Skykeeper (The Drowning Empire Book 1) Page 13

He frowns, but doesn’t say anything else about it. We watch the fire die in silence until he decides to toss another log on, and then uses a broken branch to try to stoke it back to life. And it’s then that I notice: the arm above the hand holding the branch is wrapped in a thin bandage stained red with blood.

  “What happened?”

  He gives the arm an unconcerned look and goes back to stoking the fire. “Just a couple of old scars that I accidentally tore back open. Happened when I was scuffling with some of the people in that village, I think.”

  When he was in that village helping me?

  “It’s not that bad,” he’s saying. But I am not listening. I am only staring at his arm, a rush of embarrassment warming me faster than any fire or dragon ever could. I don’t want anyone getting hurt like this on my behalf. Not because I was weak enough to get myself captured the way I did.

  I sit up and crawl over to his side.

  “What are you—”

  “Let me see it.” I take his hand in mine, pull him closer and slowly, carefully unwrap the ash-covered bandage.

  “It isn’t that bad.”

  “Will you just be quiet? Just for once in your life?”

  I grab the canteen of water from beside his bag and rinse away the fresh blood. Then I place my other hand above the center of the cuts, hold it as steady as I can, and I will my tired brain to concentrate. It takes longer to summon the healing magic than I remember it ever taking before—probably at least partly because of the way he is watching me so closely.

  It makes me nervous.

  But finally, it comes: the tendrils of green smoke floating from the veins in my palms to cover his wounds, one by one; glowing with a soft, warm light for a breath of a moment before sinking into each of those wounds, pulling the skin together and leaving little more than faded scratches in its wake.

  The job done, I lean away and close my eyes. Even that little bit of summoning has left me feeling faint again, and again I don’t understand why. This was simple. This should have been easy.

  I sigh. At least I didn’t pass out this time.

  “You okay?” West asks.

  I nod. “Just a little dizzy is all.”

  He watches me with that same close look for several long moments. That same close look that seems to be making my dizziness worse. I’m glad when he eventually turns his attention to his healed cuts instead. He traces a finger along the seals with a thoughtful look on his face, and then he says, “Let me see your hands.”

  I don’t think to argue; I just hold up my palms to him. His eyes jump straight to the spot I summoned through, to the red welt that the magic’s exit has left behind. It’s worse than it should be, for the tiny bit of magic I called, but still nothing, really—not compared to the twisted, freshly marred flesh on my arms from that last disastrous rift encounter. This mark will probably fade within a few days’ time. I doubt it will even leave a scar. Not one anybody will notice, at least.

  But he can’t seem to take his eyes off the mark.

  And just as before, he surprises me, because he doesn’t have any jokes to make. No snide comments, or any teasing words for me. He only stares, and eventually offers to sleep in shifts, if I like. He’ll stay awake first—keep an eye on Coralind. I argue halfheartedly, since I’ve already had some rest and so it doesn’t seem fair, but in the end I agree.

  My head is still spinning, and my body is still heavy with exhaustion, and it feels good to lie down again and lose myself in the folds of my blanket.

  I don’t sleep well. And every now and then, I blink one eye open, just enough that I can see West still staring at the same spot in the fire, that silver ring between his fingers and a haunted look on his face.

  Part III

  Chapter 15

  On a hilltop overlooking the Atesian Sea, beneath a sky the color of steel, the emperor is burning.

  An emperor made of straw, wearing a crown made of twisted wood and polished stones meant to mimic the three jewels centered in the real crown. And on either side of the effigy, writhing in flame and black smoke, is a flag.

  Garda’s flag.

  I leap from Finn’s back and rush forward. There is almost no heat from the fires, and the way they burn and burn without consuming anything proves that they must be some sort of enchanted flame, some sort of dark magic meant to make this statement last as long as it can and allow more people to see it. I don’t think about what letting that magic touch me might do. I throw myself around the flagpoles and yank them from the ground, and then I drag them all the way down to the water.

  And in the dark, dark blue choppiness of this vast sea, I put the fires out.

  Then I fall back to the warm black sand, awkwardly cradling the large, dripping flags across my lap. I try not to think of my city, wrapped in fire like these flags, in so much flame and smoke that even a flooding sky couldn’t put it out fast enough. My chest aches. My hands and feet are numb.

  I see Coralind riding toward me, and the sight of her makes me think of the elder of her village, and her accusations of the emperor’s greed.

  The world is falling, and people are looking for someone to blame. Someone to burn. And I don’t fault them for that, nor do I care about climbing that hilltop again to bring water to their chosen effigy; he can burn on, same as that fire on the water burned at my brother’s funeral.

  I only wish that the path to setting the real emperor on fire didn’t run directly through my city and everything I love.

  I do my best to wring the water from the drenched flags, and then with shaking hands I plant them back in the ground, making sure they stand straight and tall.

  Coralind reaches my side a moment later. She’s hardly left it since that night we spent by the fire—seven days my constant companion, so far; I keep waiting for her to change her mind, for her to feel this same, crushing sense of futility that weighs down my every step here lately, and to decide that there is no point in following me. But for now, at least, she seems to have decided that coming with me is a better option than going home.

  And I won’t be the one to make her go back.

  It’s been nice, anyway, to have another keeper by my side. Someone to fall back into daily training sessions with. Having her to focus on helps me think less about my brother, and all the times we practiced together, and I am slowly but surely regaining some of my lost control over my magic.

  She squeezes a bit more water from the flags. “The world is full of fools eager for an excuse to set fires,” she says, and her voice is gentle, comforting. But I don’t believe either of us is actually reassured by it. Fools start wars all the time.

  “I know,” I tell her, “and it worries me almost as much as the sky.”

  “Speaking of worrisome things—it’s been several days since you sent it now, hasn’t it?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but then I realize: I’m not really sure what to say.

  The ‘it’ she’s referring to is my letter, which Varick should have read by now. And if he has, part of me thought he might send some sort of reply, some sort of notice that he was on his way, some encouragement, or at least a hint that my words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears; any reliable swift bird should be able to find me as easily as it found him.

  There has been no sign of one yet.

  I’m terrified that something’s happened to him. Or worse— that something’s happened to him because of that letter I sent. I was careful with my words of course, in case of interception, but I suppose there’s still a chance that it could have incriminated him somehow.

  When I am not bird-watching, we have been busy putting out fire after fire like this one. And so now I have nightmares, not only of skies falling, but of our kingdoms colliding, blood spilling and drowning us faster than any ocean above ever could—which is one reason I have hardly slept these past days.

  My thoughts are blurry, my eyes so heavy and unfocused that I don’t even realize West has joined us until he asks, “What if this Varick guy and the
rest of your army never shows up? Then what?”

  He is looking at the sky. Far into the distance, to be exact, to the horizon where the Sea-Above folds into the one below, and the barrier turns a much darker shade of grey. My tired eyes work to focus on the same spot, and as they do, my blood flares a fresh warning.

  This heat just beneath my skin is another near-constant of these past days, another reason I don’t sleep much anymore. As I sink to my knees beneath the still-dripping flags, I clutch for the ribbon tied around my arm, trying to steady myself with the memory of my brother tying it there. My other hand hits the black sand. Digs for the solid ground below. I try to mentally grab hold of that anxious magic inside of me—to draw it out cleanly, gently—but it’s no use. The pressure is too strong. I can’t focus enough to control anything, or to even respond to any of the questions I’ve been asked.

  “A more important question: Why does this keep happening to her?”

  West isn’t quite looking at me. His voice is close to a whisper, as if he is afraid to let me overhear it. It is the same sort of voice I use when my sisters are sick.

  “What good does it do to have the power of Pure blood if this is what it does?” he continues when I don’t answer his first question.

  I want to answer him. Even though he is looking at Coralind instead of me now, and even though I am not sure I understand it myself anymore, I still try to answer him.

  But I can’t seem to get my mouth to move, nor get my attention to pull away from the bits of sand sticking to the mark on my wrist.

  Coralind’s gaze shifts slowly to me—like she wants me to be the one to explain, too—and West has to repeat his question before she finally answers instead.

  “Well, things aren’t exactly as the Creators intended them to be, now are they?” she says quietly. “Aven’s blood—all Pure blood—is tied more closely to the sky; when it suffers, so does she. Usually you see them learn to control it better, eventually, but…that was before all of this mess. I don’t think the Creators would have ever guessed that the barrier they created would be suffering like it is now. It was only supposed to need reinforcing, occasional mending as the years wore on… that sort of thing. What’s happening to it now—the Westland Kingdom’s troubles, and all these rifts spreading toward the mainland—isn’t natural. So what’s happening to her shouldn’t be happening, either. Not like this.”

  I close my eyes and let go of the ribbon, lean forward, and brace my other arm against the sand. I mean to push myself back to my feet. But even the slightest movement makes me feel dangerously light-headed. The trainings with Coralind these past few days must have helped somewhat, though, because at least I am strong enough now to fight off that same pull that sent me racing toward the breaking sky outside of Solvel.

  “If she’d had more of a chance to get a handle on her powers,” I hear Coralind say, her voice still hushed, “it might have been different. But it’s all happened too fast, I think.”

  So much of this should have been different.

  But it’s not.

  I feel her hand on my shoulder a moment later. And I would rather do it myself, but I find I am automatically leaning into her, letting her help me stand. I don’t pull away immediately, either. Which is good, because almost as soon as I’ve straightened up, that pressure beneath my skin finally becomes too much. The magic breaks through on its own—desperate and out of control and all at once—same as it did when I was unconscious beneath that Solvel rift. I feel blood bubbling up along my arms and legs. That magic continues to surge out, enveloping me, twisting so solidly around me that it forces Coralind to take a step back.

  With her gone, my balance rocks a bit. But enough of the magic is released now that I manage to keep from falling over. My thoughts, too, are beginning to steady, and so I remember that there is still more to do than just putting the fires out.

  I look up, find the emperor’s likeness still burning, and I start toward it.

  Or, not toward it, rather, but toward what I am almost certain I will find on the ground nearby, if it is the same as all the other burnings we’ve come across.

  Every step agitates that heat in my veins.

  Sweat stings my eyes, and magic is still peeling from my skin, trails of emerald rising toward the sky as I stagger up the hillside.

  Once I finally reach the top, I see it almost immediately: a symbol etched into the dirt. The same symbol woven into the ribbon I wear around my upper arm. Only, somebody has ruined it, erasing the middle part of all four of those rays that should be converging toward the center point on the bottom.

  I kick at the dirt, frustrated, and drag the edge of my boot over the corrupt design again and again, until I’ve finally managed to scuff it out. Then I smooth the earth back over, drop to my hands and knees, and pull out a knife.

  And while West and Coralind stand silently by, keeping watch, I start to carve.

  I could have just connected the ruined lines, maybe, but it feels better to wipe it all clean and begin again. So I begin at the top, with the slightly arched horizontal line that represents the sky. I make the angles where it curves in on each end softer than before. I dig the lines on the side longer than usual, too; so long that it almost makes a completed triangle that entirely envelopes the four converging, unbroken rays that I draw next.

  As I work, I try to push more and more of that restless magic out of my body, releasing it into the smoky air until my hands no longer shake and the drumming in my head has nearly disappeared.

  Finally, I finish, and I lean back and study my work.

  Maybe no one will see it. Not it, or any of the other ones I’ve fixed like this. Maybe no one will care if they do. But part of me feels as if, by challenging the emperor myself, I have encouraged these rebels to challenge everything else—including the symbol beneath my feet—which makes me feel as though I may as well have set fire to Garda’s flags and declared war myself.

  Which, of course, was not my intention.

  So my carving is a reminder, as much to me as anyone else, of the shape that things are supposed to be.

  That I am defying the emperor, not the sky.

  I get to my feet, brushing the dirt from my knees. The fire in my blood is settling enough that my skin feels cold and damp now. I hug my arms around myself.

  And I finally find the words to answer West and Coralind’s earlier questions. “If Varick and the rest don’t show up,” I say, still staring at the ground, “then I will just have to keep going without them. I can gather others, maybe.” I think again of the ones who lifted their voices with mine in Solvel, and it causes a tiny flicker of confidence. “And once we figure out precisely what is happening across this sea, and why it’s happening, then it should be easier to draw people to our cause.”

  Still, I look to the sky, weakly hoping that messenger bird will be there just waiting for me to notice it.

  But of course, there is nothing there but the restless Sea-Above.

  “I want to wait, but I don’t know if I can for much longer.”

  “You also can’t control your own magic,” West says, frowning. “So how do you think you’re going to fare without an army to face far worse skies than the ones here?”

  “Ever so full of optimistic thoughts, aren’t you?” Coralind hisses at him.

  “No, but I am full of realistic ones,” he replies, his eyes still on me.

  And I wish I didn’t, but I know he’s right.

  But I also know that I can do a much better job of controlling this magic, because I have done it before. Even if that day I walked out onto that lake with my brother feels so far away now that it’s hard to believe it ever happened.

  I sheathe my knife and turn to Finn, who has been waiting obediently at the bottom of the hill. At my whistle, he stops biting at the rows of seagrass, trots up to my side and nudges his head underneath my arm. “I’ll just have to work harder,” I say, hoisting myself onto his back.

  The next day is a blur of t
raining with Coralind; of magic and blood and tired, aching, cramping muscles.

  I push myself harder than I have in weeks. Rifts are calling from what feels like every direction now, their searing pull impossible to completely ignore. I still force myself to try. I want to seal every single one, but if I gave in and let my magic be drawn to them, I know it wouldn’t take long for it to tear me completely apart.

  This is what I have to learn, somehow, whatever it takes.

  But it makes this uncertainty—this waiting for Varick’s reply— nearly unbearable. I’ve slowed my northward march, in case my letter convinces him to catch up with me earlier than planned. But I’m not sure how much longer I can move so idly.

  Not while I can so clearly feel each piece of our sky as it cracks.

  As night settles in, I am already growing restless.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, I’m picking up my pace again,” I say, staring at the lines of my palms, which are red and blistered from the day’s practice. “I’ll just have to figure the rest out as I go.”

  Coralind and West both look as if they want to argue, but in the end, neither of them finds the words for it.

  The next morning, it turns out there was no need to argue, anyway.

  Because I wake to a folded piece of parchment dropping into my lap.

  I unravel it with hands still a bit shaky from yesterday’s work. I roll closer to our nearly dead fire, straining to read in the early daylight. There are only three lines, and each looks as though it was hastily scribbled:

  I was already on my way to you.

  The same place we met that night.

  Wait for me there.

  There are two equally rough sketches on the message as well, one above the words—a circle, divided by two parallel lines that form a path surrounded on either side by ripples of water. I think I’ve seen it before, although I can’t remember where. But the one he signs the letter with is immediately familiar: that triangle, those rays…

  The symbol of the four skies, united.