CHAPTER NINETEEN

The seeker chose a path that led toward the forest and set off on foot in search of her purpose. The road was dark and lonely, but her breath of fire lit the way.

—THE AYALYA

“Another round,” Tai called to the waitress who was passing by as he slammed his tankard on the table. The pub was a block from their hotel and seemed to be doing a brisk weekend business of locals and tourists in for the races.

Darvyn shook his head emphatically, motioning that he didn’t want any more. He looked sideways at Tai, who ignored the disapproving glance. “How many have you had?” Darvyn’s voice pierced the din.

“Who knows,” Tai said. “Not enough.” He rubbed his head, which had begun to ache a few pints ago, but that was no reason to stop—not when Lizvette’s sobbing was still burned into his memory.

Clove tossed back the last of her drink and wiped her lips. That little woman sure could hold her liquor. Vanesse, no longer in her garb from the Sisterhood, still abstained from drinking, though she made fine company, if a bit on the quiet side. They’d left Lizvette to grieve in private, all of them discomfited by the sounds of her anguish.

Tai took in the revelry around them, pausing at the table just across the way where a Summ-Yalyish woman smirked at him. Even in the dim interior, her dark-blue eyes were bright against the rich shade of her skin. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question, and her smug expression turned lascivious as her gaze traveled down his body. Tai looked away, uneasy with an appraisal from the opposite sex perhaps for the first time.

It was disturbing, but he did not want to dwell on it. When the waitress brought around two more drinks and set them in front of Tai and Clove, he grabbed his immediately. “To the race,” he said, lifting his mug high. Clove matched his toast. “May you be speedy and have the wind always at your back.” Her qualifying heats for the Yaly Classic started the next day, and he truly wished her well. They clinked their glasses together, then downed the cold beers.

The liquid sloshed in his stomach uncomfortably, and he listed over to the side. “Perhaps that was enough,” he drawled as two Cloves sat before him, laughing at something Vanesse had whispered into their ears.

“Here.” Clove tossed something small and dark to him. He reached out to catch it but missed. Darvyn easily plucked it from the air and held it out to him.

“What’s this?” Tai muttered. It looked like a short length of black rope.

“Wrap it around your wrist. It will take away some of the pain. The bartender gave it to me.”

Tai blinked and tried unsuccessfully to wrap the thing around his wrist.

“What is it?” Darvyn asked.

“An amalgam,” Clove explained. “It will last for a few hours and prevent hangovers, too. Apparently they’re good for business.”

“You’re not wearing one,” Tai accused.

Clove grinned. “I don’t need one.” She gulped her remaining beer.

Vanesse reached over and affixed the strap to Tai’s wrist. It had a simple loop that he really should have been able to manage on his own.

“Thanks,” he grumbled.

Both women laughed. Darvyn merely shook his head, keeping a keen eye on the other patrons.

The crowd appeared mostly made up of Administrators, the bureaucratic class of Yaly, who made things run. Investors, the upper class, didn’t populate this part of Melbain City. The outer territories were assigned to the poor souls who toiled in the fields—Bondmen, who most likely would never move past their station.

Everyone in the pub seemed comfortable, well fed, well clothed, and likely ignorant of the world that lay beyond his or her caste. Tai reached for his glass again, surprised to find it empty. His head began to swim, as did the room.

“How long is this thing supposed to take?” He tapped the band around his wrist.

Clove frowned. “Should be instantaneous. You’re not feeling any different?”

“Yeah, I feel worse.”

The roiling in his stomach became a nasty bile that rose up his throat to coat his tongue. He stood abruptly and ran for the back door, breaking into the alley in a rush just before the vomit spewed from him.

When he was done, he coughed, feeling spent. The buzz from the beer was waning, and his head felt as if it were full of cotton. If only Mik could see him now. His first mate would have a good laugh at Tai’s expense.

Was this really all because that princess was crying over her murdered fiancé? Tai had been both shocked and unsurprised to learn that Lizvette had been betrothed to the former Prince Regent of Elsira. She seemed the perfect choice for royalty; his teasing nickname of “duchess” had hit closer to the mark than he’d even known. But realizing that her prospects had been so high … It stung and reinforced what he’d known the moment he had set eyes on her in the hallways of the palace of Rosira: she was far outside his reach.

Better for him to accept the unspoken invitation of the woman inside than to be burned by the sun. He had no desire to be reminded that some things were not for him. He already knew it well enough.

And if Lizvette’s sorrow cleaved him and sawed at his heart, left him wanting to take on an army just to ease her sadness … well, then he just had to ignore it. He was neither a soldier nor a therapist, and he’d only known her for a day. He repeated that statement to himself until it sunk in and turned to go back inside.

A noise at the mouth of the alley caught his attention as two men walked into the pool of illumination cast by the streetlamp. Both looked like average Administrators, dressed in starched button-down shirts and ties as if they’d just come from their offices. The shorter one was Daro-Yalyish, given his wan complexion and golden hair. The other was Pressian-Yalyish, with sun-toasted skin and shoulder-length black hair tied in a queue. Something glittered in his hand in the lamplight. The two appeared to be arguing, though Tai could only make out the angry tone of their voices, not their actual words.

He blinked, and in that briefest of moments, the Pressian disappeared from sight. But the man had not walked away. He was simply there one moment and gone the next.

The Daro walked toward Tai, apparently headed for the back entrance of the pub. Tai leaned against the wall again and closed his eyes, listening to the man’s footsteps. He strove to seem in his cups—and in truth, he was—but what he’d seen could not be blamed on the drink.

He waited a few minutes before following the man back into the pub, stopping in the restroom first to clean up. Returning to the table, he noticed that his little band had grown tense.

Darvyn was wound tight as a sail’s rigging at full wind, and Clove and Vanesse looked poised for escape. Darvyn’s eyes darted to the opposite side of the room where a large group had gathered in Tai’s absence. He noted the Daro from the alley among their number.

Sitting down, he whispered to Darvyn, “Who are they?”

“Dominionists,” he answered through clenched teeth.

A chill went through Tai. “I saw one of them in the back with another man who disappeared into thin air.”

Vanesse raised a skeptical eyebrow, but Clove leaned forward. “Was he using an amalgam?” Her eyebrows rose significantly, and a ripple of confusion swept through the table.

Tai thought back to what he’d seen. The Pressian had been holding something. “Could be.”

She nodded. “The Physicks keep the best ones for themselves. I’ve seen one do that trick before. Handy.”

In Tai’s trips to Yaly, he’d never purchased any of the magical contraptions. Raunians generally scoffed at such things. And if this useless band around his wrist was any indication, they weren’t all that reliable. But the general public in Yaly and Fremia loved them. The items available on the market—translators, devices somewhat like portable telephones for talking over long distances, coins that changed into different currencies, and the like—were all relatively weak and ran out of power in a few days, needing to be either replaced or recharged at Physick-run shops.

But the mage who had boarded Tai’s ship two years ago, and apparently had made off with Dansig and his sons, had possessed some very powerful mech—amalgams that weren’t available in stores. If one of these things could make someone vanish from sight, that might explain what had happened to his passengers.

“But if the man in the alley is a Dominionist,” Tai said, peering at the group across the room, “why would he be associating with a Physick? Dominionists hate magic. They shun amalgam.”

The other patrons in the pub grew quiet as a voice from the Dominionist group rose. “Raise a glass in honor of the true path that The Book of Dominion offers us.” The speaker was hidden among the others, but his voice was high and clear. “Our way does not rely on the supernatural. It is righteous, for right-thinking men. For hard workers who labor for every scrap and coin. No mage or saint or goddess has carried your burden. They have not bled or sweat or cried for you. But they deserve worship? Exaltation? Each man walks his path alone. We are the ones who should be praised, not some long-dead mystics or devious witches.”

The group cheered and toasted the speech. Tai looked to the questioning faces of those at his table. The others didn’t speak Yalyish, and he translated briefly.

“Dominionist diatribe,” Clove said, shaking her head. She took a sip from her cup, which was filled with water now. That was a good idea, Tai decided. He flagged down the waitress and ordered water for himself, as well.

The Summ woman who had been ogling him before stood suddenly, a fierce expression on her face. She opened her mouth and began to sing.

“I’m seeking the land where dear Melba has gone

Her courage was mighty, her faith carries on

She left us with hope that we would stay strong

Walking the trail both narrow and long.”

Even the Dominionists were quiet as the woman’s achingly sweet voice rang out.

“Melbain’s charter song,” Tai whispered. “It’s the anthem of the commonwealth, honoring Saint Melba.”

Others around the pub chimed in, adding their voices to the chorus, opposing the Dominionists’ secularity.

“The path that was blessed by dear Melba’s wise hand

Is the one that we trod, the one that we trod.

And when we arrive we shall see her sweet face

And we will be awed, we will be awed.”

The singing continued, with the many voices creating a resonating harmony. It was inspiring, a moment of shared faith among strangers, fighting back against the faithless.

The Dominionists believed only in themselves and their judgment, labor, and effort. But there was magic in the world, even if they didn’t care for it. Tai had seen it and felt it many times, and like most phenomena, it was neither good nor bad. It simply was. Fighting against it was useless.

His dark mood eased as the song continued. Though he didn’t share the beliefs of those who praised Saint Melba, he understood faith and knew it to be a kind of magic in itself. And while his had been broken over the years—mainly by his unscrupulous father and implacable mother—it always rebounded. He found it again in the bond he shared with his sister. The trust Ani put in him that he hoped to never betray. Mik’s friendship and loyalty was also stalwart.

And love. The more he thought of the word, the more he was reminded of Lizvette’s gut-wrenching sobs. He could not bring back her lost fiancé, but he could help find her father and bring him to justice. He could help her shake off the guilt and shame she wore like a cloak. And when the mission was done, he would walk away from her knowing he had done all he could. And that would be enough.

He told himself that over and over, hoping that eventually, he would believe it.