Eternal Sky 01(120)

After the first few li, Samarkar found her rhythm. She stroked long and evenly, working for endurance rather than speed. There was a long way to go, and she did not want to exhaust herself. It was hard to pace herself, though, and her only opportunities to rest would come while treading water. Hard to remember that her left arm was still weaker than it should be and might fail her or cramp disastrously.

She could rest, though, and that was a way in which this sea was different from the mountain rivers she had learned in. There, to rest was to risk being dashed into rocks or swept out of the safe parts of the river. Here, it just meant losing time while you floated.

Losing time—and losing ground, she soon realized. Because there was a current here, something she had not anticipated. She’d been thinking of this sea as a big lake, static water. But she could see the land on the far side slipping past.

The White Sea, she remembered, flowed through the Strait of Asitaneh into the Western Ocean. It drained all the north- and west-flowing rivers on this side of the Steles.

Of course it had a current. She should have started off a good way upstream. But she was committed now; there was no option except to keep going or turn back and admit defeat.

Samarkar cursed herself for an idiot and kept swimming, nibbling pieces of Temur’s camel fat from time to time for strength and trying not to swallow too much seawater while she did so. The sun might bake her, the salt water parch her skin. She was the wizard Samarkar. She was not going to quietly drown.

* * *



Night fell, a blessed relief from the battering sun. A single moon rose, a cupped sliver guiding her with its light.

She was tired. She ached in every limb. Hunger cramped her stomach; exhaustion cramped her muscles. She called upon wizarding disciplines now and hoped that would be enough to give her strength.

She had sat unmoving in a hole in the cold darkness for three days and walked out a magician. What was swimming a sea to that?

Samarkar looked into herself and found the quiet. The quiet sustained her. She swam on.

* * *



The sunset. It spilled through the halls of Ala-Din through each high window, its angle low enough now to make the shades and awnings useless. Because Ala-Din stood on a high place, the sun dipped below it before it dipped below the rim of the world. Edene followed its light as it rose through the bastion, sweeping up walls and across ceilings.

She stole down passages, a tray in her hands, anonymous in her veil among other women scurrying with short steps and hunched shoulders. The stronghold was still empty, curiously so—the monks had not returned yet from whatever excursion took most of them away. Several of the old masters remained behind, too infirm for hard travel, and a half dozen of the youngest novices, who were beardless boys still.

That tray was her safe conduct, and she carried it before her like a shield until she came to al-Sepehr’s rooms. They were not locked—what need had al-Sepehr to lock his own rooms at the very heart of his power?—and Edene slipped inside with little trouble.

She set the tray on a stool beside the door and closed the door softly. The latch clicked; she pulled in the cord that made it easy to open from the outside. Anyone who wanted to come in now would have to break the door open.

She did not think she would need very much time.

He might have taken the ring with him, and a terrible unease filled Edene when she realized it no longer sat so carelessly in the teakwood tray on his chest. Forcing herself to move calmly, she crouched, her belly pressing her thighs wide, and opened the lid.

It was heavy and plain, lined with cedar, from the smell. Sturdy brass hinges operated without a squeak.

Edene lifted the first layer of woven cotton and found a small silk pouch embroidered in Song style just below. It lay flat, as if empty or nearly so. When she lifted it, she could feel a smooth, hard round within, so heavy it startled her.

Now her hands trembled as the tugged at the drawstrings. They shook so much when she tried to reach inside the pouch that she gave in and upended the contents into her palm.

A ring.

Plain and stark as the room she squatted in, crudely hammered so it barely shone, its only beauty was in the metal. She’d never seen metal quite this color; not green and also not not-green, exactly, but more the color a leaf would be if a plant grew gold.

She held it in her palm. It was cold. She lifted it to her eye. When her breath blew across it, the metal misted. It was made of one continuous piece that must have been cast that way, or pierced and stretched. There was no inscription within or without, no symbols etched into the band. Just hammer marks.

It weighed more, she thought, than even gold should weigh.

She stood up, aware as always of late how her balance had shifted from the day before, aware of how the life inside her changed her body. Trembling still, she slipped the ring onto her finger.