The Collarbound, page 16
She glanced at Caitlin, but Caitlin didn’t step forward. Sir Daegan did his usual little wave of dismissal. His pearls caught the sunlight.
‘No, no. I trust you will find this enlightening.’
So, this is my punishment for asking too many questions. Isha was torn. She didn’t want to be loyal to anyone but, if she were to pick a side, then she was with Passerine – now, and always. She owed him that much.
‘Sir, Caitlin is a much stronger choice.’ It was worth a try, at least. ‘She will be able to defend you to the fullest.’
Sir Daegan’s lips froze into a snarl; his eyebrows pushed lower over his eyes. ‘Are you defying my orders?’
This was it. She would lose her teacher before her first month at the Nest. Before Isha could answer, she heard a voice – a whisper, nothing more.
I don’t mind. Accept the duel. The tone was warm and encouraging. The expression on Sir Daegan’s face didn’t change. He hadn’t sensed Passerine’s intervention. She didn’t risk answering through mindlink, as she would give herself away.
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I am more than happy to be your champion.’
With a deep breath, she faced Passerine. His smile, his posture, didn’t change.
She projected herself into his mind.
His settled mind was the bleakest she’d encountered. There was no grass; there were no pebbles. Passerine’s mind was an empty space. Its ground was flat and shiny like the surface of a lake, with no depth and nothing to reflect. It didn’t have walls. Its sky was uniformly grey.
She suddenly remembered that she had been here before. Confused memories spiralled inside her. She had trained with him, before the incident. She remembered something of the texture of his thoughts.
This wasn’t a duel with an audience or a settler. Their blows would only be for them to see. The mages around them would perceive the outlines of their fight – the shape of the attacks, maybe, the parts of you that leaked and spilled out of yourself. But for the most part, this battle would be their own.
In mindlink, Passerine didn’t wear his mage’s robes. Instead, he was dressed in a rich Sunriser outfit, with a blue nasivyati rather than black, slim sandals hugging his ankles. He cocked his head to one side, his faint smile unwavering. He was waiting for her.
Isha wouldn’t harm him, but she had to pretend to try, at least. She focused on her tattoo. The ink quivered against her cheek, moving like something alive. It simmered, scalding her, overflowing out of her face. She shed her tattoo like snakes shed their old skin.
I am me. Isha. I was born, I will live, I will die. That’s all.
And I am something else. I am what people see of me. I am a name, a symbol, a black line on fresh skin.
She saw Passerine through two prisms at once. She saw him with tenderness, as the Isha who felt protected by him, whom he had brought to the Nest. And she saw him with pride, as the Isha who knew he followed her because of who she was, because she had earned his guardianship.
She also viewed Sir Daegan as if through two mirrors, each with a different reflection. He was her teacher and master, certainly. But he was also no-one special. The black inkborne bird felt only disdain for him, for the man who had made the mistake of scorning her, as if she were some ungifted halfblood.
It was like walking on a wire. The slightest distraction pushed her one side or the other, and she struggled to maintain both shapes, outweighing each thought with another to keep her balance.
Passerine eyed her carefully. Isha moved first, aiming for a symbolic hit.
She sent him a constructed version of himself as a refugee, after having crossed the Shadowpass, shivering under his stana, with nowhere to go, no home nor stronghold nor friends to rely on. She crafted the dull ache down his legs, the taste of grit in his mouth, the vague scent of burning wood that was all that remained of his convent turned to cinder. She hoped she hadn’t misjudged. Surely now that he had found shelter within the Nest, this shouldn’t harm him?
She sensed his amusement. She knew – she hoped – the onlookers couldn’t perceive it. Safe, he thought. The Nest isn’t safe. Within the message, a vision was threaded, of a small nest of twigs at the end of a branch, shaking in the gale, threatening to come undone. In Passerine’s mind, the Nest was only a temporary hideout, not sturdy enough to withhold the Renegades, or maybe not strong enough yet. He let her images wash past him.
She stood panting, focusing all her energy on keeping her mind divided. He must have felt how confused she was, as to why he was doing this and why this fight was necessary, because he explained:
What do you think I’m trying to do today? We need power. Isha was both pleased and surprised by the ‘we’, the admission that they were together in this. We need control. That is the only way to be safe. I am sorry. I didn’t think you would be with a high mage – certainly not this one.
He sighed.
I hope you’ll forgive me.
To her shock, Passerine hit back. He overcame the weak imagining she’d sent him and replied swiftly. It was harder than she had expected. It was based on truth.
She was at the farm with her foster parents. Her foster mother went to fetch the pot with the soup three times, forgetting each time that she had already served them. Her foster father hadn’t touched his food. The bowl was placed against his elbow, and he nearly spilled it as he turned to address his wife. Isha felt sick. Each time she looked up at her foster parents, she wondered: Who are these people?
Passerine’s attack created a rift inside her, from which memories came gushing like blood.
The neighbours had found them wandering their grounds, all three of them, eyes glazed over, talking nonsense. Her foster father had been trying to pick fruit from a barren apple tree. Her foster mother had been sweeping the front step until her hands bled. Isha had been roaming the mountainside above the village and wouldn’t speak a word to anyone, not until her foster brother was called back from his apprenticeship and took her hand and led her back inside.
No-one knew what had happened. Something had attacked them – wrecked a peaceful household, left their minds to rot. The village was astir. Someone had crossed the Shadowpass to reach this remote farm, too far from the centre of the village to be heard, too isolated by orchards and fields of wheat.
Because of her, of course. Who wanted to harm a couple of farmers? They wanted Isha.
The only reason they didn’t take her was Passerine. Isha remembered, afterwards, that he had been part of the struggle. She vaguely recalled him pushing her behind him, screaming ‘Run!’ and launching himself at the attackers. He had come to bring her yearly upkeep fee and had arrived at the same time as their enemies. Without him, Isha would have been snatched away from her home. She knew that much.
A few nights later, in the aftermath, she found herself talking to Passerine as he was seated before their fire, his feet close to the flames, his stana thrown across the back of the chair. He had tried to explain what had occurred to her foster parents, but they were confused, still, with frightened smiles. Minds slowly healing, with bits of life missing, like holes in a piece of fabric.
‘We need to regroup at the Nest.’ His deep voice, and the spitting flames. The smell of the broth. Warm bread from the oven on the table. ‘The Renegades will secure their power inside the Wingshade convents, then they’ll come for the Duskdwellers.’
Isha sat cross-legged before the fire, pushing the ashes back inside the grate with a stick. The damp wood let out too much smoke. An ember landed on her arm but didn’t burn. When she smothered it, it left a black line down her wrist.
The weight of his hand on her shoulder, with the added weight of his words. The flame reflected in the white of his eyes. ‘They will capture you, by force if need be.’
And so she had fled. She had followed him to the Nest.
She would never know what they had taken from her, what she had lost. They had left her shattered in their wake.
Isha broke; her soul splintered, with a sound like wood splitting under the axe. But she didn’t fall apart. Something held her together. When she looked down, black threads were sewing her back into one piece. Or maybe it wasn’t threads but veins, pulsing black blood.
It was ink.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to remember.
The part of her that was the tattoo didn’t yield.
The world will remember for me.
Half of Isha was on her knees, yielding to Passerine. But half of her was still flying, smiling with a crow-black beak and talking with a crow-black tongue.
The thieves were wrong to think they stole from me.
I was the treasure.
Her bird-self stared Passerine down. Before she could strike, he lifted both hands and said:
I surrender.
She was so stunned she took time to leave his mind. Pulling herself together was like picking strewn pieces of clothing flung around the room, struggling to get dressed under Passerine’s gaze, naked and vulnerable. She returned to her own mind. She dimly heard Passerine addressing Sir Daegan:
‘You will want something of mine, no doubt, to mark your victory.’
Sir Daegan’s voice was terse. ‘I do not know about hospitality in the convents, but at the Nest, it is considered poor manners to belittle a guest, even if they brought it upon themselves. You may leave.’
She opened her eyes. The autumn sun was stark. Her fingers, clenched like claws, hurt. She rubbed them until they unstiffened.
Kilian closed the gap between the disciples and Isha, worry and awe fighting for a place on his face. ‘That was wonderful.’ After a beat, he added, ‘You’re going to be fine.’ He didn’t reach out to her. He wrung his hands instead, glancing from the other disciples to Sir Daegan. The high mage was tapping his cane on the flagstone before him like a cat taps its tail when it’s annoyed.
Passerine graced them all with a brief nod. Isha was still recovering her breath. Her knees were trembling.
‘I will not trouble you any further.’ To Isha, he said, ‘I look forward to duelling with you again.’
He could have fought her; she was grateful to him for conceding the match.
Passerine smiled. ‘You are a quick learner.’
She smiled back, albeit weakly. If someone had pushed her, she would have collapsed. It was as if her bones had been sucked out of her legs.
Sir Daegan watched him leave, his lips pinched, until Passerine was out of sight.
Chapter Eight
Isha, Kilian and the other apprentices bumped into Tatters as he was leaving the Coop. He was pushing a small barrel in front of him, which reached up to his knee. He greeted them with one hand, using the other to stabilise the cask.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Isha. There was little point staying at the tavern if she couldn’t train.
‘To see Arushi,’ he said.
Kilian was on the tavern’s threshold. The friends they had come with went inside, but he lingered.
‘You coming?’ he asked Isha.
She glanced from him, in the golden light of the inn, to Tatters, who already had his back to her, and was bent awkwardly to pivot his barrel.
‘Go in, I’ll join you later,’ she said.
Kilian pulled a face. He stayed, scuffing his shoes on the doorstep; for a moment, it looked as if he was about to offer to come with them, but Tatters was leaving, and Isha couldn’t wait for Kilian to make up his mind.
‘See you soon,’ she promised.
She ran to catch up with Tatters. She could see him smiling.
‘I’m flattered,’ he said.
She walked alongside him. The beaten ground wasn’t too difficult to navigate, but once they reached the cobbles the barrel either got caught in the irregular stones or bounced out of control. Isha leant over to help Tatters. The cask was heavier than she had expected, and she had to use all her weight to roll it. They each held one end as the alcohol sloshed inside.
‘They invited you again?’ Isha asked, in part to make conversation.
‘No, I’m inviting myself.’ Tatters guided them towards the Pit. They had to avoid people on foot, carts pulled by horses, kids who kicked their barrel as they pushed past. ‘You still need a present, though. And it still can’t be food if it’s khers.’ When folk spotted Isha’s robes, they moved out of the way. A few cart drivers called out to Tatters as he went past, and he waved back without breaking his stride. ‘Can’t be the same present as before. Beer is always popular. Plus, the innkeeper gave me a good price for it.’
Isha spotted the mudbrick walls of the Pit, then the two kher guards. They weren’t the same ones as before. As before, however, they lurked in the shade of the wall, arms crossed, heads lowered so their horns pointed towards the humans ambling past.
The city is full of locks, thought Isha. Locks and doors.
‘I get stopped by lawmages at the Nest and by khers here,’ she said.
Tatters smiled again. She could tell he was in a good mood.
‘Power is the number of thresholds you can cross,’ he said.
As they got within earshot, the khers shuffled towards the entrance. The nearest one called out:
‘You with them?’
He shoved his chin, indicating something behind them. Tatters and Isha turned.
A group of humans were drawing closer – nearly ten of them, including one lawmage. His undyed belt stood in stark contrast to his rich outfit. They walked three-by-three, in rows, surrounding one man at the centre. At first Isha mistook the man for a smith, because of the leather apron knotted around his chest. At second glance, she decided he was more likely a butcher, as he wore a thick belt on which several knives were hanging. On either side of the procession were kher guards with the Nest’s heraldry. Amongst them was Arushi.
Tatters drove his barrel out of their path, Isha in tow. They tucked themselves away to let the procession pass. The humans were chatting amongst themselves; the khers who guarded them kept their mouths shut. The butcher laughed raucously, slapping his bulging stomach with the flat of his hand, as if testing the bounce of his beer-gut.
Arushi was at the front. She looked from Tatters to the khers at the gates before nodding. The khers nodded back. They stood aside when she entered the Pit, followed by the humans.
Isha studied Tatters’ face. The glow had left his expression. He rested one hand on the lid of the barrel, lightly, with his fingers spread apart. He bit his lower lip as he watched the group walk past.
‘This might be more instructive for you than I’d thought.’ He didn’t say this as if it were good news.
The procession seemed to share his foreboding. As they crossed the mudbrick porch, the humans fell silent. The butcher gave everyone – including both kher guards, Isha and Tatters – a long, hard stare. It was the sort of stare that examined every feature so that, when the person punched, they could aim for the nose.
The group’s khers weren’t the only ones armed. Except for the lawmage, all the humans were carrying swords, and a few even had crossbows. Isha had rarely seen a crossbow, so the triangular wooden frame seemed more weighted, more threatening, than the blades. The bolts gleamed in the sunlight like teeth.
Head cocked to one side, Tatters waited until a noticeable distance stretched between them and the intruders. Only then did he tilt the barrel onto its side; the cask spun easily on the smooth earth.
Instead of the route for Arushi’s house, Tatters followed the human procession.
‘You know what this is?’ whispered Isha.
‘All I’ll say is, maybe this is not the right day to be wearing mages’ robes.’ Tatters kept his gaze on the road. He sighed. ‘But then your tattoo says something different.’ He stopped, blocking the barrel with his foot. ‘Look, if this was someone else, any another apprentice, I’d send them home now. Do you think you’re ready for this?’
The streets were quieter here, without any carts, only a few lazy dogs stretched out in the evening sun. A goat was scraping bark off a tree with its horns.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t know what this was about, but she was here to learn.
They resumed struggling with the barrel until they reached the central square. It was where khers set up tents during the night, hemmed in by mudbrick walls, half-crumbled houses, and the high fortifications that circled the city. On the battlements, the khers had splashed paint and sculpted the stone, creating a vibrant, striking mural. Eyes, silhouettes, trees, beasts and birds were drawn in a mess of vivid hues. They towered above the square, dwarfing the people; Isha’s breath caught in her throat.
In the centre of the yard, a few khers were arguing in their own language. Two women were trying to reason with a younger man – Isha thought she could tell, thanks to his shorter horns. He was half-naked, with a tattoo running across his back and his spine, nearly all the way around his waist. At first she couldn’t make out the design, then she worked out that the circle around his bellybutton was an eye, and the large spiral down his side was a chunk of muscle from an animal. The two lines across his stomach must be horns. The tattoo was a stylised version of a bull, she decided, or some other horned, thick-shouldered beast.
Tatters pinched Isha’s sleeve. He steered her towards a chicken coop, a wood and wicker structure with hay inside it. They stood partly hidden between the barrel and the pen, where they had a decent view, but were out of the khers’ line of sight.
I need to remember how Tatters does this, thought Isha. There’s crossing the threshold, and then there’s not outstaying your welcome.
When the human procession reached the square, the khers parted, and Isha spotted what the disagreement was about. A body was laid out on a wooden stretcher, resting against the floor, with a piece of linen in place of a shroud covering it up to the neck. The horns rising from the head curved back in two neat circles.
The man who might have been a butcher took a step forward. ‘What’s the problem, young man?’ He had a booming voice, with an edge of laughter to it.
One kher woman turned to address the men. ‘It’s nothing, sir. It was his idewran who died. His …’ She seemed to struggle to find the right word. ‘You would say father, sir. Like his father.’
