I’m going to shove one of those hideous wasps down his throat.
A brisk wind winnowed through the city’s valleys; locals wore light jackets and coats, long skirts and heeled boots. Imolin Prete’s address had taken Karys to the southern side of Eludia. The blue mountain loomed close, its summit crowned with wisps of cloud. It was fortunate that Ferain knew the area; without directions, she would have gotten hopelessly lost.
“Nearly there,” said her shadow encouragingly.
“You already told me that,” she replied under her breath, “half an hour ago.”
“You looked like you needed the motivation.”
“Ferain, please understand that the one thing I don’t lack right now is sufficient motivation.”
The Sulluvin District rested at the edge of one of the city’s many escarpments, the land dropping away steeply on its western flank. The view was probably quite beautiful, but Karys didn’t care to look at anything beyond the road directly in front of her feet. Rasko’s parcel nestled in her coat pocket, safe and snug.
She had departed the house shortly after sunrise, taking care not to disturb Winola. The scholar had only gone to bed in the early hours of the morning, staying up late to discuss her ideas with Rhevin. In the pre-dawn dark, she had slipped quietly into their room without turning on the lamp. A sweet gesture, but an unnecessary one: Karys had still been wide awake. Between intrusive memories of the saints’ deaths, and the increasing discomfort of her jaw, sleep had proven elusive.
“What did Rhevin think?” she whispered as Winola lay down.
The scholar did not answer immediately. She rolled over and faced Karys.
“I’m not sure,” she murmured. “Seemed … impatient. He’ll grant me access to all research materials at the university library, but I’m not sure he trusts my abilities. Whenever I speak, he acts like he already knows everything I’m telling him.”
“Frustrating.”
“A little. But at least he’s willing to help.”
Karys nodded.
“I appreciate it, you know,” she said. “I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you’ve done, but I’m thankful. And sorry.”
“For?”
“Vuhas, mostly.”
The scholar sighed. She turned over again.
“Go to sleep,” she said.
Karys did not. She waited until the sun touched the gables of the dark roofs along the street, then crept out of the house.
The journey took longer than expected, and Karys’ mood grew steadily worse as the morning progressed—after an hour and a half spent traversing the city, she saw white stars every time she turned her head to the left. If they had arrived in Eludia even a day later, she doubted she would have been able to reach Prete’s address, and it was only her fifth morning since crossing into Varesli. How Rasko believed anyone would survive the full week was beyond her.
Underhanded little rat bastard, she thought savagely.
“Karys,” began Ferain.
“If you say ‘nearly there’ one more time—”
“It’s the next building on your right.”
Karys lifted her head. Praise the Embrace.
The residence was much smaller than Rhevin’s: a tidy and unremarkable townhouse with a pair of lemon trees growing in ceramic pots before the entrance. Pale brown walls, as with most of the buildings on the street, and a wreath of fresh flowers hanging from a nail in the door. A tabby cat snoozed on the window ledge in the sun.
Karys climbed the front steps and pulled on the bell cord. Please let them be home. The thought of having to return later made her feel nauseous; she just wanted to be done with this. From inside, she heard footsteps. The door opened, and a nervous, brown-eyed woman peered out at her.
“I’m looking for Imolin Prete,” said Karys.
The woman opened the door fractionally wider. “I’m their wife.”
Karys was not sure why, but, based on Ferain’s description, she had envisioned Prete as a sort of dusty ascetic linguist living at the Foreign Ministry. It had never occurred to her that they might be married. “Are they available? I have a parcel I’m supposed to deliver to them.”
The woman’s eyebrows drew together.
“A parcel?” she said uncertainly.
“It’s somewhat urgent.”
“Could I take it for them?”
Karys shook her head—a mistake, it sent a bolt of pain lancing through her jaw. “Unfortunately, I was told to deliver it to them directly.”
“I see.” The woman wavered, then steeled herself and opened the door completely. She was middle-aged, with a heart-shaped face and tight black curls. “They’re probably working in the conservatory, but I can fetch them for you. Would you like to come in?”
The unexpected offer left Karys cornered. “That’s, uh … that’s nice of you.”
The woman perked up a little. “No, it’s nothing. Really, please come in.”
Prete’s living room contained more uncomfortable hints as to their personality and family life. Children’s drawings hung on the wall above a sagging couch decorated with hand-embroidered cushions. A heavily clawed cat’s toy in the shape of a monkey lay next to the fireplace; stacks of dog-eared dictionaries were piled up on the floor by an old rocking chair.
“I’ll tell them you’re here,” said the woman. “They get so involved in their work; they barely hear anything going on around the house. Just a minute.”
Karys found herself standing alone in the middle of the living room, wishing very much that she had opted to stay outside. She didn’t know what Rasko wanted with Prete, but she doubted it would be anything innocent. Proudly displayed above the children’s pictures was a certificate from the Foreign Ministry, thanking them for thirty years of faithful service. Looking at it made her feel dirty.
Doesn’t mean anything. Even people with wives and cats and pretty cushions could hide secret lives. Maybe Prete’s had dealings with Rasko for years. Besides, she was committed. She had made her decision in Miresse, and had no choice but to see this through now.
Prete’s wife returned, smoothing her hands over her skirt.
“Lin will be here in a minute,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” The woman continued to fuss with her clothing. “So you’re a courier? How interesting. You must have been to so many different places. Where are you from originally?”
“A village in eastern Mercia.”
“Right, yes. I had wondered, hearing you speak…” A tiny wince of embarrassment. “It’s a lovely accent, of course. Short and sharp. We must sound so drawn out in comparison.”
Karys forced a smile. It resulted in a swift, stabbing pain below her left ear. “No, I’ve gotten used to the Vareslian accent. I like it.”
“You do? That’s very kind.”
A brief silence yawned between them.
“The Mercian expansion was a terrible business,” said the woman suddenly. “I always thought so, even as a little girl. It wasn’t right.”
Karys could not fathom how she had ended up in this conversation. It felt surreal, standing in a stranger’s house with her jaw on fire, clutching a box of unknown contraband while being told that her own country’s occupation had been terrible. She was stumped on how to respond.
“I … wasn’t born yet?” she ventured.
The woman’s cheeks darkened with shame. She looked like she might cry.
“The place where I grew up was very remote,” added Karys hastily. “Out of the way. Even during the occupation, nobody really bothered with us.”
They were both spared further mortification by the arrival of a short person in a green tunic—Imolin Prete strolled into the living room. They had grey hair and mobile eyebrows, and a curious expression on their face.
“Hello,” they said. “Sorry, I was caught up in a translation. How may I help you?”
“Imolin Prete?”
“That would be me, yes.”
Karys’ stomach clenched. Just get this over with.
“I have a parcel for you from Miresse,” she said.
Prete’s eyebrows travelled further upwards. “Miresse?”
“From a man named Rasko. He gave me this address.”
Prete hesitated, and glanced at their wife. “I don’t understand. I don’t know anyone from Mercia.”
Karys’ foreboding increased. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m afraid there must have been some kind of mistake; I can’t imagine anyone going to the trouble of couriering a parcel across the border to me. That must be awfully expensive. Is there any chance you might have the wrong address?”
Her jaw throbbed, caustic and raw.
“I … I don’t think so,” she said.
Prete quickly raised their hands. “Oh, please don’t look so worried, dear. I’ll still accept delivery if you need me to. I’m only concerned that I might be stealing someone else’s mail.”
She didn’t want to give them the parcel. She only wanted her jaw to stop hurting. She wished that she had never accepted Rasko’s deal.
Karys held out the grey box.
There was an instant, as they reached to take it, when she nearly pulled away. Prete’s fingertips were stained with splotches of blue ink; their skin felt dry when it brushed against hers. No, don’t, Karys thought, too late, and then the parcel had left her hand.
“Thank you,” they said kindly.
She could only nod. Prete smiled, and turned their attention to the box, examining it with interest. They shook it gently, then pressed their thumb to the complex metal catch on its side. The mechanism appeared to be jammed. They moved over to the window to see better, lifting it closer to the light.
The lid of the box popped open with a puff of grey smoke. Karys jumped, but nothing else happened. Prete wrinkled their nose, and wafted the smoke away. Their face fell.
“Oh no,” they said. “It’s broken.”
The incessant burning heat in Karys’ jaw vanished like a snuffed candle flame, and a small sound left her mouth. Prete turned, interpreting the noise as dismay.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear,” they said. “Look. It must have shattered on the road.”
Inside the box was a little bronze figurine on a stone pedestal. A wasp, crudely sculpted, in flight. It had originally been encased in a globe, but the glass had smashed, and the creature’s right wing was bent out of shape.
“What a shame,” said Prete. They showed it to their wife, who mumbled something inaudible. “It was probably quite pretty. Maybe we could have it repaired—”
“No,” said Karys hoarsely. “Get rid of it.”
Prete’s wife flinched, taking an involuntary step backwards and knocking into the side table. Prete’s forehead creased.
“Why?” they asked.
Nothing had happened. Rasko had sent an ugly little statue to a stranger. If the wasp was meant to be some kind of message, no one here understood it. And yet Karys couldn’t shake her unease. She reached for the fabric of the Veneer, and pulled it back. Nothing. The box and its contents showed no trace of workings. The room was entirely silent.
“Because you don’t know who sent it, or their intentions,” she said, and let the Veneer slide closed once more. “I have a bad feeling, that’s all.”
Prete pressed their lips together. Their eyes flicked toward the wasp, and they flipped the lid of the box shut.
“Well, there’s no harm in caution,” they said. “You’re right; it is a strange situation. Thank you, dear, and I’m sorry you went to all the trouble of finding me. You’re very kind to be concerned.”
If she was kind, she would not have given them the parcel at all. But it was done now. Her side of the bargain fulfilled, her ties with Rasko severed. Done. Karys mumbled goodbye, unable to meet either Prete or their wife’s eyes, and left as quickly as she could. No workings, not that she had seen, but the broken statue’s appearance stayed with her. What did Rasko stand to gain here? Whatever the fixer had intended, his plan didn’t seem to have quite come together.
The district outside remained quiet and blustery; the wind chased yellow leaves down the street. Karys glanced back at the house once, then hurried away.
“The pain is gone?” asked Ferain.
“As soon as the box opened.”
“I’m glad.”
She grimaced. “I don’t understand what Rasko was trying to do. What was that thing?”
Ferain was quiet. Karys kept walking. The road curved; the mountain filled the sky.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “But I think we’re fortunate that it broke. You didn’t have a choice, Karys.”
“They hung their certificate on the wall.”
“What?”
She made an angry movement with her head. “Never mind. I just wish I hadn’t been invited inside. Which way should I go? I wasn’t paying much attention earlier.”
Ferain directed her to a set of stairs leading down the escarpment and into the valley. Not the way they had come, but Karys didn’t question him. At the foot of the cliffs below, she could see the gleam of water through a screen of trees: a lake or dam. Sleek black birds swooped above the woods, wheeling in figures of eight. As she descended, a few people passed her, smiling and nodding in polite greeting. Making the careless assumption that she was one of them.
But she wasn’t. In all her life, Karys had never felt more Mercian, or more like an imposter. And it wasn’t that she resented the people here, not really. She just couldn’t imagine living their lives. Couldn’t imagine herself as Prete, taking that parcel without suspicion, more worried about inconveniencing a courier than any threat the delivery might pose. Or their wife, wide-eyed and anxious, trying so hard not to give offence—like it mattered, like Karys’ opinion of her was the most important thing in the world. They were so far away from it all. Everything Karys had ever known was reduced to words on a page, lines shifting on a map, uncomfortable pauses in conversation.
And she could not get it out of her mind that, since arriving in Varesli, she had not seen a single beggar.
“Left at the end of the stairs,” said Ferain.
Who would she have been if she had grown up in Eludia instead of Boäz, if she had been born in Varesli instead of Mercia? All her scars and damage smoothed off, all the grime and salt washed away. Never a deathspeaker, never hungry, never on the run. It was difficult to imagine—her alter-self formed only the vaguest outline in her mind. Someone naïve, softer, less afraid. Someone happier. At the shaded base of the stairs, old women stood behind rows of wooden stands filled with flowers: carnations, cornflowers, marigolds, others that Karys lacked names for. Passersby stopped to chat and buy the flowers; the sellers carefully selected individual blooms to make up each bouquet.
“I used to walk this route often,” said Ferain. “The Eludian branch of the Foreign Ministry is a district over, and I liked to cut through the Greens to get to my old apartment. It helped me think. Take the smaller footpath over there; it’ll come out by the water.”
Karys followed his direction. The trees rustled in the wind; they were tall and broad, their canopies dense, their bark the colour of old parchment. The path sloped upwards, curving back and forth like the tide. “Think about what?”
“Whatever was on my mind, I suppose. I found it calming, the solitude.” Her shadow was difficult to discern in the deep green shade. “Karys, what do you need the money for?”
Between the trees ahead, a soft silver light kindled, then faded. Karys could not see its source.
“Why, are you thinking of reducing my pay?” she asked lightly.
“No. I’ve just been wondering for a long time.”
“A life of debauchery, what else? Expensive clothing and parties.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
She continued walking. Another silver glimmer where the path curved, the brief impression of water glinting on fur. Gone again. She drew a slow breath.
“I don’t tell people,” she said. “Marishka knew, Busin knew. Even that was … I could never stand people pitying me. Haeki calls it pride, and maybe she’s right, but that’s not all of it. I’d mostly hate to be told I’m wrong.”
Her shadow moved silently alongside her. Karys could not bring herself to look in his direction.
“It always sounds stupid when I say it aloud.” She shook her head. “But since you asked—Toraigian citizenship.”
A long pause.
“Oh,” said Ferain.
“I’ve been saving for years. Busin could get some of the documents forged, but the bribes necessary are … well, I wasn’t even close to making what I needed. Not until you came along.” Karys smiled, humourless. “The lie about the parties was more fun, wasn’t it?”
“Why?” he asked simply.
At the top of the slope, the same silvery gleam lingered—starlight suspended in smoke, the suggestion of slender limbs. Pale fire through deep water. Karys stopped, and watched as the figure dimmed and disappeared once more.
“What is that?” she asked.
“A sheen. It won’t hurt you. They protect people walking alone along the forest paths.”
“I haven’t heard of them before.”
“One of Ambavar’s creations.”
She nodded. The breeze rose and fell, muted through the branches. She resumed walking. Up ahead, the forest thinned; she could see patches of blue sky.
“There was another deathspeaker,” she said. “Marei Nossark. An independent pledged to Sabaster, like me. She lived and worked in Psikamit about twenty-five years ago—before my time, so I never met her. Nossark collaborated extensively with the College, providing firsthand accounts of her experiences, trying to map out how the Ephirite function, how their power works, what they want. New Favour hated her, of course. She gave ordinary practitioners insight into higher Ephirite workings, laying the foundations for outsiders to derive and reproduce powers that deathspeakers had bartered away their souls for. That was dangerous. It threatened New Favour’s control.”
She reached the top of the ridge, and the land veered downwards once more, the trees ending where the water began. The lake shone bright in the sun. Small, stony islands punctuated its smooth surface; egrets sunned their white wings.
“Nossark was really interested in spatial exclusion,” she said. “Physical places or effects from outside of our plane of reality, or superimposed on top of it, or cut away from it. Like the Embrace’s domain, the Veneer, the Ephirite’s realms—she would have loved the Split Lapse, I think, although her research didn’t really touch on temporal workings. Anyway, she became obsessed with Toraigus.”
The path joined up with a raised wooden walkway that ran alongside the water. There was no one else around. Karys paused, gathering her thoughts. This is where I lose him.
“You’ll have heard that a deathspeaker’s compact is an anchor,” she said. “It binds us to the Ephirite; we’re spiritually conjoined by the agreement. In the same way that I don’t need to see my hands to use them, Sabaster can find me without a thought.”
“Yes,” said Ferain softly.
“And you’ll also have heard that this anchor grants the Ephirite a footing in the world. Where I go, I open the way for my master. That was the Slaughter, after all—the point at which we threw open the gates for the herald-killers.” Karys shrugged. “So Toraigus should offer no safety. Neither the Bhatuma nor the Ephirite can cross the Wall, but it wouldn’t matter: I am Sabaster’s private gate. If I were inside, he would be too. Ready to drag me back home. You know all of this.”
Her shadow nodded.
Until now, the explanation had come easily. She had not risked anything yet. Karys closed her eyes for a second, her throat dry. Tell him.
“Nossark, she … she had an alternate theory,” she said. “New Favour refuted it outright, and the College, well … they were sympathetic, but it had been twelve years since she had formed her compact. Easy to dismiss her as desperate or delusional under the circumstances; everyone knew her time had run out. She was on her own, still writing up her notes, still pushing through with this treatise that no one else would touch, everyone acting like she was a lost cause or tragic or mad—”
“Karys,” murmured Ferain.
“Nossark believed that the Unbroken Wall isn’t a spatial exclusion, but the border of one.” She spoke in a breathless rush. “She believed that Toraigus itself is the workings exclusion zone. And that means that no Ephirit can ever touch it.”
Silence, but for the wind. Karys’ heart pounded like she had been running. Her head felt light, unstable.
Ferain’s voice was low. “You would be safe?”
“I read everything Nossark left behind, and everything I could find about exclusions: all the theory, every reference, every footnote. She wasn’t just desperate; her ideas made sense. Of course, Toraigus would never knowingly let a deathspeaker inside the Wall. They’re scarcely willing to admit anyone, never mind—”
“When you told Vuhas you had a plan, this is what you meant?” Ferain interrupted.
“I don’t remember saying that.”
Her shadow was agitated, its shape unfixed. “You have to talk to Winola about this. She might know—”
Karys shook her head, hard. “No. Not her. No one else.”
“Karys—”
“This is all I’ve ever found,” she said. “My one way out. It’s all I’ve got to hold on to.”
She heard herself in that moment, how pathetic the words sounded leaving her mouth, how stupid and irrational and deluded. It’s real, she wanted to insist, but that would only make things worse. Make her look even more weak. This was why she could never talk about Nossark; she would always sound like a child grasping after a fantasy, and she couldn’t stand Ferain thinking less of her, couldn’t bear his pity. Out of everyone, losing his respect would hurt the most.
“Well, you still could have told me sooner,” said her shadow, annoyed. “How long will it take to get the forgeries once you have the money?”
The sunlight reflected off the water. The black-winged birds wheeled above, their movements mirrored on the lake.
“You don’t think I’m deluding myself?” she whispered.
Ferain scoffed. “No, of course not. You’re much too proud for that, right?”
He could be lying. Karys didn’t think he was. It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did, but, standing there beneath the trees, she felt achingly grateful. Not just because he believed her, but because he was there at all. Because when he spoke, she felt less afraid and less alone, and because he had always acted like she had a future.
An urgent, formless desire came over her: to thank Ferain, to explain herself—she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, only that it was important. From nowhere, the memory of her shadow touching her jaw returned to her. The cool, careless brush of his fingers over her skin, at once gentle and unbearable. Unthinking, Karys moved her hand upwards as if to imitate the gesture. Then she caught herself.
What am I doing?
She quickly let her hand fall. That had been—what had that been? What is wrong with me? The hair lifted off the back of her neck.
“Something wrong?” her shadow asked.
Gratitude. She was grateful to Ferain. That was all. He represented her best chance of escaping Sabaster, and he had been a friend to her. That was all. Embrace, that had to be all.
Wordless, Karys started down the boardwalk, heading back north to Rhevin’s house. The wooden planks creaked under her feet, silver smoke glinted between the trees. She buried the thought that, for a moment, she had wanted Ferain to touch her again.