That wipes all traces of cheer from her face. “We all deeply regret our weather workers’ mistake. Your crew will be given free room and board while our carpenters work to repair your ship. It’s the least we can do.”
“You’resorry? Then why attack us in the first place?”
“Your ship didn’t have a yellow flag,” Azelie explains quickly. “Everyone who wishes to anchor in Sarral has to fly one, to show they mean us no harm. Of course, we haven’t had visitors from Karthia in over two hundred years, so how were you to know?” She laughs softly. “It’s amazing. I never thought I’d meet a Karthian, yet here you are!”
I slowly shake my head, breathing hard. “We were almostkilledfor not flying a flag?”
“That’s right.” Balancing some of the potion bottles in her lap momentarily, Azelie dips her index finger into a magenta potion and licks it clean, making a face. “We assume any unfamiliar ship without the flag belongs to the Ezorans, and defend our shore accordingly.”
“Who are they?” The name stirs something buried in my memory, but I can’t seem to make it surface.
Azelie’s gaze darkens. “They’re a kingdom of the worst sort, hardened warriors who glory in death and destruction, taking whatever they please and leaving blood in their wake. Lately, we fear every strange ship could be from Ezora. They always arrive by sea, sometimes in ordinary vessels, and sometimes in ships decorated with the heads of their enemies.”
“That’s pleasant,” I mutter, inwardly cringing.
Not bothering to hide a shudder of her own, Azelie continues, “They’ve been raiding, murdering, and generally terrorizing the borders of Sarral and many neighboring kingdoms for the past several months, trying to gain entry. So perhaps you see now why our mages tried to drown your ship before it reached us...” Her words trail away, heavy with regret, before she smiles again. “Queen Jasira takes every precaution—as would your king, if Karthia still welcomed visitors.”
“Great for Queen Jasira,” I murmur, feeling a little calmer as I realize my shipmates seem to be keeping to the story we agreed upon. But something is still bothering me. “You called me ‘Master Odessa’ when you came in. What makes you so sure I’m a mage?” Leaning against the bed for support, I prop my hands on my hips, trying to look intimidating despite the dainty nightdress. “And how do you know my name?”
Azelie tilts her head, still smiling. I decide she must be a few years younger than me to be able to smile so freely. That, or she hides her darkness well. “Your friend told us.”
“Which friend?” If it sounds like a test to her, that’s because it is. After Hadrien turned out to be a power-hungry killer, it’s hard to trust anyone with a pleasant face.
“Meredy—the one you kept asking for in your sleep.” Azelie glances down at one of her potions, missing the horror and embarrassment mingling on my face.
“Speaking of Meredy,” she adds, meeting my eyes again—does this girl ever stop talking? “She said you’d want to know right away that necromancers are welcome in Sarral. Admired, even.” There’s a soft current of longing in her voice. It can’t be easy, working in a healing house without possessing hazel Sight, not being able to do more than mix potions. She must not get a lot of admiration for her work. “It’s also the law here that all necromancers, even visitors, register their names with Queen Jasira. Just so we’re aware of who could be raising the dead within our borders.”
Remembering the eerie absence of the Dead in Lyris, I ask, “So there are Dead in Sarral?” I don’t feel the pull of any gates nearby, though maybe that’s thanks to my headache.
“Of course.” Finally tiring of holding so many potions, it seems, she rises to put the glasses on a table nearby. Some of the tonics give off faintly floral scents, unlike the fruit-scented ones the apothecaries make in Karthia. “But you shouldn’t expect to meet them. You see, in Sarral, the day belongs to the living, and the night to the Dead.”
That broken ship’s mast must’ve split my skull open and knocked me into another world entirely, because that’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard. I open my mouth to say so, but then I picture Meredy looking daggers at me, warning me to be polite.
Trying to channel some of her calm, I manage, “How does that work, exactly?”
“Well, the living conduct their businesses and hold their festivals during daylight. We don’t leave our homes after sundown.” Glasses clink together merrily as Azelie stirs something on the table, her back to me. I wish I could read her expression, to see if she’s joking. Maybe this is how Sarralans welcome their visitors, with extravagant jokes. “The Dead do all their living—for lack of a better word—by night, and return home at dawn.”
My stomach twists. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. All my life, I’ve been surrounded by death, taught to respect those souls who returned by magic to occupy their former bodies for a second or third time. From the convent where I was raised by the Sisters of Death, those who keep up the temples to our god’s blue-eyed face, to my necromancer’s training with Master Cymbre, the Dead have always given me purpose. Some of them even saved me. If Jax and Simeon were here, I know my fellow necromancers would be sickened, too.
“And you’re... all right with that?” I finally grit out. Even if this girl is telling me the truth about necromancers being welcome here, I don’t want to stay a moment longer.
Azelie’s tone is still sunny as she turns to face me again. “I don’t think about it much. It’s been that way since before I was born. Our leaders thought it best, after hearing whispers of how the rule of the Dead changed Karthia.” Eyes widening, she asks, “Is it true your king burned whole libraries and destroyed centuries of knowledge and progress?” When I frown instead of answering, she hurries to add, “It’s just—Queen Jasira believes Karthia’s people suffer under King Wylding’s guidance, mixing so freely with the Dead. She worries for them.”
Well, no one has to worry about Karthia’s ancient ruler anymore. I bite my tongue again, wondering what Valoria would think of this Queen Jasira and her opinions.
“I suppose... I don’t really agree with it. The Dead and the living being so separate,” Azelie adds, moments later, in a whisper. “But we had a war with the Dead once, centuries ago, and it produced a great many Witherlings. People haven’t forgotten.”
The way her eyes widen with fear makes it easy to guess the meaning of the wordWitherling. “Big bony things that eat corpses?”I ask. “We call them Shades. You know you can kill them with fire, right?”
She nods. “One of the many uses of dragon’s breath.”
“Dra-gon?” The unfamiliar word isn’t helping my headache. There’s so much to take in.
“I’ll show you later, once you’re fully healed.” She studies me closely as I blink away more blackness from the fringes of my vision. “Also, as your assistant healer, I must advise you that you really ought to sit down.”
Frowning—more at the pain of taking orders from someone younger than me than the ache in my head—I sink onto the bed, rubbing my temples.
Azelie offers me a glass of magenta potion, holding it under my nose. Its aroma is sweet and a little spicy, like a flower I can’t name. “This is for the pain,” she murmurs. “Just until the healer on duty can fix what’s left of the damage to your head.”
