The Skybound Sea Read online

  “Maybe. Maybe people are the way they are. And people who are the way you are exist.”

  Bralston’s free hand went to his head, removed the wide-brimmed hat from it. He pressed his thumb against it, spoke a word, ran it along the steel ringing its interior. Like a hound stirred, the hat twitched. Toothy spikes grew in the wake of his digit, crinkling, growling in a way that only a man-eating hat could.

  “This is going to be messy,” Bralston said.

  Well, obviously, Denaos thought.

  “I won’t apologize.”

  Probably smart.

  “You deserve this.”

  Denaos looked up to heaven. And this is who you send to tell me that? I suppose you don’t mess around.

  He looked back at the Librarian, who drew his hand back. He tossed the hat lazily at Denaos. It opened wide, teeth glistening, leather and steel jaws gaping.

  And the rogue’s hand snapped. Before either man knew it, the dagger flew from his fingers and pierced the hat with a shriek of metal and pinned it to the earth. They looked down at the hat, writhing with whatever power animated it, and then up at each other.

  And in that instant, Denaos knew the Gods loathed a heathen more than a sinner.

  Maybe he would think about that later, when a knife didn’t leap so readily to his hand and fly from his fingertips like an angel.

  It flew straight enough to be blessed, even if it didn’t strike. Bralston’s word was sloppy, the wave of his hand undisciplined as it formed force from air to send the dagger spiraling away. He raised his hand, pointed two fingers forward, the electricity eagerly crackling upon their tips.

  And Denaos was already there, ducking under to seize the Librarian’s hand and thrust it upward. The rogue felt his arm shake as lightning flew into the sky, felt the stray current shoot down his arm as another whip of electricity shot off into nothingness. It throbbed angrily, shook muscle and bone, but he didn’t let go. The Gods had sent him a message.

  He was determined to fulfill it. Or defy it. Whatever.

  Bralston’s hand shot out, pressed against Denaos’s chest. That force that had hurled him into the air and slammed him into the earth now reached inside him, those intangible fingers slipping past his skin and through his ribs. They searched for something important enough, poking and probing before they found it.

  And then they squeezed.

  His lungs, maybe. Or his heart. He couldn’t afford to be choosy, not with the sensation of the air being wrung from him like dirty water from a rag. Bralston did not smile, did not give the slightest impression he was enjoying this.

  A good man, one who should survive this fight. Wouldn’t be the first one who didn’t.

  Denaos’s right hand jerked, his grip upon Bralston’s wrist shifting as the blade hidden in his glove came on spring and a bloody song. It shot through Bralston’s wrist in a single red note, accompanied by the Librarian’s howl.

  The fingers inside Denaos retreated just enough to grip him by something more exterior and hurl him away. A ripping sound joined him as he did, like very fresh paper tearing.

  Bralston was bleeding. Bralston was angry. He reached down, seized his bloodied wrist, fought to keep the blood inside him. He looked up as Denaos sprang to his feet, raised the blade over his head. Bralston narrowed his eyes upon the rogue.

  And spoke a word.

  Lenk felt no lighter as he peeled off his tunic, nor the shirt of mail that lay under it. When the coarse undershirt had been stripped and he sat, half-naked in the breeze, he didn’t feel cold. That should be odd to any other man.

  “No room for that,” the voice answered his thoughts.

  He didn’t answer.

  “For cold, for pain, for anything. We have duty. We have things to kill. First her, then them, then them.”

  He closed his eyes, listened to Asper’s footsteps as she came up behind him and set her medicine bag on the log beside him. She gave a cursory probe to the bandage covering his shoulder, gently eased it back to inspect the sutures. He should feel that.

  “It speaks. The tome. It calls. To anything that will listen. But they can’t hear it. The demons can’t hear it. I can. Listen closely, you can, too. It calls us to the island, it—”

  What if she’s right?

  He hadn’t meant to think it, hadn’t meant for the voice to hear it, certainly hadn’t meant to interrupt it. The voice remained silent.

  Where is the evidence? Where is heaven? Where do the demons even come from?

  The voice was not speaking. He was not speaking to the voice. But he felt its presence, something narrowing unseen eyes into a glare.

  Ulbecetonth spoke of them as children. She begged me not to kill them. She wept for them. He rubbed his temple. She offered me escape … to let me go in exchange for sparing her children. What kind of demon does that?

  “You’re doubting.”

  I’m wondering.

  “There is no difference.”

  That’s the problem, isn’t it? Everything seems different since last night.

  “Last night?”

  My sword feels too heavy. Everything does. Maybe it is doubt … but uncertainty is difference enough, isn’t it?

  “Nothing has changed,” the voice insisted with crystalline clarity. “Remove doubt. I will remove everything else. I will move you through pain, through fear. Your duty cannot be performed without me. I cannot fulfill my duty without you. Neither of us exist. Only we do.”

  You say that, but if I don’t feel pain—

  “You don’t.”

  But—

  “You aren’t.”

  He wasn’t.

  The netherling’s knife had struck hard. The wound was not light. The suturing had been painful and the blood had been copious. He had received such wounds before. He knew it should hurt now as Asper probed, touched, eased the red and irritated flesh around his sutures.

  It didn’t.

  “Well?” he asked, the voice matching wound in ire.

  “You’re healing,” Asper said. “Some salve, regular poultices and keeping it covered and you’ll be all right.”

  “Outstanding,” he said, reaching for his shirt. “See you when I get back.”

  “Check that.” She placed a hand on his unmarred shoulder and pulled him back. “You need salve, poultice, bandage, and an understanding of past and progressive tense. You’re healing, not healed.”

  “Then I will continue healing on the way to Jaga,” he growled.

  “I know I’ve never really bothered to explain the intricacies of my craft, but medicine doesn’t quite work that way, stupid.” He heard her rustling about in her medicine bag. “You’re not going to be healing when you’re being eaten alive by snakes … or lizards.”

  “The Shen don’t eat people.” Lenk cast a glower over his back as she pressed a ripe-smelling poultice against his stitches. “We think, anyway. I mean, they’re reptiles and all, but so is Gariath and he’s never eaten someone … all the way, anyway.”

  “You’re being intentionally stupid now.” Her sigh was familiar, less tired and more frustrated. “Look, I don’t want you to die. This wound was tricky to stitch up and if you go around swinging your sword, it’ll eventually pop open and you’ll bleed out without me to help you.”

  “There’s no telling what’s going to happen, and if the wound does open, Kataria can—”

  “No,” the voice interrupted him before Asper could. “She cannot. We will not let her near us again.”

  “She can’t,” Asper said. “I don’t care what she says, and I don’t care what you say, either. You’re going there to fight and, thusly, you’re going to die.” She cast a disparaging glance at the mail shirt lying in a heap with his other garments. “It’s stupid enough that you’re wearing that kind of weight, anyway.”

  “It’s better to get used to carrying it now,” he said, “so I don’t get a wound like this again.”

  “You know, another great way to avoid getting wounds would be t
o go back to that one plan you had,” she muttered. “The one where we don’t go chasing after books and return to the mainland and never see each other again. I liked that one.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” The ire in Lenk’s voice rose, cold and clear. “And watch your mouth. Denaos will be upset if he finds out you’re trying to usurp his position as cynical worthless complainer.”

  She tore the poultice away suddenly. Her hand came down in a swift, firm slap against his shoulder. He felt it sting, felt himself wince, knew it should have hurt a lot more. The trembling anger in Asper’s voice suggested she wholly expected it to.

  “Don’t you dare compare me to him,” she whispered sharply. “He is a worthless, weeping coward who hides in the filth. I am trying to do what anyone with a conscience would, and offer you the intelligence that would save your life.”

  “Coward,” the voice whispered.

  “Coward,” he echoed.

  “We don’t need her.”

  “Don’t need anyone.”

  “Pain is nothing to us. We will not be stopped by pain, nor blood, nor cowards.”

  “We will not,” he said, “be stopped.”

  He felt her eyes boring into the back of his skull, he felt her tremble. He felt her whisper something to herself, something that would make her hard. Something she didn’t believe.

  “Do whatever you want, then,” she said, grabbing her medicine bag.

  He felt her leave. She looked back, he was certain. She wanted to say something else.

  “She won’t.”

  “I know,” he said. “She’s harder these days, quieter. Like a rock.”

  “Only pretending to be. She’s still as weak and decrepit as the rest. That is her betrayal.”

  “Wait … she betrays us because she’s weak?”

  “A subtle sin, no less deadly. She wishes us to fail because she wants to fail. She refuses to mend our flesh. She tries to hold us back. She tries to infect us with doubt. This is her betrayal. This is what she dies for.”

  “Dies …” His voice rang with a painful echo, like it was speaking to itself.

  “For betraying us,” it snarled. “They all die for that.”

  “Yes, they die,” he said. “They all … wait, why do they die? They … they abandoned us, but—” He winced. “My head hurts. Like it did last night.”

  “You speak of it again. Last night was dreamless, dark, restful.”

  “No, it wasn’t … it was …”

  “Enough,” it said fiercely. “Ignore it. Ignore them. Listen to us. Listen to what we do. We serve our duty. We find the tome.”

  “But my head …”

  “Pain is nothing to us. Whatever happens, we will persevere. We will harden in ways that she cannot.”

  Lenk found his eyes drifting to the fire, to the smoldering remains of the dismembered netherling, to the hilt of the dagger jutting out from the stones surrounding it. He saw it, glowing white with heat.

  “Pain is nothing,” he whispered.

  “Pain is nothing,” the voice agreed.

  “There is no pain,” he said, rising up. “There will be no pain.”

  “I did not say that.”

  “And if you’re not lying, if there is no pain …” He walked toward the fire, hand extended.

  “I didn’t—“ For the first time, the voice stammered. “What are you doing?”

  His fingers wrapped around the hilt, felt the heat. He pressed it to his shoulder, and felt it burn.

  “STOP!”

  Bralston never heard the sound of his word.

  He saw it instead.

  He watched his word leave his throat. He watched his voice fly out on a gurgle and a thick red splash. He watched his life spatter softly upon the earth and settle in quivering beads.

  He watched the blade, never having seen it as it struck. He watched as it glistened with his life. He watched as the murderer wiped it clean, pulled it back into its hiding place in his glove.

  Like it was just another murder. Common.

  And the murderer stood before him, already dusting off the earth from his body, the dark blood indistinguishable upon his black leathers. He looked at Bralston, weaponless, clean, as though he had never added another body to his debt.

  All that remained to speak against him was Bralston. And Bralston’s voice lay in a thick puddle on the sand.

  No.

  He collapsed to his knees.

  No, damn it.

  He swayed, vision darkening.

  Not like this.

  He felt himself teeter forward.

  Anacha, we were going to—

  “Imone.”

  He heard the word as he felt the hands steady him. He looked up, saw the murderer’s clean face, saw the murderer’s dead stare. The man removed his glove, pressing it against the bright red smile in Bralston’s throat. Not enough to save him, just enough for him to listen.

  “Say it,” the murderer said.

  Bralston gurgled.

  “She wasn’t the Houndmistress. She had a name. Imone. Say it.”

  “Im … Ihmooghnay,” Bralston croaked.

  The murderer stared at him. Almost insulted that a man with a cut throat should slur.

  “She had a city,” the murderer said. “She had a name.” He stood up, let Bralston topple to the earth and splash in his own life. “One that should be spoken on the lips of dying men.”

  He winced, as though he only now became aware of what he had done, as he stared at the just and moral choice leaking out onto the sand. He turned away, the sight too much to bear.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  He turned and walked into the forest, stopping only to pluck up his dagger and the hat, pitifully still, that had been pinned beneath its blade. Bralston raised his hand, trying to summon thought from a head draining, trying to summon voice from the earth. Enough for a spell, enough for a curse, enough for anything.

  “You …” he rasped, “you … you …”

  “I know,” Denaos said.

  The man ducked, vanishing into the underbrush. He was gone long before Bralston clutched at the spellbook at his hip. Long before Bralston cried out as he grasped at his leaking life.

  Long before Bralston could see nothing but darkness.

  The smell of ripe flesh cooking cloyed her nostrils.

  One breath later, she heard him scream.

  She whirled about. Through the smoke and the scent of char, she could see him. Bits of him.

  His eyes were wide and yellow with the reflection of the heat. His face was stretched with agony, looking as though it might snap off and fly into the underbrush at any moment.

  She rushed toward him, fist up and slamming against his jaw. The knife came off with pink strips of flesh curling into thin, gray wisps as it fell to the ground and sizzled into the sand.

  Of all the oaths she had taken and hymns she had recited to Talanas, she was fairly certain she had, at one point or another, sworn not to do what she just did. But the Healer would have to understand, if He existed at all.

  That worry would have to wait. Prayers and whatever other blows she had to complement the last, too. She made a point not to forget to deliver them, though.

  Right now, her eyes were on the mass of molten flesh that bubbled like an undercooked pastry with a viscous, red-tinged filling. The sutures of gut were seared into his flesh, veining his shoulder in a tangled mass of black atop a cherry red and visibly throbbing skin. A parasite would have been a more accurate description, a fleshy tick gorged with blood that twitched as it drank deeply.

  Proper metaphors were hard to come up with as he writhed in her grip and screamed in her ears.

  “That hurt,” he gasped. Tears fled from the corners of his eyes, seeped into the twisted contours of his grimace. He reached up to grab his shoulder, fought to rise to his feet. “That really hurt.”

  “You’re kidding,” she muttered. One hand came down firmly upon his bare chest, sending him to the earth
and holding him there. The other wrenched his hand away from the wound. “Hold still.”

  Closer up, it ceased to be a metaphor and she saw it for what it was: sealed up in a mass of ugly melted flesh, a seeping, weeping pustule begging for any number of infections dying to come in. The fury with which she sighed would have been better expended on cursing or punching.

  “Should I even ask?” she snarled.

  “Why didn’t you stop me?” he replied, eyes shut tight. “You should have stopped me.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” She recoiled from the accusation, and not just because of the oddity of it all.

  “You said there would be no pain.” His shrieking died, consumed in an angry growl. “You said there would be nothing.”

  “I … I never did!”

  “Oh, you didn’t expect that?” His laugh was a black thing that crawled up her spine and made itself cozy at the base of her neck. “So, you don’t know everything?”

  “Who are you talking to?” she pressed, her voice fervent. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Is it not yet obvious?”

  A man’s voice came from behind her. Not the voice she wanted to hear. Not the man she wanted standing over her.

  “He’s done something amazingly stupid again,” Denaos muttered. With a rather insulting lack of immediacy, he leaned over her shoulder, gingerly holding a broad-rimmed leather hat in his hands. “So, Lenk …” He paused, smacking his lips. “Why?”

  “Not important,” Lenk muttered. “Just fix it.”

  He glanced from the knife, thin blobs of flesh still cooking on its blade, to Lenk. “Friend, considering what you’ve just done, I don’t think there is a way to fix you.”

  “Shut up, shut up,” Asper growled. She frowned at the wound. “Just … just get me my bag. Hurry.”

  To his credit, Denaos did snatch up her bag with haste. It was a credit squandered, as ever, by what came out of his mouth next.

  “It seems as though haste is kind of self-defeating, really,” he said, holding it out to her. “I mean, he’s never going to learn if you just keep fixing him up.”

  She couldn’t spare a glare for him, nor anything more than an outstretched hand. “Charbalm.”