Amanda Downum - The Drowning City

Soon the assembled witches nodded to the argument, and murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd. Their breath hung in shimmering plumes.

When the gathering dispersed, she escorted Selei back to her makeshift house. The fire had left her, and the old woman seemed frailer than ever, leaning on Xinai’s arm as they walked.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be on the mountain tonight, to make sure the bindings break. When you’re done with the wards, join me at the eastern rim of the cauldron.”

“Are you sure that’s safe? It’s a long climb-”

Selei snorted. “I’m not infirm yet. And I’ll have warriors with me, don’t worry. But I want you there as well. And your mother.”

“We’ll be there.”

“Thank you.” The woman’s fingers squeezed Xinai’s arm. “I’m glad you could be here for this. The more clans we have, the stronger we are.”

“Not much of a clan, are we?” She shrugged a shoulder toward Shaiyung.

“You don’t need to take the gray yet. You’re still young. More than one clan has been renewed from a single scion.”

Xinai chuckled. “Those stories were more heartening when it wasn’t my womb needed for the renewal.”

“It isn’t so bad. And I think you’ll find no few men willing to help you.”

“Now you sound like my mother.”

They passed a cooking fire and the smell of pork and curried lentils wafted around them. Smoke stung Xinai’s eyes and for an instant it was like looking through time. People moved in Cay Lin, cooking and talking, walking between the houses. She almost thought she heard a child’s high laughter. But was it the past she saw, or the future?

She shook her head and the illusion vanished, leaving only warriors breaking camp in the iron dawn.

Zhirin drifted in and out of sleep, surfacing at the sound of voices or footfalls or the clack of a tray, only to sink again. Dreams waited for her, circling like nakh in the deep-bright dreams and dark, ordinary and terrifying, till she couldn’t tell what was real.

Eventually she woke, blinking till her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her head felt stuffed with wool, sticky and dreamsick. She sat up with a wince, neck popping; her right arm tingled from being pinned against the floor. Rain rattled softly against the thatch roof.

She rubbed her face, pausing at the salt and snot crusted on her cheeks and lips. Rust-colored crescents darkened her fingernails and the heavy heron-ring gleamed on her hand. The bird’s topaz eye glittered coldly. A sick, hollow feeling opened in her stomach, and for a moment she thought she might vomit.

Cloth rustled and she started before recognizing Isyllt’s pale face in the gloom. The necromancer sat against the far wall, a blanket draped over her shoulders.

“There’s food,” she said softly, nudging a tray with her foot.

Zhirin shook her head, swallowing sour spit. “What time is it?”

“Just past dawn.”

She touched her head, frowning at a strange lingering tingle behind her eyes. “You spelled me.”

Isyllt shrugged. “I thought you needed it.”

With unsteady hands, Zhirin poured a cup of water. The first swallow eased the taste of salt and sleep and reminded her of her aching bladder.

“Are you all right?” Isyllt asked.

Zhirin’s hands tightened around the cup till she was surprised the clay didn’t shatter. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she said. It came out harsher than she intended, but she didn’t think she could stand either pity or heartless pragmatism at the moment.

The door scraped open and she flinched, slopping water over her hands. Gray light washed the room and she squinted as a woman leaned inside.

“You’re both awake? Jabbor says I’m to look after you. Do you need anything?”

Zhirin clenched her fists so she couldn’t see the blood under her nails. “A bathhouse?”

The woman nodded. “Follow me.”

The Jade Tigers’ compound was a collection of thatch-and-bamboo buildings bounded by thorny canebrake and a rough stone wall. Zhirin didn’t recognize the forest, nor could she remember the twisting paths they’d taken to get here. She couldn’t remember much of anything after her mother-

She buried the thought deep, concentrating on the sway of the Tiger woman’s braids as they walked. The jungle offered her no comfort, and the river was faint and far away. The rain had slackened, but water still dripped from the trees and ran in muddy channels down the sloping ground.

The bathwater was cold but clean, with soap enough to wash away the last of the mud and blood. Zhirin scrubbed her hands raw before she was satisfied. The woman, Suni, found them clothes and ointment for Isyllt’s wounds. Zhirin watched in pity and horror as the necromancer changed her filthy bandages, burns and stitches stark and ugly against white skin. The clarity of her ribs and hip bones made Zhirin regret skipping breakfast.

After they dressed, Suni took them back to the room and found tea and fresher food. Zhirin forced herself to eat rice and jackfruit; wasting away with grief wasn’t something she could afford to do, not until they were truly safe. She wasn’t sure she could even imagine that anymore.

They were free to roam the camp, Suni assured them, but Zhirin was happy enough to stay inside. Isyllt was content with silence; she doubted Jabbor would give her that luxury.

Neither, as it happened, would fate. No more than an hour had passed before voices rose outside and the door opened again.

“A council is gathering,” Suni said. “Jabbor says you’re both to come.”

The rain had returned, drumming on the roof of the long council chamber. Benches and mats lined the edges of the room, and nearly all of them were taken. The gathered spoke in restless mutters, half drowned by the rain. Zhirin braced herself for Jabbor’s pity as she sat beside him, but his face was grim and he only squeezed her hand quickly. Voices rose in anger and curiosity when the Tigers saw them.

“Who are they, Jabbor?” a man called, not quite a challenge.

“Some of you have met the Lady Iskaldur,” he replied. “She offers us aid from Selafai. And more of you know Zhirin Laii, first daughter of Cay Laii.”

She wasn’t first daughter anymore, she realized, but silently thanked Jabbor for the omission. She didn’t think she could recount the story yet.

Jabbor cut off the next question with a raised hand. “This isn’t the time. We have something more important to discuss now. Are we all here?” he asked the guards at the door.

“As many as could be found.”

“Bring her in.”

An expectant hush settled over the crowd. The door opened and Kwan Lhun entered, an armed escort at her back. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the gathering.

“Damn you, Jabbor. Must we make a circus of this?”

“Tell them.”

Whispers rippled through the room and Zhirin leaned forward. Kwan had been close in Jabbor’s confidences for as long as she’d known them, high-ranked amongst the Tigers. To see her under guard was unsettling; her hip was bare where her kris should hang.

Kwan snarled, then shook back her long hair and drew herself straight. “For years now, my cousin Temel and I have been doubling for the Dai Tranh.”

Voices rose and Jabbor shouted them down.

“We believed the Tigers too soft,” she continued, staring at the wall behind Jabbor. “Too willing to compromise and dance with the Khas, too unwilling to take the measures necessary for Sivahra’s freedom.” Her gaze shifted to Jabbor, and Zhirin beside him. “I still believe that.”

Jabbor smiled, though tension tightened his jaw. “I know all about my shortcomings, Kwan. Get to the point.”