“The cloud-walker was just a prisoner,” Jade told her. “The Fell had made a sac on its back, and a ruler was inside. He must have taken control of the cloudwalker’s mind somehow.”
Chime twitched uneasily. “I know the kethel grow sacs like that so they can carry dakti more easily. I didn’t know rulers would get inside one.”
“They’re getting inventive.” Jade’s spines relaxed as the tension went out of her shoulders. “Hopefully they only caught one cloud-walker.”
“One would have been enough,” Chime pointed out. “It could have destroyed this place.”
Branch held up the ruler’s head. The jaws hung open, and one eye was torn out. “What should we do with this?”
Moon tried to croak out an answer, but Jade turned to Endell-liani, asking her, “Do you know about the Fell rulers? The head has to be—”
“Yes, we know.” Endell-liani turned back to the flying ship and waved imperatively at someone onboard. “It should be placed in a cask of salt and buried on land.”
Moon didn’t need to hear anymore; the cask of salt wasn’t necessary, but the head did need to be concealed under a layer of earth, otherwise it would draw more rulers.
The wooden door into the tower stood open, and he went inside. A short passage led to a big round room with high windows that let in light and air, the walls and floor rubbed smooth with white clay. He staggered through the first inner doorway, then the second, until he found a room with big water jars and tile basins and drains. He dropped to his knees beside a basin and retched into it.
“Are you all right?” Chime asked from a safe distance behind him. “We didn’t see where you fell at first, and we kept expecting you to come back up.”
“Thanks,” Moon managed to croak. Aside from having half the Yellow Sea and all its plant life in his stomach, he was fine.
When he finished, he felt hollowed out, and it hurt to take a deep breath. His clothes dripped and he still had strands of moss wrapped around him. He had no idea where his pack had ended up.
He wandered out the nearest door and found a small, open court, its smooth white clay reflecting the sun. Most groundlings would have found it too hot for comfort; it was probably meant more to allow light and air into the windows and doorways of the rooms around it. A few chairs of light, delicately carved, ivory-colored wood were scattered about, along with a couch draped with gauzy white fabric. Moon peeled his wet shirt off and collapsed on the couch, stretching out face down and pillowing his head on his arms. It was Islander-sized and too short for him, his feet hanging off the end, but it was far more comfortable than the floor.
He heard Jade and Chime come out into the court. One of them, he wasn’t sure which, brushed the hair off his temple, then laid a cool hand on his back to feel his breathing. He made an “umph” noise to show he was still alive. Chime said, “Better to let him sleep.”
They left. Moon lay there and listened to the others talk and move in and out of the court and the rooms around it. The baking sun lulled him into a half-drowse.
Sometime later he heard unfamiliar footsteps and smelled groundling tinged with salt and sun and sweet oil, the scent he was learning to associate with the Islanders. He turned his head, squinting. The sun had moved enough for shade to fall across half the court, and an old Islander man stood in it, watching Moon. His hair, beard, and mustache were as silky white as gossamer, a startling contrast against his weathered gold skin. He held a large book with wooden covers.
“I wanted to show you something,” he said, as if this were the middle of a conversation they had been having. He stepped closer and crouched down to set the book on the paving. He flipped it open and paged through it. Moon pushed himself up a little more and leaned over to see. He had slept long enough for his clothes to dry, for the sun to bake most of the sickness out of him.
The paper was white, some kind of pounded reed, and it was filled with squiggly writing in different hands and inks, in a language with curving characters that Moon couldn’t read. The old man found the page he wanted and turned the book so Moon could see.
It was a sketch, an Aeriat in his shifted form, wings and spines flared. Scribbled notes trailed down the page. The old man tapped it. “This is correct? This is a young consort, like you?”
Moon touched the page. The sketch didn’t indicate what color the scales were, unless it was in the notes. But he thought the spines went further down the back than a warrior’s, that the wings were proportionally larger.
“If—” His voice came out as a croak and he had to clear his throat. “— the scales are black, yes.” His throat was dry and sore. He would have to go in search of water soon, but he didn’t want to drag himself up yet.
“I’ve seen the old consort who came here, but only from a distance. He spoke only to some traders and the Gerent.” He opened a wooden case that hung at his belt and took out some loose sheets of paper and a writing instrument that appeared to be a charcoal stick in an ivory holder. He peered closely at Moon; his golden eyes were a little filmy. “Always black?”
“I think so.” It occurred to Moon that he really should know these things. He turned the page, where he found a sketch of a male warrior balanced on the piling of a pier.
The man smoothed the paper on the clay floor. “You don’t grow a beard?”
“Lots of groundling races don’t,” Moon said, before he remembered he didn’t have to justify it. These people already knew he was different. Nobody was going to ask those questions that had once been impossible to answer, like, What are your people called? and Where do you come from? The old man grunted thoughtfully and scribbled a note.
Chime walked into the court. He stood next to the couch, directing a puzzled frown down at the old man. In Raksuran, he said, “Their leader is here, talking to Jade.”
“He came here?” That was a little surprising. Moon had assumed the negotiation would take place in some council room somewhere in the palace below them. Maybe it was a good sign.
“They’re being polite.” Chime stepped sideways, angling his head, trying to read over the old man’s shoulder. “They knew Jade didn’t want to leave you.”
That was more surprising. “Me? Why?”
Chime’s expression suggested that the question could be more idiotic, but he wasn’t sure how. “You’re her consort. Everyone realizes that but you.”
Not having spines that he could flare threateningly at Chime at the moment, Moon settled for ignoring him. He leaned over the book again and turned more pages. Towards the back was a drawing of Stone in his shifted form, but it was from a distance, with the roof of a tower to give perspective. That was the last drawing, and Moon turned back to the front, finding older sketches of female warriors and Arbora. He paused at a more detailed drawing of a queen curled up on a broad windowsill, so unexpectedly sensual it made him blink. He switched back to Altanic to ask the old man, “Is this whole book about Raksura?”
“Yes. It goes back several generations, copied from older documents.” The old man turned the pages back to the beginning, where the ink was a little faded. “It begins with the first sighting of Raksura by an expedition to the interior.”
In exasperation, Chime pointed down at the old man. “Who is this?”
“I don’t know.” Preoccupied, Moon studied the drawing. It was blocky and not as skilled as the later sketches, showing a flying boat with little winged figures around it.
“This wasn’t done at the time.” The man sniffed disparagingly. “Inaccurate.”
Chime sat down and leaned in to look at the scene. “How do you know it’s inaccurate?”
“It doesn’t match the account of the starguider Kilen-vanyi-atar, who wrote of meeting the Raksura, and treating with their court.” The man traced his finger over the writing, found a passage, and read, “‘As our craft sailed over the clearing, we saw an outcrop of stone, and on it, lying full in the fierce sunlight, were eight or so people. My first fear was that they were dead, but they lay more in the attitude of sleep, and showed no wounds. Their clothing was as bright as the plumage of birds.’” He looked up. “He goes on to say that they woke as the ship drew closer, transformed, and flew swiftly away. It took some time for him to convince one to speak to him, let alone to come near his ship.”