Ripka’s breath caught.
“Callia?”
The withered woman made a soft sound and cocked her head to the side. Ripka tried to keep the shock – the revulsion – off her face, but knew she did not succeed. “What… What happened to her?
Aella rolled a small shoulder and gave Callia’s hand a gentle squeeze. A length of glittering chain passed from Callia’s hand into Aella’s, its terminus somewhere amongst Callia’s shaggy hair. “Her mind was damaged by your blow. Halfway through our journey across the Darkling Sea she mixed up her medicines and poisoned herself. Such a tragedy. I did not know enough to ensure her survival, so we raced back to the Scorched and threw ourselves upon Thratia’s generosity.”
“I see,” Ripka said, gut clenching. “And I suppose your shifting allegiance is a result of admiration for Thratia’s… generosity.”
Aella beamed at her. “I knew you’d understand. How could I return to my old masters after Thratia went out of her way so? She did all she could, but I could not return Callia to Valathea in this state. It would shame her. And so here we remain, doing what work we may.”
Ripka could almost see Aella’s triumph, burning bright behind too-sharp eyes. Ripka knew damned well Callia would have received no trumpeted glory upon her return to Valathea. Her failure to capture both Detan and Pelkaia would have ruined her standing within the order of the whitecoats and, by proxy, undermine Aella.
Ripka wondered how long Aella had waited before switching her adopted mother’s medicines for poison. How long she’d pretended to be distraught before hitting upon the “sudden” inspiration to turn back to Aransa and throw herself at Thratia’s feet.
There were plenty of cities between the Darkling Sea and Aransa. Plenty of apothiks skipped over so that she could ask Thratia directly for aid. Ripka wondered if that were the point. If having sought help at a coastal city would have left Callia too hale, too willing to point a finger Aella’s way.
“Thratia is capable of mercy, when so moved to it,” Ripka said, hoping her tone implied agreement with Aella’s actions. She needed to get out of here. Needed to grab Nouli by the scruff and run as quick as she could toward the Larkspur.
“Speaking of,” Misol said, and Ripka almost screamed just to cause a distraction. She should have thought to drag the conversation away from all mention of Thratia. “The Larkspur has put in over by Radu’s office. We should get a visit from the commodore shortly.”
Aella’s icy gaze snapped to Ripka and froze, holding her, hunger burning behind her too-small pupils. Ripka forced herself to keep her face smooth, impassive, but knew that forced calm would tell Aella as much as full-on panic would.
“Is it now?” the girl asked Misol, but did not so much as glance away from Ripka. “You’re certain it’s the Larkspur?”
“No mistaking a ship like that.” Misol grabbed Ripka’s shoulder and started to steer her around. “I’ll take this lot back to their cells, then. Don’t want the commodore finding any normals kicking around here, eh?”
“I think not.” Aella’s voice was a crisp slap.
Misol froze. “No?”
“No.”
Misol shrugged and dropped Ripka’s shoulder. “Whatever suits you.”
Aella cradled Callia’s chin in one hand. “Go and fetch us some wine.” Her words were tight, precise. She placed the other end of Callia’s leash back into her hand and waved her off. The skeletal woman shuffled away toward a door at the end of the room, surprisingly quick and smooth of movement for one so worn.
Ripka forced herself to keep a small, ambivalent smile on her face as Aella turned back to her. The girl beamed. “I can’t wait to welcome our new guests.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Detan and his motley entourage were led through the twisting corridors of the Remnant and out into the open air. Cold wind raised prickles over his skin. He tried to convince himself that all those prickles were due to the chill. Wasn’t fear at all. Not for Detan Honding. But he’d never been very good at convincing himself of anything at all.
They followed a narrow, packed dirt path through scrub trees and a few rows of carefully tended crops. Great heads of wheat and corn bowed to the winds rolling in off the sea. He couldn’t help but be a little jealous of the variety of foods the inmates had access too. He hadn’t had a good roasted cob of corn in years, not since his auntie had some flown in for his twelfth year celebration. Wasn’t much arable land out by Hond Steading proper. Most of their food came from the coastal farming towns a day’s flight to the north. Yet another way Thratia could cripple Hond Steading.
Detan forced himself to focus. He was here for New Chum and Ripka, sure, but he was here for his auntie, too. Here for her whole city, and that meant seeing this straight through to the end. No running, no failing. He had to get all his happy charges, plus one Nouli Bern, bundled up safe on the Larkspur and make like a monsoon wind for the mainland.
Right, he told himself. He’d been in worse spots. And, sure as the pits were black, he couldn’t allow himself to panic. Not now, not with that great looming mass of selium they were approaching calling out to him on the periphery of his senses.
A small, yellowstone house sat at the end of their chosen path, right smack in the shadow of that giant sheet of sel. He couldn’t see the gas, but he could sense its presence above – ominous, looming. As if it were watching him and daring him every step he took. Daring him to reach for it. To mold together with it. To release its potential.
He stared at the house ahead, refusing to so much as glance at the false, pleasant blue of the sky above. Pelkaia rolled her shoulders uncomfortably, twitched at the ends of the bandana that hid her hair. Sweat stained the collar of her tunic.
“Ugly little place,” Tibs remarked, snapping him out of his mounting anxiety.
“Saying you want to move in?”
“Naw. I think it’d suit you better.”
“Quiet,” Pelkaia-Thratia said, because she couldn’t be seen letting her prisoners chat out their fear right under her nose. He was grateful she let them slip in what little they got. Tibs’s barbs always gave him a sense of calm. Of normalcy.
Of home.
Every step forward he wanted to dig his heels in and refuse. But he was committed, there was no turning back even if he did lose his nerve. When the guard leading them down the path flung open the house’s door, he’d like to think he didn’t flinch. He did, of course, but he’d like to think he didn’t.
The faint light in the room wouldn’t let him see what he was walking into, so he strode in blind, keeping his head up and a stupid, hopefully disarming smile plastered on his face as he followed Pelkaia-Thratia into the dim room. Light bled across the floor from poorly pulled shutters, illuminating floating dust motes.
His eyes adjusted. His smile disappeared.
“My my,” Aella said, cocking her small head to the side as she regarded Pelkaia. “What an unexpected delight, commodore.” The slight emphasis she placed on “commodore” made Detan’s blood run cold. She knew. Of course she knew. And she could dash the facade away, if she so chose. The crook of his elbow burned from her nearness.
Tension gathered in the room, knotted and clotted up just like his anger did when it was preparing to rear its head. He saw the withered creature huddled by Aella’s side, wine carafe clutched in skeletal fingers. Saw New Chum, standing alongside some woman with a spear, face a mass of placid geniality. Saw Ripka, skies bless her, standing between him and Aella, her bruised fists held low, a golden-haired woman with a knife at her side looking just as ready to fight. But no Nouli. Not yet. Ripka’s mouth moved. She thought better of whatever she’d been going to say and closed it.