Chapter 8: Again
We each took a key. My room was next to his. The stairs groaned as we climbed, the wooden treads worn into shallow depressions, each step bearing the mark of countless boots that had passed slightly right of center.
The room was small but simple. A bed pressed against the inner wall, a table beneath the window, and a single chair against the wall. In the corner stood a small bronze mirror, its silvered surface worn away in patches, leaving those areas clouded and dim.
I set my cloth bundle on the table and walked to the window.
The Lower City spread out below me, stretching all the way to the valley floor. Evening light cut across it at an angle, illuminating one tier while leaving another in shadow. At some of the stalls, luminescent beetles glowed faintly inside glass jars, their slow pulsing like small candles scattered across the steps. The wind carried a dry, dusty scent that pressed against my face.
I strained to identify the path to the Wizard's Tower in the fading light, my fists clenching when I lost the landmarks. Why was I still here, wasting time? I should—
Two knocks sounded behind me.
"I'm going down for dinner," Cade's voice came through the door. "You coming?"
"I'm coming."
I pulled my gaze away and latched the window shut.
We entered the dining room and found a seat against the wall. The space was quieter than I'd expected, with wooden tables spaced far apart. On the wall hung an old map whose origin had long since faded beyond recognition, one region marked with a thick red X drawn in crude ink.
Cade draped his coat over the back of his chair.
"You've been here many times," I said, not using the inflection of a question.
He looked up, not answering immediately. His fingers tapped the table once, paused, then tapped again. He wore the expression of someone thinking, "You're finally taking an interest in me."
"A few times," he said.
"The owner's reaction suggested more than 'a few times.'"
"That's his problem," he said, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
I opened the menu, pretending to study the dish names, most of which I didn't recognize. Lower City menu items had strange names—one was called "Yesterday's Rain," another "The Hunter's Apology." The prices here weren't as reasonable as the shops outside; everything cost twice what it should.
The owner had said, "Again."
That tone carried a hint of weariness, mixed with a touch of "what is it this time?" As if he already knew why this person had returned and had decided not to comment on the reason.
I was certain that Cade had come back to the Lower City with unfinished business.
And so far, he hadn't shown a moment of the ease one should feel when returning to familiar ground.
The next morning we split up.
I said I needed to restock some herbs. Cade said he'd just wander around. I didn't ask "wander where," and he didn't explain. I now tentatively regarded him as a traveling companion, but appropriate boundaries were something we both tacitly acknowledged.
The Lower City wore different colors in the morning than at dusk. Light slanted down from the cliff top, dividing the rock face into clear zones of light and shadow—the bright side bleached nearly white, the dark side with edges barely visible. Stalls were still opening, some tables that had been covered yesterday now revealed, displaying things I hadn't seen before. An old woman in a black headscarf was transferring a small, horned, living creature from a cage to a glass dome. The animal didn't resist; its eyes were copper-colored, covered with a white film.
The creature looked like something from the Rifts, because their eyes had that distinctive quality—blinded after seeing sunlight again. As I passed, it suddenly turned its head and began jumping violently. I hurried away while the stall owner looked confused, pressing down on the container. I knew it was the dark magic carried by my curse at work.
I went first to inquire about the Wizard's Tower.
I'd thought this would be easy. Elarin was a wizard city, the tower stood at the cliff's edge—anyone who'd lived here for a week should know how to get in.
The first person I stopped was a middle-aged man pushing a handcart stacked with wooden crates. He stopped, looked at me, then spoke a string of words I couldn't understand at all. It wasn't the common tongue, nor any dialect I recognized—it sounded like some northern accent with many soft consonants, each syllable bitten off between the teeth. I tried three different phrasings; he squinted at me listening, then repeated that same string of words, slower this time, but I still couldn't understand.
We stared at each other for a few seconds, both giving up. He pushed his cart onward; I stood where I was.
The second person was a man standing in a food stall doorway, around forty, leaning against the doorframe, his manner much friendlier than the last. He listened to my question, looked me up and down, then asked in a very polite tone that made me want to find a hole to crawl into: "How much do you charge for a night?"
I looked at his face for two seconds, resisted the urge to punch him, and turned away.
The Lower City of a wizard city. I'd thought the word "wizard" would bring some kind of order to this place. Apparently, I'd been wrong.
Fine. I'd get supplies first.
The Silverthread stall was two tiers down at an angle; I'd spotted that silver cloth banner from my window yesterday. The vendor was an expressionless old woman who paused twice on my face while weighing, longer than I would have liked. I bought three months' worth in one go, paying slightly faster than necessary.
After leaving that stall, I walked three streets before stopping.
My hands were shaking—the tremor was slight, but they were shaking. Mother had been out of Silverthread for two months. In those two months I'd searched every corner of the palace pharmacy, written four letters to three different suppliers, and received the same answer every time: "Problems on the eastern route." Yet here in a Lower City stall, three-year-aged Silverthread sat in bundles, reasonably priced.
But I also didn't know when I'd be able to return to the capital. Perhaps I never would.