The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (11 page)

She didn’t know where to go. Not home—her mother would ask too many questions. Would make Zhirin ask herself too many questions.
A councillor’s daughter, rich and fattened on Khas money while people died, and what did she think she could accomplish by
playing at revolution with the Tigers? Would she even have joined the Tigers a year ago, when Fei Minh was still a member
of the Khas?

Zhirin shook her head, eyes stinging. Jabbor might have reassured her, but he was on the North Bank, and she couldn’t go that
far for comfort, even if she had remembered shoes tonight. She had few other friends in the city, and none she could trust
with this. Not for the first time, she wished Sia had remained in Symir instead of attending the university in Ta’ashlan.
But Sia could no more have stayed than Zhirin could have followed her.

As Zhirin crossed the soaring Bridge of Sighs, whose lace-carved stone drew voices from the wind, she realized she was going
to the temple. It had been too long.

She walked the edges of the Floating Garden, where moonlight rippled silver over black water and night-blooming lilies glowed
milk-blue in the darkness. Trees rustled in the breeze, bobbing in their anchored wooden tubs. Webs of moss embroidered the
surface, soon to be washed away when the rains came and the river rose. The night was too quiet; the few people she passed
moved quickly, hunched as if expecting a blow.

The River Mother’s temple was always open, though at this hour it was all but deserted. The candles and lanterns had gone
out, but witchlights glowed in the elaborate spiraled channels that covered the center of the floor. The drip and murmur of
water echoed in the vaulted chamber.

A curtain rustled and a veiled priestess emerged from an alcove, lantern in hand. Zhirin curtsied and the woman inclined her
head. Eyebrows rose above her veil, a silent question.

Zhirin had thought perhaps to light a candle and sit in peace for a time, but now she realized she needed more than that.

“May I use the pool?” she asked softly.

The priestess hesitated a heartbeat, then nodded, gesturing with her lantern toward the far end of the hall.

Zhirin still knew the way, though it had been years since she’d used it. She still dreamed of the temple some nights, dreamed
of her imaginary life as a priestess. Her mother had been intent on sending her to university with Sia, the first of the Laiis
to attend. Apprenticeship at the Kurun Tam had been their compromise.

At least she had met Jabbor.

The priestess opened the antechamber door and lamplight rippled across the low domed ceiling. A small room, with benches and
racks for clothing and a shower; acolytes scrubbed the pool at least twice daily, but courtesy suggested one track in as little
grime as possible. The veiled woman found towels and a robe in a cabinet and set them on a bench, and cocked her head in another
question.

“That’s all I need, thank you.”

She nodded and closed the door, leaving the lantern behind.

Zhirin paused as she unbuttoned her shirt—for a moment she feared she’d have to hurry after the priestess to beg a comb, but
no, she still had one tucked into her pocket. She set it aside as she stripped and folded her clothes. Her toes curled against
the cold marble floor, gooseflesh crawling up her legs.

The water from the tap was cold too, and she stifled a yelp as it splashed over her shoulders. She worked the braids and knots
from her hair, watching long strands slither down the drain. When all of her was cold and wet and clean and her hair clung
like lace-moss to her arms and back, she shut off the tap.

Leaving the lantern in the antechamber, she took her comb and padded dripping to the inner room, footprints shining behind
her. As she shut the door she conjured witchlight; the steps were slick already and she had no wish to miss one in the dark.
If she listened, she thought she could hear the river’s pulse through the stone.

The pool filled the center of the room, deeper than a man was tall. Only a foot of water stood in the bottom now. No taps
or faucet in this room—either the river came to you here or she didn’t.

Zhirin descended the shallow steps into the pool, water lapping gently around her ankles as she reached the bottom. The wooden
teeth of her comb bit her palm, and her own nerves saddened her. Once she’d never have doubted that she could call the river.

She raised the comb to her dripping hair and began to hum softly.

For a moment she feared she’d been gone too long. Then the water began to ripple, welling from tiny holes in the stone. Cool
but not biting, it slid up her calves, over her thighs and hips, lapping higher with every stroke of the comb.

Once, the stories said, before the Assari built their dam, the reed-maidens would sit on the banks combing their long green
hair before the floods came. They said the river had been wilder then, more dangerous. The gentle inexorable rush of the bound
Mir was all Zhirin had ever known, all she had ever needed.

When the water reached her shoulders, she left off combing and lay back, floating in the river’s embrace. The Mir’s voice
filled her head and she sank, and listened, and let it take her pain.

Xinai crossed the river after sunset, as shadows chased the last vermilion light into the west. Her heart was a stone in her
chest—she was surprised the skiff didn’t sink under its weight.

The steersmen poled in silence, lanterns doused. Insects droned across the water and frogs and night-herons splashed along
the shore; an owl’s deep
bu-whooh
echoed in the trees. Sounds she’d heard only in dreams for the last twelve years. She’d seen a dozen rivers in the north,
but none of them sounded like the Mir.

She raised a hand to the charm around her neck, the leather pouch that held her great-grandmother’s ashes, and her mother’s
before her. The bag thrummed softly against her skin.
Tomorrow
, she promised them.
Tomorrow I’ll take you home
. The wall of trees rose above them as they neared the shore, eclipsing more stars.

She touched another charm, a beaded owl feather, and the darkness fell away. Colors faded to ghostly hints,but the river became
a road of moonlight and the stars lined the treetops with gray and pierced the canopy with slivers of light. Her charms could
best even Adam’s keen senses, though she had no way of making the effect permanent. As the skiff scraped onto the muddy bank
she leapt ashore, avoiding rocks and tangled reeds easily.

Selei snorted quietly. “Always the show-off, eh, child?” The old woman stepped off more carefully, leaning on a steersman’s
arm. The ground squelched beneath their feet.

“Shall we wait for you, Grandmother?” the man asked.

“No. We’ll find our own way back.”

He nodded and bowed, and the boat moved away with a slurp of mud.

“Where are we going?” Xinai asked softly. Selei had been withdrawn ever since the explosion at the market that afternoon,
her good eye distant and unhappy. Xinai had wanted to listen to what the city had to say about it, but the witch had kept
her close all day.

“Cay Xian.” She raised a hand when Xinai would have spoken. “From here we go in silence. The Khas watches these hills, and
it will be worse after what happened today. We’ll speak when we reach the village.”

Xinai nodded, swallowing a frown, and followed Selei into the trees.

They climbed twisting hill-paths for more than an hour, or so Xinai guessed from the few glimpses of the moon she caught.
The shadows under the canopy were thick enough to strain even her owl’s eyes. Xian lands bordered her family’s holdings, and
the sounds and scents of the jungle welcomed her home.

She’d taken what comfort she could in the cold forests of the north, but it was never the same.

The path widened and the darkness ahead gave way to brighter grays. Cay Xian was close. Dust itched on her feet, grated between
her toes. Boots were fine in the city, but in the jungle toes would rot in closed shoes. She missed the extra blades.

Something rustled in the trees and Xinai’s hands dropped to her belt knives even as Selei called for her to stop. She recognized
the squeal of a lantern hinge a second too late. Light blossomed blinding-white in front of her and she cursed, turning away
as tears leaked down her cheeks. Selei’s calloused hand closed on her wrist, trapping her knife in the sheath.

“They’re with us,” she said. “And hood that lantern, you fool. Do you think we’re not watched?”

“Not at the moment, Grandmother,” a man said. “Phailin distracted the Khas’s soldiers.”

Grandmother—not the honorific, but a kinship. Xinai hadn’t realized Selei had a grandson.

The lantern dimmed and Xinai released the charm. Red and gold spots swam in front of her eyes. Rubbing away tears, she let
Selei lead her toward the lights of the village.

By the time they reached the walls of Cay Xian, Xinai could see again. Torchlight glowed over the carven parapets, flickering
as sentries moved along the walls. The heavy wooden doors swung open quietly, just wide enough for the three of them to slip
through.

As soon as she stepped onto the yellow dirt of the courtyard Xinai knew something was wrong. This was the heart of the Xian
clan, and the heart of Xian mourned angrily.

The clan’s tree grew in the center of the courtyard, dwarfing the houses around it. In the flickering torchlight its cluster
of trunks seemed to move, root-tendrils writhing toward the ground. Charms and mirrors hung from the branches, rattling softly
even though there was no wind. People watched them from the shadows of its trunks.

Xinai glanced at Selei’s grandson, seeing him clearly for the first time. Tall and lean, he wore a warrior’s kris-knife at
his side, the long, curving blade sheathed in silver and bone. His clothes were mourning gray and ashes streaked his long
braided hair.

Others in the yard wore gray as well, if only scarves or armbands, and tears and ashes marked several faces. But the village
was silent. If the clan mourned, they should have wailed and sung their grief to the trees and sky.

“What’s happened?” Xinai asked softly.

As the door was bolted behind them, Selei’s calm mask cracked, letting grief and anger show. Her shoulders slumped.

The man answered. “The explosion in the market today? The man who did that was Kovi Xian. His body is lost, and we can’t even
sing his spirit home.” He spat in the dust. “If we mourn him the Khas will arrest the whole clan as accomplices. They may
do that anyway.”

“He was a fool,” Selei said softly. “A proud, hot-blooded fool. I told him he would better serve his people alive, but his
honor demanded it of him.” She glanced up at her grandson. “Do you have honor, Riuh? Will it take the last of my grandchildren
from me?”

His smile bared a chipped front tooth. “Don’t worry, Grandmother. I’m a scoundrel—honor won’t be what sends me to the twilight
lands.”

She smiled back wearily, then glanced at Xinai. “Forgive me, I grow forgetful in my age. Xinai Lin, this is my scoundrel of
a grandson, Riuh Xian. Xinai has returned to us from across the sea.”

Riuh’s eyes widened. “The last Lin? Welcome home.”

“Has the funeral feast begun yet?” Selei asked.

“We were waiting for you.”

She nodded and took Xinai’s arm again, this time for support instead of guidance. Xinai hid a frown as the old woman’s bird-fragile
weight settled on her. “Come, child. Tonight we feed the ghosts.”

I
syllt stands in the shop again, clutching a lamp, unable to move as shoppers swirl around her. The light streams gray and
metallic through the window, like a storm threatens.

A man brushes past her. Kiril. She tries to call to him, but her tongue is numb. Her master pauses and stares down at her,
his dark eyes tired and sad. He opens his hands to show her a ruby. It pulses against his palms like a heart, light scattering
off faceted edges. The stone is flawed deep, and the crack spreads even as she watches.

Kiril shakes his head and the dream explodes.

And Isyllt woke gasping in the dark, the smell of smoke and charred flesh thick in her nose. She raised a hand to her face;
her cheek was smooth, unburnt, damp.

Trees rustled outside her window, rippled moonlight and shadow across the floor. She sat huddled in the dark, weeping silently
until sleep stole over her again.

She rose early the next day and joined the others for a hasty, silent meal before the trek to the Kurun Tam. No one looked
like they’d slept well—Vasilios moved as though all his bones ached and dark circles branded Zhirin’s eyes.

Wind blew sharp and salty off the bay, ruffling the canals and swirling dust and leaves. Everywhere they passed people hung
colored lanterns and garlands, erected awnings along the streets. The rains were coming soon.

And everywhere they went Isyllt saw green-clad guards and soldiers red as poppies patrolling the streets and watching the
ferry crossings. An uneasy hush hung over the city.

Thin white clouds veiled the sun but couldn’t stop the heat, and the humidity was worse than ever. By the time they neared
the Kurun Tam, Isyllt dripped sweat and the backs of her hands were baked pink. She sighed happily as they stepped into the
spell-cooled walls of the hall and stopped to rinse the dirt off her face. In the courtyard, Zhirin helped Vasilios down from
the carriage. Isyllt watched the old man lean on his apprentice’s arm and swallowed the taste of dust. There but for the whims
of fate…

A shadow fell across the stones at her feet and she turned to see Asheris.

“Good morning,” he said with a bow. He wore riding clothes today, shades of rust and ocher that would hide dust. “I hope you
slept well.”

“Hello, Lord al Seth.” Her smile felt too sharp and she tried to school her expression. “I’d thought the investigation might
keep you in the city today.”

“I had a previous engagement, but I have good people keeping their eyes on things. I’m glad you’re here,” he went on. “We’re
going to the mountain. You must join us—this may be the last chance before the rains come.”