The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (12 page)

“Thank you, but I intended to study with Vasilios today.”

“Bah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Study tomorrow. I promise the mountain is far lovelier than the library.” He turned to
Vasilios as the older mage entered the courtyard. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you, if I steal your companion for the day?”

Vasilios snorted, leaning on his walking stick. “I know I can’t compete with your charms, Asheris. Just don’t expect my bones
to endure such a trek.” Behind him, Zhirin stiffened but kept her face pleasantly blank.

Asheris turned back to Isyllt and his smile was beautiful and implacable. “Come, Lady.”

“As you wish.” She shot Zhirin a quick glance, praying the girl understood, and that she could contact Jabbor. It would take
at least an hour to reach the mountain—who knew how long the meeting would be delayed.

A crowd assembled in the courtyard, including a great many soldiers. At Asheris’s word, a stablehand brought Isyllt a fresh
horse. Her thighs ached just looking at the saddle.

“Let me introduce you to our companions on this expedition.” Asheris took her elbow and steered her toward the center of the
knot of horses, where a mounted woman and young girl spoke to a man on the ground.

“This is Faraj al Ghassan, Viceroy of Symir. His wife, the Vicereine Shamina, and their daughter, Murai. Your Excellency,
this is Isyllt Iskaldur, of Erisín, who was gracious enough to assist with my investigation last night.”

Isyllt dropped a low curtsy, awkward though it was in trousers. “Your Excellency.” A short man, with golden-brown skin and
a hooked nose too large for his face. His wife was a tiny Sivahri woman, for all her Imperial name and dress.

Faraj smiled. “Well met, Lady. Asheris tells me you did us a valuable service. The Empire appreciates your efforts. But we
must speak again later—I have business in the hall, and my daughter is impatient to see the mountain.” He nodded politely
and touched his wife’s hand in farewell before turning toward the hall.

Adam caught her as Isyllt set her foot in the stirrup. “Do you want me to come?” he asked in Selafaïn.

“If he decides to murder me on the mountain, I doubt you could save me.”

His eyes narrowed as he glanced at the smoking mountain. “I don’t trust that thing. I don’t trust anything here.”

“Good. Don’t start.”

His mouth twisted. “I’m doing a lot of waiting for you.”

She gave him an arch smile. “But you do it so well.” Feeling Asheris’s eyes on her, she swung into the saddle before he could
reply.

The ride up the mountain was an easy one, despite Isyllt’s aching back. The road was cleared wide and paved, the horses sure-footed.
The same ward-posts lined the way. She caught sight of other buildings scattered behind the hall that she hadn’t visited on
her first tour—lapidaries’ offices, and servants’ quarters.

No matter how sure-footed, horses couldn’t climb the steep upper slopes. They dismounted at a way station a third of the way
up and began the rest of the climb on foot.

Soldiers led the procession, with the Viceroy’s family just behind. Murai, whom Isyllt guessed to be near twelve, skipped
up the road, tireless and nimble as a goat. Isyllt walked beside Asheris, the rest of the guards trailing a polite distance
behind.

The path was broad and smooth, but stable footing didn’t lessen the unnerving whistle and tug of the wind around the rocks,
or the sight of dust and pebbles rolling away into nothingness. The wooden railing seemed far too fragile for the fall beneath
it.

The forest stretched below them, draped like velvet across the hills. The Mir glittered as it rolled to the sea and the bay
shimmered with gray-green iridescence, shot with blue and gold where sunlight fell. Across the river lay the green slopes
of Mount Ashaya, a jewel-bright lake nestled in her cauldron. Unlike her sibling, Ashaya slept, her fires cold and dead.

Isyllt glanced down and frowned. They must make a lovely target, strung like beads against the mountainside. Would rebel arrows
reach so high? Sweat trickled across her scalp and stuck strands of hair to her face.

“How is it that a member of the royal house came here?” she asked Asheris, to distract herself from calculating assassinations.

“Barely a relation. But the bonds between us were enough that the Emperor trusted me to oversee things here.” His voice was
a shade too bland as he wiped his brow. He wore no hat—which seemed unwise despite the color of his skin—and moisture glistened
across the curve of his skull and darkened his collar. “Sivahra is a valuable asset to him.”

“Are attacks like yesterday’s common? We hear only rumors in the north.”

“They become more common, though yesterday’s was worse than usual. This Hand of Freedom grows bolder, or madder. They kill
their own with every such strike.”

“Have you made any arrests?”

He glanced up at the sun, amber eyes narrowing against the glare. “I suspect that’s being taken care of even as we speak.”
His smile was hard and cold, and Isyllt turned her gaze back to the path in front of her.

Xinai woke to sunlight dappling through a window, memories and dreams so tangled she couldn’t tell where she was.
Home
.

But not truly, though the room with its clay walls and woven mats was nearly twin to the room she’d slept in as a child. She
swallowed, the taste of last night’s spiced beer sour now on her tongue. Outside, the familiar sounds of daily work drifted
in the air.

The door creaked softly and her hand neared her knife hilt. Riuh Xian ducked his head into the room.

“Good, you’re awake.” He’d washed the ashes from his hair and replaited his beaded braids. In better light he was younger
than she’d thought, not far past twenty.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly noon. You missed breakfast.”

She wrinkled her nose at the thought; last night’s feast still sat heavy in her stomach.

He tossed a folded bundle to her. “Grandmother says I’m to take you to Cay Lin, if you wish.”

“I know the way.” It came out harsher than she meant, and he began to turn away. “But I don’t mind the company. Thank you.”

She bathed in the clan bathhouse and dressed in hunter’s clothes—calf-length trousers and loose tunic under a snug vest. In
traditional clothes, she was suddenly aware of her shorn hair. Practical, but out of place among clansfolk’s long beaded braids.
Such a ridiculous thing to worry about, but she tugged a cap over the damp spikes anyway.

A group of girls led by Riuh’s lovely cousin Phailin left the village for the stream and Xinai and Riuh went with them, ducking
quietly into the woods along the way. No telling how many eyes the Khas had watching Cay Xian.

They crossed the stream—a narrow tributary of the Mir, but wide enough to survive the dry season—and headed northeast toward
Lin lands. They walked in silence, but she felt Riuh watching her. She tried to ignore it, to ignore the way his hand lingered
on her arm when he helped her up steep slopes and over fallen trees. Think of Adam, she told herself, think of the job, but
the forest swallowed such things, filled her head with warmth and jade-colored light and the smell of sap and earth.

She nearly missed the marker. The stone had fallen, half-covered by mud and vines. Crouching, Xinai brushed away dirt and
leaves, bared the carved bear clan-sign. Cay Lin was only a league away. Whatever was left of it.

Riuh stopped, wiping a thin sheen of sweat off his brow. “Would you rather go on alone?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll be here.”

He didn’t tell her to be careful and she liked him more for that. She smiled, quick and clumsy, then turned and began to climb
the bramble-choked slope that led to the village.

The woods weren’t empty; all around she felt watchful eyes. Not soldiers, but ghosts and spirits. Her charms shivered around
her neck. Wise to be gone from here before nightfall, though the thought galled. She should have nothing to fear on her family’s
lands.

Should or not, she knew she
did
. Many spirits resented human incursion into their lands, or simply found them good eating. And a clever spirit was more cunning
than a tiger when it came to stalking prey, and had more than claws and teeth to bring it down.

Trails were long overgrown, landmarks reclaimed by the jungle, and it took her more than an hour to reach the stone walls.
The sight of them struck like a blow in the pit of her stomach and she stumbled to a stop.

The wooden gates had rotted away, only a few moss-riddled timbers fallen in the opening. Vines crawled the walls, crumbling
the arches. Wind rustled the leaves of the canopy and spears of light danced across the ground.

Cay Lin. The clan-heart. Her home. Home to nothing but ghosts now.

She crossed her arms to still her shivering, then forced them down again. Lifting her chin, Xinai stepped through the ruined
gate.

The emptiness was a solid thing, a weight in her chest. Nothing dwelled here, not even animals. Shutterless windows stared
like accusing black eyes; she couldn’t meet their gaze. Somewhere in these leaf-choked streets was her house, the houses of
her friends, the shops they’d frequented. The well she’d drawn water from, the pool where she’d tossed wishing stones—dried
now. She saw no bones, though she could still remember where the bodies of her kin had lain untended. Time and weather had
erased them, or the earth swallowed them.

The banyan still lived, though its leaves curled and drooped in the dry heat. Its root-tendrils had spread, stretching throughout
the walls, dripping through broken roofs and pulling down houses. A forest made of one tree. Yellow dust puffed under her
feet as she crossed the root-tangled yard. The slap of her sandals echoed like hammers.

A charm shivered warning a heartbeat before she walked into the trap, but she couldn’t stop in time. Magic enveloped her in
a rank miasma, a net of pain and suffering distilled with time and purpose. Xinai tripped on a root and fell, bruising her
hands on dry earth. The gentle cacophony of the jungle vanished as long-walled-off memories broke loose to swallow her.

She shudders as the lash falls. She lost count of the strokes after the fifth, can’t even feel the individual blows anymore,
only the twigs that gouge her stomach, her nails cracking as she claws the ground. Pain is a red sea and she so much flotsam.

She only realizes that it’s stopped by the absence of the whip-crack over her sobs and roaring pulse. Booted feet rush around
her; she feels them through the yellow earth beneath her cheek. Muddy now with blood and tears and sweat. Others still cry
and curse and scream. At least they’re alive.

Xinai pries open her good eye and blinks away a film of tears. The other is swollen shut—she feels that pain clearly, and
it nearly makes her laugh.

“Is she dead?” one of the soldiers asks. A boot lands in front of her face, leather dull with dust. She wonders if he’ll kick
her, but she has no strength to flinch.

“Not yet,” another answers. “Do you want her for the work-gangs?”

The boot nudges her shoulder, flips her over. The blur of leaves and sky washes black as her back strikes the ground. She
means to scream, but all that comes out is a teakettle whine.

“No.” The man above her is a blur of Imperial crimson. Red as poppies, their uniforms, red as blood. “She’d be dead before
we reach the mines. Let her rot with the rest.”

She tries to roll over but only manages to turn her head. Through the forest of boots and red uniforms she sees other bodies
limp on the ground, the earth trampled and soaked dark. Other villagers are roped together and dragged through the broken
gates—neighbors and friends, clan-kin all of them.

“Mira,” she whispers, scraping uselessly at the dirt. “Mira.”

“What’s that?” the soldier asks in Assari. He crouches beside her, hands loose between his knees. His tone is nearly genial
now that she has no fight left.

Another man’s shadow falls over her and she squints against the glare of sky through banyan leaves. Not a red-coat, this one.
He wears green, with red stripes on his sleeves. Sivahri—a local guard. She closes her eyes against his traitor’s face.

“She’s asking for her mother,” he says, his Assari barely accented.

“She’s the leader’s brat, isn’t she? Your mother’s right over there, girl. You want to see her?”

“Captain—”

“What? She made her choice, didn’t she? She should see the cost.” He slides a hand under her shoulder and hoists her up. Not
roughly, but she shudders as his fingers brush a weal. Her braids swing across her back, snagging on blood and torn flesh.
“There.” The captain points toward the heart-tree.

No
, Xinai told herself, struggling for control.
It’s not real. It’s over.
But she couldn’t break free.

Her mother slumps against the root-trunks, chin against her breast, long black hair wild over her shoulders. Her hand curls
as if to hold her kris, but the blade is gone.

“Mira—” She rocks forward, catching herself on one forearm; the other arm crumples when her weight hits it. Like a three-legged
dog she creeps forward on hand and knees. Pity the Assari should see her crawl, but she has no strength left for pride.

Her mother’s flesh is still soft, not even cold, only drained to pasty yellow-gray. Blood spills down her chest like a necklace
of rust and garnets. The air reeks of raw meat and bowel and she can’t tell the smell of her mother’s death from her own sour
metallic stink.

If the captain laughs, she knows she’ll throw herself at him, fight until he kills her and she joins her mother in the twilight
lands. But he turns away, indifferent to her grief as he is to her life, and begins overseeing the removal of the last prisoners.

The Sivahri guard watches her, weary lines carved on his face. Forest-clan, she guesses. He could be kin to any of the bodies
that litter the dust. His uniform is damp with blood and sweat.