Ashwalk Pilgrim (8 page)

“What?” Mara recoiled and nearly fell into the sea. “Why? I’ve done nothing!”

“You’ve done something, that’s for sure. I heard whispers out in the street the king’s eye has turned to the Floatwaif, looking for a mother and child. He sent his serpent priests from that cult of his looking for her. Those same whispers say any who bring the woman’s child to them will be rewarded with the mother’s weight in gold.”

“But why would the king’s guard want me? I haven’t done—”

“You?” Kard laughed and slapped his knee, and the other men joined him. “They don’t want
you.
They want the child. You can die for all they care. You’re a moon maiden. That’s less than nothin’ in their eyes. And really, who’ll miss you? Gia? She’s probably already forgotten all about you. She’s likely tickling some bloated whale of a highborn or three, glad to see you and that cursed corpse out of the way.”

“No, no.” Mara clutched her son tight against her neck and squeezed her eyes shut.
 

“Give it up. Maybe if you hand him over real nice, I’ll give you a little tickle of my own.”

Mara heard the hunger in his voice. She knew he would never be gentle, and once he finished, she would float alongside Tolstes until the sharks stripped her to the bone. But worse than all of that, the despicable sailor would have her son.
 

“I won’t let him have you,” she whispered. “Please, Six, Burning Mother, any of you, help me. I will finish the ashwalk. I swear I will. Just please, give me the chance. I’m at your mercy.”

She waited for Kard’s rough, calloused grip. She waited to fall into the cold, unforgiving waters. She waited for the coral sharks to nibble at her feet.

But Kard’s grip never came. No waters embraced her, and no sharks tasted her flesh.
 

Mara opened an eye. Kard still stood at the prow of his skiff, his two companions holding the oars behind him with trembling grips. No longer did the sailor have the confident, hungry glimmer in his eyes. No longer did his chest swell with arrogant pride.

The color drained from his skin. “S—Silent son…” he stammered, falling back into the rowboat.
 

A shadow slipped over Mara like the boughs of a tree sheltering a weary nomad. Mara’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. She cupped her son’s head and slowly looked behind her.

A towering figure stood upon the calm waters. A black drape covered the silent son from the crown of his head to the water’s surface, making him appear to grow from the Sapphire Sea as a tree grows from soil. Like all priests of the Loyal Father, he wore a pale mask where his face should be.

He lifted an arm. A porcelain hand extended from the black. Its palm flattened before Kard’s skiff, and the boat gently careened away, picking up speed as it headed for the distant, open sea.

The sailors paddled frantically. Kard yelled curses at them, his voice growing more panicked as the boat glided in circles toward the horizon.
 

Mara sat as a statue. She had never seen a silent son and only knew they served the Loyal Father. Neither had she ever seen an act of magic.

Gathering her courage, she turned as calmly as she could toward the cloaked figure. “Did you hear my prayer?”

The silent son said nothing. She knew he wouldn’t. Those of their order bound their voices to silence until death claimed them. Still, she had to try.

Like a ghost, the silent son wafted toward her. He reached the edge of the boat.
 

Mara cowered in his shadow. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

He extended a hand sculpted from starlight and reached for her. She winced and closed her eyes, pressing her son against her bosom.
 

“Please,” she whispered.

A touch soft as silk and light as a feather caressed her jaw. She opened her eyes, and they met the expressionless stare of the silent son’s mask. The man’s long fingers traced the curve of her jaw and stopped at her chin.

He cupped her cheek and squeezed so gently, she almost didn’t notice. Straightening, the silent son grasped the lip of her skiff. He pushed the boat, and it glided toward the shore as if the vessel skated over ice.
 

The silent son shrank against the dark table of the Sapphire Sea. A few moments later, he disappeared, and the skiff came to rest upon Sollan’s rocky shore.

Alone on the edge of a raucous tempest of revelry, Mara stepped from Olessa’s small rowboat and onto Sollan’s rough and unforgiving shore. So many crowded the docks the land seemed to sway with the drunken dancing of men and women working their way through foaming mugs of ale or tin cups sloshing with saltwater gin. Multicolored ribbons and banners of Harvest Festival fluttered above the packed and winding roads leading deeper into the city.

Mara trembled and wrapped her arms around her son. The city had always been so close. She had often dreamed of visiting. Yet standing on the dark shore, staring at the streams of bodies laughing and rocking to the rhythm of drums and mandolins, she wanted nothing more than to crawl into the sky and paddle back to the House of Sin and Silk.

Despite her fervent searching, she spotted no children with knives or villainous scoundrels licking their teeth within Lower Sollan’s shadows. “Sollan’s not evil at all.”
 

She smiled, the spark of her courage gathering strength. “They’re celebrating. It is a happy time. It is celebration. I will save my son’s soul and be back home long before dawn.”

Her sandals crunched over the shore’s smooth rocks as she stepped away from the waves lapping at her ankles. She glanced over her shoulder, peering through the great ships moored to the docks. Beyond their bobbing hulls, the empty sea stretched to the titan at the bay’s mouth. To the side, the Floatwaif glittered with the lights fastened around the small boats.

She imagined Gia gazing at the shoreline, praying to the Six that Mara landed upon the rocks unharmed.
 

“It was close, Gia,” Mara said, “that bastard Kard killed Tolstes. He would have killed me, too, but a silent son saved me. He used magic, Gia. Maybe it isn’t really leaving the world. Maybe if you really do believe in the Six, they can still grant you the power.”

Her gaze lingered on the stretch of water where the strong boy’s body fell. Whispering a quick prayer for the eunuch, Mara turned from the world she knew and faced the strange one before her. She darted from the docks, carefully avoiding clusters of sailors downing shots or crying out toasts that boasted of their exploits.
 

Mara stepped out of the shadows and onto the first stony avenue of Lower Sollan. Scents of fried shrimp seasoned with paprika tickled her nose, the inviting aroma drifting from a noisy tavern a few steps from where she stood. Her belly rumbled and gurgled like an old bog, and for the first time that night, she felt the empty, ravenous pit within her stomach.

Swallowing, she peered into the city rising before her, graceful towers thrusting against the sparkling sky, ropes intertwined between them hanging glowing lanterns from their lines. The ground sloped upward, revealing Upper Sollan in the distance, and beyond it on a raised plateau, the tall wall of Hightable where the Mother’s temple waited.

A fish merchant leaned against his stall and stared into a cup of wine. A wooden pipe hung from his swollen lip as he mumbled quietly to himself.
 

“Sir?” Mara took a shaky step toward the man. “Can you tell me the quickest way to Hightable? I’m heading for the Mother’s temple, but I’m afraid I don’t know the way.”

“
Hm?
” The man’s lips tightened around his pipe. His eyes drifted from his wine and focused on Mara. “Brave girl to head so high when Good King Sol’s got his blades out for—”

His bleary gaze looked Mara up and down. He stiffened with a sneer. “Ashwalk pilgrim, are you? Out of my face with that dead thing in your arms. I’ll not have any demon alp or king’s blades in my room tonight.”

“Just point, and I’ll leave. I just—”

“Out!” He threw his cup at Mara, and a burgundy trail of wine lashed out like a striking serpent. The wine splashed against her filthy cloak as the cup careened over her shoulder and smashed against a wall.
 

The man thrust his shoulders back and hooked his thumbs into his belt. She caught the glint of steel tucked behind the strap of leather.

Her eyes widened, and she spun from the merchant.
 

The long knives of the docks. They really do exist.

She bolted headlong into the city and nearly crashed into a roving band of sailors. They recoiled when they saw her. One spit and another cursed. The third sneered and licked his lips in a way that said,
you might be fun.

Mara twisted from them, her fingers tightening on her babe. Their gazes latched onto her back like insects hungry for her blood.

“You see that?” one hissed. “That was a moon maiden’s collar on her neck.”

“Aye, and one whose womb’s been poisoned. The serpents are right. The pleasure houses are a curse for any who have a taste for their sweet sin. You won’t be seeing me out on the Floatwaif any time soon, no sir.”

Mara frowned. She did not look back or stop and tell them how harmless the pleasure barge really was. No one spoke much of the Serpent Sun cult in the House of Sin and Silk, but she did not like hearing how the priests spoke of her home in the wider world.
 

Ahead, a juggler tossed flaming swords high above his head, the flickering weapons a hypnotic pattern that brought claps and silver coins tossed into the hat at his feet. When she drew near, his merry face melted into fright. He backed against the wall and lifted his hands, his flaming weapons clattering to the ground.

“Get away, woman!” He slapped his hands against the wall and searched the bricks like he hoped his fingers might find a door. “I’ll be a poor man tonight if I’ve got an ashwalk pilgrim stained with piss and wine skulking in my shadow.”

“Could you please just—”

He swiped a sword from the ground and pointed its burning tip at her chest. “I said get!”

Mara twisted away. She ran through the crowds, doing her best to ignore the gasps and curses and old fruit and fish heads hurled at her back. She ran into an alley. Its calm shadows embraced her as beads of sweat traced cool lines down her back.

She wove between piles of rotting garbage and ignored the hissing cats with eyes glittering like jewels dipped in hateful poison. Huddling in the corner, she sobbed, a pool of spoiled water soaking her burlap. “Olessa was right, Gia. The world is full of hate. I can’t make this walk. I am alone.”
 

Mara adjusted her son’s swaddling and gently stroked his soft temple. “We are alone.”

A small figure traipsed into the alley. Mara caught her breath and stared at the silhouette drawing closer with each silent step.
 

Her imagination painted features on the child, giving it pale skin and eyes hollowed like a skull. It grinned with pointed teeth, and behind its back it held a long, sharp blade with her name etched on the steel.

The child edged closer. It stopped barely an arm’s length from Mara. She could see its chest rise and fall with its breaths even though shadows hid its features.

“Have you come to kill me?” she asked. “I have nothing. I am an ashwalk pilgrim. I am a curse to you if you stay nearby. The alp will come for us both.”

The child cocked its head. “I seen you come into the alley,” he said in a light and scratchy voice. “I haven’t come to kill you. No, not that at all.”

“Then you have no long knife?”

The boy giggled and bent to Mara. “I wish. I’ve got a dagger, but it’s a little dull and could use a bit o’ cleaning. I like to keep it rusty, though. Folks don’t want to lose a leg to rot from a beggar boy’s bad blade. My name’s Tag.”

He had a little arrow of a nose stained by dirt that also stained his dimpled cheeks. He flashed a wide smile, slipping the pink curtain of his lips from his broken front tooth.
 

Tag extended a hand. “Who might you be? I mean, I know you’re an ashwalk pilgrim and all, but you’ve got a real name, right? One you go by on the regular?”

“Mara…” Slowly, she took his hand.
 

He squeezed, and she gasped, yanking her hand from his grip. “Your finger!”

“It’s missing. The price of bread’s pretty high if you’re caught without the coin for it.” He slid next to her and lifted his hand. A stump wiggled where his index finger should have wagged.
 

“They say in the early days of the Third Sun,” he continued, “that the priests of the Gentle Lover could regrow fingers and sometimes even arms or legs. These days with magic as it is, I doubt they could grow a nail. It’s too bad. I’d have gone to the temple and said all my prayers and then some if they could bring my finger back.”

“I’ve never seen magic,” she said. “Not until tonight. I think—I think a silent son used some to help me get to shore.”

He shrugged and lowered his hand onto his lap. “It’s nothing special if you ask me. They say it’s dying. It’s why the priests of the Six keep to their temples. They’re afraid if people know the truth, they’ll turn their backs to the Six. Can’t say I blame folk when there’re other faiths out there with gods who listen.”

“I’ve only ever prayed to the Six. Madame Olessa wouldn’t allow for any other gods.”

“Madame? You’re a moon maiden, then. I thought I caught a glimpse of brass around your neck when I saw you on the road.” His lips split in a cockeyed grin. “Yeah, there’re many other gods out there, and with the Six’s power what the way it is, I hear about more every day. Even the king’s got himself a cult. They call themselves the Serpent Sun. Fitting I guess. There’s supposed to be some kind of crazy monster lizard holed up in his castle with him.”

“I’ve…I’ve heard of the serpents. I don’t like snakes very much.”

“They don’t like moon maidens much either I bet. I hear they’ve got wicked powers, and the snakes they wear around their necks have a bite that’ll drop even the toughest sailor in a breath.”