We lapse back into silence, but this time it’s not as heavy. Maybe it’s my turn to break it? I rack my brains for a question of my own. As usual, I have plenty. But there’s one in particular I’ve been burning to know the answer to ever since that night in the dungeons:
‘Tell me how you found the Eye of the Past.’
More of a demand than a question, I admit, but it’s a start.
‘Only if you ask nicely,’ Fox replies.
I toss my hair over my shoulder, hitting him in the face with it. ‘Fine. Tell me how you found the Eye of the Past,please.’
‘That’s better.’ He spits out a stray curl. ‘Now then, let’s see. Four years ago, I was sailing around the Eastern Isles.’
A sharp gasp escapes my lips as he brushes my fingers with his own, and just as they had before, my surroundings fade and transform. Suddenly I am no longer riding on horseback through the dense wilderness of the Wildlands but clinging to the rigging of a ship, Fox at my side. I can feel the coarse bristles of the thick rope in my hands, the wind in my hair, the sun on my face. I hear gulls cawing, wood creaking. The ocean stretches out before me like swathes of cerulean silk, glittering, endless, foaming waves curling up to slap the helm of the boat. The salt air tastes like freedom and I savour it, breathing deeply as a lump forms in my throat. How long have I dreamed of sailing the Second Sea?
I start in surprise as a second boy climbs up beside us, telescope in hand. Fifteen-year-old Fox stares right through me at a fixed point in the distance. His green eyes are just as piercing, his dark hair even more untidy, yet there’s a boyishness to him. Gone is the ghost of the stubble on his jaw, the corded muscle of his forearms, the hard contours of his chest. He’s slighter, softer. His threadbare shirt billows in the breeze as he leans backwards, one hand holding the rigging while the other raises the telescope.
Letting out a sudden hoot, he begins climbing down the rope, but before he can jump the last few feet to the deck of the ship, the vision changes.
I’m standing in what appears to be a busy shipping port. All around, people dressed in brightly coloured robes are calling out to one another in a language I don’t understand, selling from stalls groaning under the weight of jewellery, armour and weapons. Fat silver fish are packed in barrels spilling over with flakes of salt, and the smell of ripened fruitand cooking meat fills the air, which is uncomfortably hot and heavy with smoke and incense.
‘Zafar – one of the Eastern Isles,’ Fox murmurs in my ear.
His younger self stands a little to the right of us, flanked by his crew, whom he sends off in pursuit of various goods – food, fresh water, soap. He possesses the easy authority of someone twice his age despite appearing at least a decade younger than the most junior of the men. Yet they clearly respect him – seem fond of him, even. Young Fox watches them lumber off into the throng, then begins to peruse the stalls, keeping one hand on the hilt of his gold dagger. We follow him, and I marvel at all manner of exotic curiosities – necklaces made from human teeth, talking birds, unbreakable chains. He buys what looks like an orange from a cart, except this orange is purple, and proceeds to peel it slowly.
Soon we reach the outskirts of the city.
‘Where are you going?’ I whisper.
‘I’d heard a rumour about a woman,’ Fox replies. ‘A Mage. One believed to have retained her magic after the war.’
‘Buthow? That’s impossible.’ Yet the words have barely left my mouth before a memory tugs at me – a boy bound in crystal shackles, hidden deep in the palace dungeons.
I jump as a gaggle of children runs by, the eldest of them no older than eight or nine. They’re dressed in rags and pitifully thin, their faces streaked with grease and dirt. Young Fox catches hold of the boy at the rear of the group and says something to him in Zafarian. I find myself wondering just how many languages he can speak. As many as me? More,I’d wager. He’s travelled extensively. I envy the opportunities he’s had to put his skills to use.
There’s something about the way the little boy nods that reminds me of Renly. He glances around nervously, mumbles something, pointing left, then right, then left again. Young Fox smiles and tosses him the fruit. The boy’s face lights up. He holds it in both hands, carefully, as though it were an object of great value, then scampers off after his friends.
‘What did he say to you?’ I ask Fox. I’m not sure exactly why I’m speaking so quietly. To those in this memory, we seem to be mute as well as invisible.
‘He told me where I could find themahala. That’s Zafarian for witch.’
As we round the next corner, I know instantly this must be the place. A small hovel at the end of a row of abandoned buildings – a part of the city left to decay. The doorframe gapes and the window glass has long since shattered. The empty spaces are hung with scraps of thin fabric that ripple gently despite the lack of a breeze.
Young Fox hesitates, adjusting his dagger before stepping inside. We follow him, my heart rattling in my chest.
At first, the hovel appears empty. There’s no furniture, no flooring of any kind. The ground beneath my feet is littered with silt and discarded food – chicken legs, apple rinds. I wrinkle my nose as I pick my way across, reminded of the waste chute at Fire Mountain.
Then, as my eyes adjust to the gloom, I see her, propped in a corner on a pile of blankets, unmoving. For a moment I think she might be dead, but then she lifts a wizenedhand and makes a shooing gesture, baring a set of cracked, blackened teeth.
‘As you can see, she wasn’t the most welcoming,’ Fox observes.
‘Well, you did just walk into her house,’ I mutter.
In front of us, young Fox bows his head respectfully, then begins to speak in Zafarian.
‘What are you saying?’ I ask.
‘That I mean her no harm. I merely wish to ask some questions.’
The old woman burbles an angry response, shaking her fist. She’s a sorry-looking creature, frail and sallow, her tattered hood pulled over her head like a shroud.
