“Taran?” she whispers again, knowing even as she speaks that he is far far away. From the face on the wall comes a noise as if teeth are grinding, and then a girlish giggle.
Water leaks in beneath the windowsill. Beyond it, the girl sees fish swimming through dim sunlight filtered through endless blue. The grinding noise grows louder, and the face on the wall, still smiling, looks afraid. A body floats up to the window, unblinking, hair a corona of reddish-blond, its skin peeling and green.
“Taran!” the girl screams, “TA …”
“ … RAN!” Sula rolled upright suddenly, her heart pounding sharply. Slowly she recollected who and where she was, and when. Another nightmare, she thought angrily. Is there no end to them?
The gray light of the hour before dawn filtered through the window. She got out of bed, draping a shawl across her shoulders, and peered out. In the murk little could be seen. It didn’t matter—even the reassurance that it was only the sleeping city, and not that endless expanse under water, was enough to let her heartbeat slow.
She could still hear a faint grinding noise. She’d like to think it was simply the wind pushing against the inn, or perhaps a guest’s thunderous snoring, but after the last few weeks she knew better. An uninvited guest had come to the Phoenix, and its presence filled the inn like the stench of a dead rat in the wall. None of them knew what it was or how it had come there, but for the past month it had persistently driven out every guest her family had taken in, and she kept having the same dreams.
It was really too bad, when they had begun doing well enough to start making repairs and restoring the house to some of its former glory. The carved cabinet that stood now in the dining room, for instance, was just the thing, said her mother, to give it a touch of class. It had come from a ship that had grounded on the Seaweal reefs a few months ago. The purchase had taken a good bite out of their savings, and now there were no guests to make it up again.
Why Sula was the only one who seemed to be having the dreams, she did not know. The Presence subjected the rest of the inn’s inhabitants to waking torments—thumping at odd hours, cold spots by doors, blood seeping through the walls … . It was enough to frighten all but the most stalwart souls into a hasty departure. There was magic in her family, but until recently, she’d thought her twin brother Taran had been the only one with a sensitivity to the supernatural in her generation.
Was this some kind of sending from Taran? It seemed unlikely. When they were little they had been so close they hardly needed words. She shivered as a memory of using that silent communication to escape a squad of Dyareelans hunting for stray children tried to surface and was suppressed again. But the stresses of puberty had driven them apart, and besides, Taran was far from here. She had not expected she would miss him so.
Last spring her restless brother had signed on as a caravan guard. He had said he wanted to travel to Ranke to see their father’s homeland. Their mother said he’d just lost his head over that Rankan woman they’d rescued, but exposing Taran’s real motive for traveling had only strengthened his resolve. Would he ever return? He’d been gone less than six months, but it felt much longer.
Sula heard a creaking from the bed in the next room as her mother turned over. Soon Latilla would be up, badgering the rest of them to get on with the day. If she too had trouble sleeping she would never let them know. When the first manifestations had occurred, Latilla had announced that this was their home. They had survived the Dyareelans and a dozen other external horrors, and she was not about to let a common domestic spook scare her off now.
Holding to that thought, Sula twisted her fair hair into a knot, lit the candle that sat by her bedside, and carried it into the dark hallway, keeping her eyes averted from the pale face that smiled at her from the wall. Its tortured gaze followed her until the light of her candle was gone.
The caravan from Ranke moved slowly toward Sanctuary beneath the summer sun, dust puffing up behind it in an amber haze. Bronze bells clanked dully as the line of mules and pack ponies clopped past the bored guards who watched the Gate of Triumph. As the caravan moved off, two weary travelers separated from the steady procession of wagons to rest a moment in the shade of the city wall. The guards shouted at the urchins who scampered beneath the feet of the horses, then leaned back against the cool stone.
“So this is Sanctuary?” asked the smaller of the two. His accent earned a second look from one of the guards, but this town had seen everything at least once, and the fellow didn’t look threatening.
The second man, broad-shouldered and at least a head taller, pulled back the hood of his light cloak to reveal a face younger than his size would have suggested, and a mop of reddish hair bleached almost blond from the sun. He took a deep breath and coughed. “Yeah, smells like home.”
The smaller man looked about as his eyes adjusted to the shade. Unlike his companion, he was meticulously groomed: his black hair cut short, his skin pale and clean. His clothes were a mix of dark colors, a deep burgundy tunic and trimmed cloak giving a faint impression of wealth, despite their simplicity. Most curious were his eyes, which seemed thin, as if he had squinted too long against the desert’s glare.
“Come now, Taran,” he smiled, “it is assuredly not as bad as all that?”
Taran couldn’t help but smile back. “Sanctuary redefines the word, G’han. Trust me. One hand on your purse, another on your sword—that’s the sort of pit we’re in.”
“But it is ‘Home and Hearth,’ yes?” G’han laughed. “The place of one’s birth can never be left completely behind. Come; let us find your home. Be it amid riches or squalor, any place with a roof, a meal, and a bed would be a palace after so long on the road.”
Taking a step or two from the wall, Taran stretched. “That it would. The ‘Phoenix’ has all the amenities you mentioned, and my mother can likely tell you where to go if, through some miracle of fortune, she’s already got a full house.”
His companion laughed, and resting a hand on the larger man’s shoulder, accompanied him through the assemblage of unloading carts and milling people. “Worry not, my friend, for fortune fits G’han the Wanderer like a wellworn pair of shoes. They may look ugly, but they are snug, and even in tatters they protect the soul.”
“Sula! Were you asleep, girl? What’s wrong with you?”
Her mother’s voice jerked Sula upright and the bowl of peas she had been shelling rocked dangerously. She grabbed and felt another force shove her hand, sending the contents rattling across the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done—”
“You startled me!” Their voices clashed and Sula began to cry.
“Don’t we have enough troubles here without you mooning—” Latilla began, then stopped herself with a sigh. She had a flyswatter in her hand. “All right—I didn’t mean to startle you, but really, child—”
“I wasn’t mooning,” Sula answered sullenly. “And if I was asleep, is it any wonder, when I haven’t had any rest at night since that thing started haunting us all?”
“Nightmares?” her mother asked more quietly.
“Every night.” Sula sniffed. “There’s this face … and sometimes there’s water.” She stopped. The vision of her brother’s drowned body was a terror she dared not share. Especially with her mother.