‘There’s a crowd watching,’ I say. ‘Can’t you act like civilised men?’
Blayze grunts, but releases his grip, turning his attention to the villagers gathered on the riverbank.
Ships don’t travel the river frequently. Not since plague laws decreed a royal permit necessary. The sight of a ship, one flying the Stellarion sigil, no less, has attracted attention.
Several of the horde carry farming tools; sickle-scythes glint in the afternoon light, blinking a warning. The villagers’ height and silvery skin identify them as Estelians, though they’re broader than most Meissans, and their hair is greyish-white rather than the silver I’m used to. Their colouring reminds me of Elvi, though her hair is the brighter pearl-white of the true mountain-dwellers. I can’t see signs of fever on their faces, and the daubs look weathered. For them to gather outside like this, these are likely survivors of an old outbreak.
Wary eyes track our ship as we drift past, harden when they glimpse the Outrealmers. Out of habit, I tug my mantle lower, yank down my sleeve. People point, an older man spits. Shouts of ‘sand-rat,’ ‘river-roach,’ ‘leaf-litter’ carry across the water. The slurs are unimaginative ones I’ve heard more times than I can count; but they sound uglier in my ears now, settle heavier in my chest.
Maris lifts her chin. I try to catch her eye, but she turns her head, still bitter after our misunderstanding two nights ago. Blayze brushes a stubborn forelock behind his ear, tensing more with each hurled insult. His eyes are fixed on the flame daubs. Serafine nestles against the hollow of his throat, where veins stand proud like bolts of lightning.
Behind me, Tansy gasps.
I whip my head to follow her gaze. A rock. It whizzes towards us, missing us by a fair distance. It hits the surface of the river and fat tears slide down Tansy’s cheeks, as if it struck her instead.
A smile hovers on Astrophel’s lips. He’s enjoying this. He agrees with the rabble.
I squirm in my seat, wrench again at my sleeve, thinking of all the whispered taunts I’ve endured on account of the cursed accident of my birth.
Tansy doesn’t deserve this. None of them do. Not even Blayze.
We were raised to hate the Outrealmers, to blame them for the Sickening and the Plunderings. To blame them for everything. Astrophel has more reason than most to cling to that hatred. But meeting the other members of the Quaternity, getting to know them, complicates things. At least for me. The moment the enemy races acquired names and faces, they became people.
I’m grateful for Delphine’s conjured breeze as it carries us from the festering hamlet and the rabble’s curses.
There’s another tug in my chest, a strange awareness of things unspooling there. Only, this time it’s more than a sense of unravelling. It’s as though the warp threads underpinning the entire tapestry of my life have been pulled askew, creating a new pattern. One I can’t yet make out.
The cruel, hateful words that came from those villagers’ mouths don’t speak for me.
Not anymore.
*
THESHIP’SPROWnavigates another jagged river bend. A jetty comes into view, ringed by dense woods. The hills rising behind are mainly given over to starfruit fields, the clusters of stone houses replaced by sprawling farmsteads. If I squint, I can make out regimental rows of glimmering, low-lying vines, though they’re shadowed from this distance.
As Maris busies herself with steering the ship into port, and Blayze and Astrophel prepare to drop anchor, I scour the harbour. We’re now a moonsrising ahead of schedule thanks to Delphine’s tide-twisting, and there’s no sign yet of Orthriel, Briar, or the promised horses and supplies we’ll need to carry us to the High Hills. The harbour is eerily deserted.
‘Where is everyone?’ I say.
Astrophel points to several plantation houses high in the hills, marked with red flames. The colour here is brighter, the paint fresher.
‘Observing curfew. We’ll have to stay aboard the ship tonight – we can’t risk infection.’
My eyes drift back to the woods. I can’t stay another night on this ship. I won’t.
*
ASTROPHELGLOWERSATme across the frosted glade. He might not be happy we’re camping here tonight, but I’m relieved the vote went my way. The risk of us catching anything is negligible. We haven’t met a soul since we came ashore.
Three tents are already pitched, Tansy and Astrophel wrangling the last two. Delphine remained in the water – whether to fortify herself for our ride to Galtair in the morning, as she claims, or because she wants to avoid any lingering tension between herself and Maris, it’s not my business to ask.
I put my head down so I don’t have to suffer any more of Astrophel’s pouting and focus on slicing the last of the starfruit we brought from the palace. My fingers are stiff with cold and it’s hard to grip the knife, but I force the blade through the translucent flesh. We ate through our stores faster than anticipated; thirteen glistening half-moons all that remains. That’s barely two pieces each. Not enough. If I can already sense a thinning in the air, it must be worse for the Outrealmers. A decent portion of fresh starfruit, especially the more potent Lulanian variety, would help take the edge off. Especially if we manage to get a fire going as well.
Speaking of which, how long does it take to gather kindling?
I search the trees, but there’s no sign of Blayze and Maris.
My knees ache as I scrabble inside my discarded pack and pocket the box containing the mooncrystal. I promised my mother I’d keep it close.
