The Shadow’s Curse (26 page)

‘I seem . . .’ it took Draikh time to form every word, ‘to remember . . . you were the one encouraging
me
to stay away from you.’

Raim had forgotten that, but then it all came back to him. Draikh had tried to control the wind, to divert the storm away from the ship. But he hadn’t been strong enough, or he hadn’t had enough practice. Whatever the cause, they’d lost the ship.

Oyu hopped over and Raim stroked his head. The garfalcon’s black feathers were tinged white with dried salt. They all needed to get away from the wretched sea.

‘So what you’re saying is: you disobeyed me, and stopped trying to conjure the wind.’

‘And in doing so, rescued you from drowning. You’re welcome, by the way.’

‘I was joking.’

‘I know. I’m just a bit too weary to joke. I couldn’t control that storm anyway.’

Raim pressed his fingers hard against his temple. ‘The creature?’

‘It wanted your promise-knot. Just like those behrflies.’

‘What about the ship?’

‘The ship is lost.’

Raim pounded his fists into the rocks, only managing to make his sore arms feel even worse.

He hoisted himself to his feet and waited for his balance to return by placing his hands on his knees. It didn’t come quickly. He swayed like a man drunk, like he was still on the ship. He scoured the beach with his eyes again, and there was no sign of Tarik. Or Shen. Or of anybody, not even the ship. There was no flotsam, no stray planks of wood drifting on the surface. Nothing to indicate there had been a wreck close to the shore.

‘Can you move, do you think?’ Raim looked down at Draikh. It didn’t look likely, and Draikh was barely trying. ‘We should get off the beach and try to find cover. Anyone who comes by here will see us, and they might not be friendly.’

And then what?
said a voice in his head – his own voice of doubt, this time.

One thing at a time: first, cover. Then . . . work out a new plan.

Draikh wasn’t moving anywhere.

‘Do you think you have enough strength to become, you know, solid?’ Raim asked.

‘Maybe,’ Draikh said, after a moment. Raim knew he had done it once the pebbles beneath Draikh’s body shifted under his newly solid form.

Raim stooped, put his arms beneath Draikh’s form, and lifted. He wasn’t heavy.

Then he turned, and aimed for the dunes.

He stood up on the hill, looking down along the coastline. A cry from above him turned his head to the sky; his heart leaped to see Oyu making wide circles among the clouds.

There was still a chance of finding other survivors. It wasn’t only an altruistic decision. He selfishly hoped that someone else had survived. He had no idea what he was going to do if it turned out he was alone.

The ship could have sailed a thousand miles or a hundred; how close he was to Darhan, to the South, or even to the desert was beyond his knowledge. He knew nothing, and that was terrifying. The thought had driven him all the way to the top of the hill, even though his legs were weak and raw and painful. His head hurt and his lips were split and cracking. He was dehydrated, which was ironic considering he had spent so long essentially marinating in water. Just the wrong kind of water.

The longer he stared out from the top of that hill, though, the more it became clear: no one else had survived the storm. At least, not along the coastline that Raim could see. He had hoped that the ship was simply in another cove, tucked away. But as far as his eye could see, there was nothing. The ocean dared to sparkle, as if it were made of the same material as Yun blades. And just like Yun blades it was beautiful – but could quickly turn deadly.

The shock of this realization on his heart was almost too much to bear.
He
had brought his brother into this. He had been living – fine, not
well
, but at least
in safety
with the Baril. Raim had his own protectors, after all. Spirits who were desperate to save his life – and who cared for no one else’s. Tarik had no such luck.
Raim
was supposed to be the one who took care of the people he loved. And again, he had failed.

He clearly wasn’t the protector he thought he was.

He fell to his knees, and stayed there.

‘You were right, you know, we need to keep moving,’ said Draikh, after a while. Already, the spirit was looking stronger. More solid.

‘Did my mother help you?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Draikh, but he pulled on his lower lip with his teeth. He was feigning innocence.

‘So, she did help you. She came to my rescue once again.’

‘I couldn’t have done it in the condition I was in.’

‘Then maybe I should have died in the sea with all the rest!’ shouted Raim into the wind. Anger – irrational anger – surged up inside him. ‘I’m tired of being saved all the time – if Sola wants me dead, then let me die!’

Draikh’s voice was surprisingly calm. ‘If Sola wanted you dead, you’d be dead.’

‘Tell me where to go! Where are you, Lady Chabi?’

There was no reply. In defiance, Raim sat down cross-legged, looking out at the ocean. He wasn’t going to miss any movement, any potential survivor, any wreckage or proof that the ship really did go down. So far, he had seen nothing. Surely something would wash up on one of these godsforsaken beaches eventually.

He sat there for what seemed hours. It had been a fruitless watch. But he couldn’t stop looking. His body felt shattered, but his eyes and mind were alert. A moment of dropped focus and he might miss something. Miss his only chance.

He looked down at the cuts on his legs, knowing that Draikh was in no condition to heal them. But he didn’t want to rely on anyone but himself any more. The moment on the ship when he had almost released his own spirit had shown him what was possible. He knew he could do it.

He focused on the cuts, on the pain. He channelled his thoughts into feeling the hurt and fixing it, knitting the edges together in his mind. His skin warmed, the tingling sensation returning.
Heal
, he told himself.
Heal
. He felt his spirit rise to the surface. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, trying to force the spirit out. Almost . . . almost . . .

‘Raim,’ said Draikh, interrupting his thoughts.

The moment disappeared, just as he thought he’d grasped it. ‘What?’ he snapped, unable to hide his frustration.

‘You need to see this.’

‘I’m not turning around. I know your tricks.’ He’d almost done it again. Externalized his spirit.

‘No, I’m serious. There’s someone coming this way.’

That got Raim’s attention. He spun round, instinct driving him low to the ground. He peered through the tall grass, and tried to see what Draikh was seeing. It took a few seconds, and then he placed it: a small figure, hunched over a cane, moving in slow trundle up the hill. ‘It’s an old man,’ whispered Raim.

‘Could be a young man pretending to be an old man.’

Whoever he was, he was moving straight towards where Raim lay crouched on the ground. When it became clear that the old man knew he was there, Raim stood up and brushed his knees with his hands.

He had to pray the old man was friendly. Raim had no weapons, no shield – no defence except his strength, which had been sapped by the storm. While he was still confident in his abilities, if the man could wield that cane, Raim was doomed.

The old man climbed the hill toward him, stopping a few feet away. Raim half expected a bow and arrow, or a spear to appear from behind the man’s back, but instead, he just stood there looking him up and down. Then, in a flash that belied his previously slow movements, he spun around and started heading back the way he’d come. He made no attempt to speak to Raim, but gestured with one arm for Raim to follow.

Raim looked up at Draikh, who shrugged. ‘You don’t have much choice.’

And so, Raim followed.

He looked down at his knee. One of the cuts that had been there was gone.

He had done it.

Raim followed the old man inland, away from the sea and the shore. His eyes opened steadily wider as they walked, taking in the new surroundings.

Green, green hills spread for miles around. There was vegetation everywhere, but it didn’t seem natural – not to Raim’s eyes. The plants grew along neatly ordered, dead-straight lines, as if they had been planted along the edge of a sword blade.

There were so many rows, a seemingly endless stretch of them, heading into the distance as far as his eyes could see. The pattern they created was hypnotic; Raim couldn’t tear his eyes away.

These are farms
, Raim realized.
This is how they live
.

It was then that Raim had all the confirmation he needed. He was in the South. This was the place where he would find his mother – and make himself whole again.

He snapped from his thoughts and turned back to the old man – who had meandered a fair distance in front of him. Raim’s legs were suddenly full of energy, and he broke into a run to catch up. But his muscles were still weak from his ordeal and began to cramp up, so he slowed back to a walk. The old man disappeared over the crest of yet another hill.

When Raim reached the top, he pulled up short. He had reached his first village of Southerners. He could see the old man waiting at the door of the outermost house. It had a ramshackle appearance – broken boards crudely nailed together, a roof of dried grasses, and it was surrounded by weeds. The rest of the village was eerily quiet.

He swallowed down his fear and forced his feet to move down into the village. He had no shoes, but his feet felt like they were encased in lead.

Once he reached the man’s home, he was finally able to get a good look at him. He was younger than Raim had first thought, and had the bright spark of intelligence in his eyes.

The man pushed open the door and gestured Raim inside.

The salty tang of meat – cooked meat – wafted out of the door, and Raim’s mouth filled instantly with saliva. His stomach growled. Draikh urged him in. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he said.

But Raim wasn’t sure. ‘Where are we?’ he said to the man, and he stood rooted to the spot.

The man stared back at him blankly.

‘Where are we?’ Raim repeated, and tried to swallow down the desperation in his voice. ‘Is this the South?’

The man did finally reply – in a torrent of words in a lyrical but fast-moving jumble of sound that Raim could not understand. But he understood something: urgency.

A noise from one of the other houses grabbed his attention. He craned his neck to look, but the old man sprang forward, grabbed his collar, and dragged him into the house.

The door slammed shut behind them.

The flames cast a warm glow inside the yurt, and Wadi snuggled underneath the furs. Dharma lay with her head in Wadi’s lap, and Wadi ran her fingers through the young girl’s soft hair. ‘Does it hurt?’ Wadi asked. ‘The seeing, I mean.’ What she had witnessed today had shaken Wadi to the core. She had become – dare she say it? – used to Khareh and Raim and their sage powers. But neither of them, as far as Wadi knew, could see into the future, nor inspire the same kind of fierce, loyal passion that Dharma could.

‘Sometimes. But only when I see things I don’t like that I cannot change.’ They lay in comfortable silence for a few moments. ‘I see Raim often.’

‘I saw him too,’ said Wadi. ‘Although not in the same way as you. I saw him in Pennar. He was chasing the originator of his promise-knot. He will be far across the sea by now. I hope he is safe.’

‘He would have taken you with him, if he could. I know that was written in his heart, even if it wasn’t what was written in his destiny.’

Wadi pulled Dharma closer to her. ‘Thank you for that. I wish I could do more to help him.’

‘What you are doing will help.’ The little girl sat up. ‘I have seen what happens to the South if Khareh succeeds.’ She traced a pattern on the rug with her finger. ‘There’s a field, swaying with green, and water – so much water – soaking into the ground. The green is in rows, like the wefts on my loom. So neat. It’s . . . it’s beautiful. There are animals there, little goats and sheep and fat pigs, all kept in pens surrounded by fences. There are oxen, but they’re working out in the fields, dragging big blades behind them.’

‘Blades like swords?’ Wadi winced at interrupting her. But so far Dharma was describing the traditional Darhanian view of the South: that they worked the land like a slave, as if it could belong to them any more than could the wind, or a droplet of water, or a tongue of fire. They did not respect what their animals could do for them – they didn’t believe in taking care of them, in finding the best pastures. They believed that animals and the land worked only for them.

Dharma continued: ‘Not blades like swords. Bigger. Stronger. When the oxen pull them, it breaks up the ground, and the man can plant things in its wake. He grows food for his family, and has happy, healthy children. But that isn’t what I see if Khareh wins. If Khareh is allowed to take over the South, he will do everything in his power to destroy their way of life. I see fires. I see those same green fields burning. I see animals slaughtered, to feed his growing army. I see the people running from their homes, forced to leave everything they know, running towards their death. Men, women, children – he won’t discriminate. To him, there is no life in the South that is equal to the North.’

‘And if the South wins?’

Dharma paused. ‘Does Khareh know much about the Southern King?’ she asked, after a moment.

Wadi shrugged, but then realized that Dharma wouldn’t be able to see her body language. ‘I’m not certain. He knows that he doesn’t want to have any Southern pretender invading his lands.’

‘The Southern King – King Song – is mad, from what I can tell in my visions. And mad men are often the most dangerous. His family was disgraced a long time ago, and he is looking for a way to restore his family’s pride. He has slaves, and he misuses them ruthlessly.’