Scribes (The Scribe Cycle) by Wolanyk James

Author:Wolanyk, James [Wolanyk, James]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-02-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

She drank cold tea on the still-dark balcony, unable to sleep through the thumping of explosions and roars of collapsing setstone, the dreams of lolling tongues and pale bodies with bright blood. The wind pulled at her cotton nightshirt and bore the odor of smoldering metal. In the distance she noted the black monoliths of spires and buildings, but the barest sliver of orange wormed out from the horizon, creeping so slowly that it seemed frightened of what it might reveal. Sporadic popping eventually ceded to the whining desert breeze.

Just before Har-gunesh lanced through the cloud cover and spilled orange light across her rug, she tied her hair back with twine, tucked it into her hood, and headed for the corridor. Shem’s creaking door stilled her before she could leave.

The Huuri boy stumbled out of his chambers in a pair of twill pants, letting sunlight flow over and through the sinew of his torso. “Hello, hello,” he said in a sing-song voice.

Anna worked to put on a smile, unable to look past the fresh blood seeping through his linen. “Good morning, Shem.” Her smile faded. “Those bandages need to be changed.”

He beamed. “You fix me.”

“The orza’s herbmen will do it for you.”

“Cut.” Shem drew a line across his throat with a bandaged finger. “You make me better? I can earn cuts.”

“You don’t work for me,” she said. “You never had to.” She gestured to the table, desperate to pull the boy’s haunting eyes away. “Eat, Shem. Rest today, and have your hands bandaged. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Confusion swam in his empty gaze. “I want work.”

“Shem.” It was a harsh, unanticipated crack. She immediately regretted it, but forced herself onward, angry at her loss of control. Angry at her anger, she supposed. “Stay here until I get back, and don’t work.” Her voice softened as Shem drew in his shoulders, crestfallen. “I want you to feel better. I know you care.”

His face brightened as he sat directly where he stood, crossing his legs over the outstretched paws of a bear’s pelt. He hunched over, propped his chin up with both hands, and grinned at Anna. “I don’t work, then. I help in gardens.”

Anna glanced at his maimed hands, wary. “If it hurts, you have to stop.”

“Yes, of course!”

Her smile flickered just enough to imitate happiness, and she slipped out of her quarters without looking back.

Dogwood guards crowded the corridor, milling about in silence. They were speaking just before Anna’s door opened, judging by the half-mumbled words and collective disengagement that capped off their dialogue. Anna counted fifteen of them in total, eyeing her and offering smiles if their gazes met.

She pulled her hood higher and quickened her steps.

* * * *

The skies were a sill of bluish chrome when she reached the terrace, underlined by familiar orange. She wandered through the grasses and stake-supported vines, searching for Bora amid clumps of men and women walking backward with white robes and mica pendants, muttering chants in flatspeak and bowing with each step.

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