The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [46]
The night was late in Erisín as well, though not quite so late as here, but she doubted Kiril would be asleep. She hesitated for a moment, then laid her left palm against the glass and whispered his name.
The mirror clouded, darkened till it matched her diamond, and she fought not to sway as the spell leeched strength from her. Perhaps she should have waited for morning after all; the distance made it difficult, and the vast salt-thick ocean between them didn’t help. But she tightened her jaw and held on.
At last the mist cleared, revealing a room she knew as well as her own. Lamplight and gloom, a worn brocade chair and a desk cluttered with books and quills and empty teacups. Atop a stack of papers lay a pair of spectacles that would never leave the room—magecraft could hone the senses keen as a beast’s for a short while, but couldn’t undo time. No matter how much anyone prayed otherwise.
“Kiril.”
A moment later he appeared, sinking into the chair and turning to face the glass. “Isyllt.” Heartbeats slipped by as they watched each other. “You look well,” he finally said.
“You look tired. You should rest.” His hair had been streaked with gray as long as she’d known him, but now it was paler still, and white peppered his auburn-black beard. The shadows beneath his dark eyes had become permanent in the last year, the seams around his mouth starker.
He smiled, spiderweb wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Maybe later.” An old argument, more a joke by now. Isyllt swallowed. “But how are you? How goes the trip?”
“I’ve spoken to the people I needed to, and made arrangements.”
“Wonderful. I knew you would.”
She admonished herself for the warm rush of pride in her chest. “Vasilios and Adam send their regards.”
“How are they?”
“Well. Adam’s upset that he hasn’t got to kill anything yet.”
Kiril chuckled. “Likely better if he doesn’t. I’ll find him bloodier work when you get back. How long do you plan to stay?”
“We need to make arrangements for supplies, and a fast ship with a clever captain. I’ll stay until the ship arrives. I’ll contact you when I know where it should put in to port.”
He nodded. One long, ink-stained hand twitched, as though he meant to raise it to the glass. “Just be sure to bring yourself safely home.”
She swallowed all the things she might have said, only nodded instead. Before she could change her mind, she pulled her hand away and let the vision fade. The glass showed her own face again, pale and stiff as a mask. She draped the mirror and turned away, praying for a dreamless night.
The night was full of ghosts and spirits. Xinai leaned against the crumbling doorway and listened to their fluting whispers and soft animal noises. She had no salt, but the firelight kept them away for now. Or perhaps they were afraid of Shaiyung; her mother lingered in the shadows of the room, watching with sunken eyes.
Not their family’s house—Xinai hadn’t the heart to find it yet—but another small clay building, one that had best survived the years and the banyan tree’s stretching roots. Phailin dozed by the fire, her breath rough with pain.
Xinai wasn’t sure how long it had been since Riuh had gone; it seemed hours, but she couldn’t see the stars. She turned away from the night, leaned against the wall and watched the fire instead.
Heat and jungle noises lulled her. She woke with a start and berated herself for drowsing. Phailin still slept, but the spirits had quieted. Xinai drew her daggers and listened through broken shutters. Footsteps, stealthy through the brush. Then Riuh whistled their all-clear signal, and she sighed.
He stepped into the light, Selei and a handful of warriors with him. Xinai sheathed her blades.
“I feared—” She paused, and Selei smiled.
“You feared I’d be no match for soldiers.” The woman knelt beside the fire and kindled a lantern. “Don’t worry, child, I’m neither toothless nor helpless quite yet.” She drew Xinai aside as Phailin’s relatives