I jerk from my seat, heart unaccountably pounding, and stalk from the booth without even waiting to see if Ballast pays her for the story.
We’re quiet as we tour the rest of the square, as we sit at tables near the fountain, listening to the trio of musicians and eating strips of meat from wooden skewers.
“I suppose I should thank you,” says Vil to Ballast, voice low and tight.
Ballast doesn’t even look at him, his body angled away from us, face pointed toward the frozen fountain. “For what?”
“Saving my sister,” says Vil quietly.
Ballast doesn’t reply.
I blink and I’m with Ballast and Saga again, battling cave demons in the dark, taking turns watching the entrance so we could sleep, playing cards in the firelight, the flash of Ballast’s teeth when he smiled at me.
Now he won’t even glance in my direction.
We rejoin the rest of our party in a massive wooden hall in the midst of the city. There is a wide curtained stage at the back of the hall, with carved chairs filling the rest of the space. Kallias claims the seat next to mine and lays his hand once more on my knee while he orders Ballast to buy refreshments from the porter at the door. Ballast obeys with a solemn word and a stiff bow, and yellow-robed attendants come to serve us spiced wine and lacy ginger cookies.
The lights dim and the curtains are drawn back, revealing an elaborately painted backdrop of high mountains and flashing stars.
Ballast sits on the other side of me, and I’m vaguely aware of Vil behind me, saying something in a quiet voice to Aelia. I will Ballast to look at me, but he doesn’t, shoulders stiff, gaze trained straight ahead of him. He’s close enough for me to touch, and yet he’s far out of my reach.
Performers enter the stage, and musicians strike up an eerie tune from their hidden alcove. I am startled to find the tale from the storyteller in the square playing out now before our eyes: the Yellow God, forsaking his home with the Prism Goddess, and growing angry as he fails to find a place with any of the other gods.
There must be an Iljaria somewhere, creating the illusions that enhance the pantomime. Perhaps even that same storyteller. Magic twists and sparks and burns, making it really seem as if the Yellow God pulls stars down from the sky.
For the entire performance, Kallias keeps his hand on my knee, possessive, smug. I grow sicker and sicker with every moment that passes. I am so afraid that I haven’t fooled him. That I haven’t fooled anyone. That I am no better than the Yellow God, plucking stars from heaven. That I will pay dearly for my arrogance.
Two Years Ago
Year4198, Month of the Gray Goddess
The Iljaria Tunnels
Saga’s foot won’t seem to fully heal. She insists on traveling more and more each day—or what passes for a day down here—and it’s getting worse instead of better. But she won’t hear of resting. She won’t hear of Ballast using his magic on her again, either.
We’ve been traveling the tunnels for days now—I’m not sure how many. I’ve grown used to Saga and Ballast’s presence. I know their shapes, their silences, their footsteps. The world has narrowed to just the three of us, the only souls left in all this unending darkness, save the monsters that continue to haunt our paths—and I’m not sure they count.
Ballast and I haven’t spoken much since that first day. It feels impossible when Saga is here, her hatred radiating off her in nearly visible waves. But he looks at me, often, and there is a warmth growing between us that pricks at my heart. We are friends again, I think. Or something like it.
There comes a day when Saga collapses, cursing, to the stone floor of the tunnel we’re passing through. Ballast lowers his torch to examine her foot and finds it’s infected again. Saga sweats and swears. Ballast glances at me, uneasy.
One of the cave demons dives down from the shadows, and Ballast tosses me his sword—I slay the thing, and it drops reeking and foul right beside Saga. Ballast kicks it away as hard as he can.
“You have to let me try and heal you again, Your Highness,” he says to Saga, all politeness and regret.
She shakes her head, though her jaw is tight and her eyes shift uneasily.
“Then we’ll find a place to rest for the day.”
“No.”
Ballast sighs. “Then I will carry you while Brynja guards us.”
“No, Gray Goddess Damn You!” Saga screeches at him.
All three of us freeze, staring at each other, and there’s a rustle of many wings over our heads.
“Fine,” Saga grinds out. “Heal me.”
