12 – 3
In this late hour, the shrouded streets of Port Viara are emptied of all but the four of us: Clarke, worn and weary by her own deed, kept upright by the tatters of her icy will; Leda, bruised and beaten no more, helping her healer to walk while her eyes yearn for home; Juliana, steady and sure as always, ready to catch them if they should stumble or fall; and then there is me.
I am the one who sees. I see the hollow in my magi's eyes, how they are dull and dim when they should be bright and keen. I see the fear in my sister's form, how she cannot stop herself from searching every passing shadow. I see the tremble in a knight's hands, how the calm she wears is no deeper than a mask.
If there was a way I could help, I would. Though, what can I do? What skill do I possess that would put them at ease? What promise can I give that would make them feel better? There must be something, yet as I wrack my mind and the streets drift by, I find that I can offer little, save for something to think about that has nothing to do with what troubles them.
It works on my brothers. “Leda,” I say, and she startles badly, then looks quite ashamed that she did.
She gathers up her pride and wraps herself in it. Pretends nothing happened and says, “What's on your mind, little sister?”
“When you leave here,” I ask, “where will you go?”
A little victory trills through me as she hums, thoughtful. For just a moment, for just this moment, she leaves a shadow unseen. Her shoulders unwind and drop, her eyes go distant as she looks far, far beyond the fog. Clarke murmurs something. Leda's mouth twitches up, as much a smile as she's given since we found her. She gives Clarke's shoulder a squeeze and jostles her with her hip. “There was talk of a contract for us to carry mail to the Bend, but with...everything...that's not happening.” Her hair falls into her face and she tosses it back. “South, if I get any say. Down the winsome road and east, to the City of Sails. See the ocean. Smell the salt in the air.” She breathes deep, as if she already can. “Have you seen it?” she asks us, “The ocean?”
I shake my head. Juliana does as well, saying, “I've seen the lake, though. How different can they be?”
“Very,” Clarke croaks in answer. Joy to see her so recovered fills and warms my heart. Mistake me not, she looks terrible, but that's much improved. At her side, and still mostly holding her upright, Leda nods her agreement.
“That's hard to believe,” Juliana comments, crossing her arms. She looks stern and doubtful. Her eyes flicker to me, meet my own. She winks. “nor is it much of an answer.”
Leda rolls her dark eyes and shares a look with Clarke; the ocean-seeing bemused with the ocean-blind. “Shall I count the ways, then?” she asks.
“You may as well,” I answer, emboldened by so simple a thing as a subtle wink. “She'll never believe you otherwise.”
“Weren't we on the same ship?” Juliana asks of me, arch and playful, “Didn't we see the same waves, the same...vast, watery horizons?”
“I...” Clarke pauses to clear her throat. A teasing glint sparks in her once-dull eyes. “I don't remember that.”
“Of course you don't,” I say, turning to walk backwards for a moment so that I can look her in the eye, “You spent the trip with your head in a bucket.”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Leda clucks her tongue, shakes her head. “Couldn't find your sea-stride, daughter of Valdenwood?” she asks, rich with humor and sympathy.
“No,” Clarke answers, narrowing her eyes at us both, “I couldn't. And don't – that's not my name.”
“Oh?” Dark eyes glimmer. A smile hidden in the far corner of her mouth, where Clarke couldn't see it. “It's not? How rude of me! How shall I call you, then?”
A withering look from open-sky eyes. “Just Clarke.”
Juliana looms large behind us, hands falling onto mine and Leda's shoulders. Warm and solid, strong and gentle. “You never did tell me,” she says, “I'm starting to think there – is – no difference, and you're having some fun at my expense.”
“I would never!” Leda protests, now smiling in full. “You're a knight! A captain of knights, even! I would only ever treat you with due respect.”
A large hand gives a little shake. “I can throw you in the lake, you know.”
She snorts a laugh, reaching back to pat the hand upon her shoulder. “But you won't. All right, listen well: it's the salt. Your lake has none. The ocean's filled with it.” She goes on, as does the play of tease and argument, until we pass beyond the Port's southern gate. In the quarter-mile distance are cookfires in the protection of circled wagons, siblings missing their sister, and a mother missing her daughter.
- - -
It feels as if a day has passed since last I was here, rather than the scarce few hours it's truly been. I'd fled the place, hurling myself away from the home Lenn shared with her daughter. It wasn't Leda's absence that drove me to run, but my own confusion and frustration. Now, with the worst of this misery behind us, I realize there was also fear. When a daughter of the Lost needed her mother most, she was nowhere to be found. If it were me in that cell, with violence and violation promised, would my mother do as Leda's had?
I know the answer I wish for. Also, the answer I fear. All I can comfort myself with is knowing that it didn't happen, and it won't. I'll make sure of it. I pay no heed to the little whisper of a thought that chooses now, of all times, to come crawling forth. I should think Leda thought the same, it says, even as she herself steps forward to meet the man peeling himself free of the fog's shroud.
It's him. The bitter-tongue. He lifts the hood from his lantern to cast its light over us, nearly dropping it when the steady gleam plays over her. “Leda?” His voice is hoarse when he breathes her name, hope and doubt and disbelief there in equal measure. She nods, smile flickering across her mouth. He covers his with a shaking hand. “Is it – am I – This is not a dream.”
“You dream of me?” she asks. She aims to tease, I should think, but misses her mark. All there is pure relief and naked joy. “How sweet.”
His dark eyes shine in the light of his lantern. A cool hand slips into mine while another, large and warm, falls between my shoulders. He chokes out a sound caught between sob and laugh. The first tear spills from his eyes and he confesses, “I was afraid that – we all thought you'd be – ”Dead. He stops himself, not daring to say it.
“So did I,” Leda says, “but I'm not. I'm not even hurt.” She steps forward and opens her arms. It's all the invitation the bitter-tongue needs to let his lantern fall to the grass and rush into her embrace. They weep into each other's shoulders and rock each other, slow and gentle. They whisper to each other, reassurance and promise falling with their tears.
It's love, but of a kind I cannot put to name. It is not that of siblings, parents, or lovers, but there is no denying. Even the blind would see. “Your mother,” he says, when he can bring himself to pull away, “is going to – kill – you.”
Leda laughs, even as she cries, and says, “Not this time.” she sniffs, scrubs her knuckle beneath her nose, and asks, “How is she?”
“Miserable,” he answers, and she laughs again. He touches her cheek, runs his thumb beneath her eye. “Making all of us miserable, too.”
“She's good at that,” Leda says.
He snorts and turns his head to call, “Fetch Lenn!” back into the camp. There follows the sound of movement and the murmur of the call being passed deeper into the wagons. Somehow, he manages to look away from Leda long enough to see us. “I'm sorry,” he says, “You – thank you, and...I'm sorry.”
There's a knot in my throat, too thick for me to do anything but smile. Clarke says nothing, merely waving her free hand. It's Juliana who has the composure to speak, if only just. “It's alright,” she manages to say, though her rich is hoarse with held-back tears. He nods, his eyes awash with a fresh flood of tears, and buries his face in Leda's neck. She holds him, presses a kiss to his hair, and it's not long until Lenn's voice makes itself heard.
“Where is she?! Get out of my way, I need to wring my daughter's neck! I'm going to tan every inch of her inconsiderate hide! I'm going to – to shave her head! I'm gonna hobble her, like a horse, so she can't get into any more – trouble – ! Where is she?! Where is my – ” Lenn, a robe over her nightgown and dirty slippers on her feet, erupts from the fog. Whatever else she meant to say dies in her mouth. One hand flies to her mouth, the other to her chest. Tears glitter in the eyes she gave her daughter, and not one spills out.
“Mom,” Leda gasps. She tears herself free of one embrace to throw herself into another.
Lenn rocks back a step from the force of it, wrapping her arms around her daughter and holding her tight. She rubs Leda's back, strokes her daughter's hair, and shushes her tears. She closes her eyes and lifts her face to the heavens, lips moving in silent prayer.
Then, she takes her full-grown daughter's face in her hands and asks, “And what time of night do you call this, hm?”