The Ancient Wound: The First Einea Cycle, #1

By Hope C. Dixon

From the oppressed mountain city of Cinura, two young adults - Alrik, a naturalist, and Lumi, a revolutionary - will flee. When they each return, it won't be in ways they expect.

Alrik, falsely accused of terrorism after the mysterious death of a politician, runs for his life. On his journey to safety, he comes across secretive men and bizarre creatures, and begins to piece together who sought to silence him - and, more importantly, why.

Lumi, with a scrappy group of rebels, travels to the bottom of the world, the site of an ancient apocalypse, to gain a supernatural advantage in the coming conflict for her city. What she finds will have serious consequences for the world at large.

Connected by a pair of arcane books of concerning origin, the two will make journeys across land, sea and sky - from the industrial smokestacks of Canalas City to the irradiated and frozen wastelands of Ollossos - and start to uncover trickery all over the world of Einea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hope C. Dixon
• Release date: Aug 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201705237

Hope C. Dixon

My name is Hope C. Dixon, and I'm a (as of publishing this) 23-year-old author from Perth, Western Australia. I've had a passion for wildlife, for flora and fauna, and for creation, since I was very young, writing about far-off worlds since about the age of nine. People, too, have always intrigued me. I'm autistic, only diagnosed as an adult, and so I've taken an almost scholarly approach to understanding how other people work, too. I don't view humans the exact same way I do animals, but I feel like beauty can often shine through them in similar ways. I'm queer - specifically transgender and bisexual - and this also influences my worldview and my characterisation. I've never written a story that centres queerness before, but I consider it an interesting aspect to prod at and challenge through literature. Some of my favourite authors are Ursula K Le Guin, Daniel Abraham, K. A. Applegate, and Brandon Sanderson.

Book preview

PART ONE - DEPARTURE

Chapter 1

The serene face of the iron effigy seemed dishonest to Alrik. Elder Shayid had been much more confused and afraid when he'd died.

Alrik climbed atop the roots of a jacaranda tree and gazed at the crowd. Around him perhaps a thousand people, young and old, were assembled around the effigy of the Elder. The iron statue lay, arms crossed, beside the stream that led to the Anmon Cascade.

Alrik watched as three strong attendants lifted the effigy and laid it in a canoe tied at the mouth of the Cascade, then kneeled.

The Elder Mullamar spoke, his voice crackling with magically enhanced volume. Ears perked up at that. Heavy restrictions on magic in the city meant any display of it turned heads.

Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, and most of us here; friends. We come here today to commemorate a good man.

Elder Mullamar was the oldest elder in the city and looked it, dark skin hanging off his bones. He held himself high, despite his age, his blue ceremonial cloak glowing in the waning light.

Alrik took a purple jacaranda flower and split it with his fingernails. Moisture oozed out. He did it again, flinching as wet dirt gathered on his hands.

He cleaned it out fast, as well as he could. He felt self-conscious, but kept his eyes focused on the bleeding purple flower and breathed deeply. He was there for a reason.

You must find him, he thought.

I hope this spring eve has found you all well, continued the elder. We are here, of course, because we have lost one of our own. One of our Elderate. Shayid. He cleared his throat. The council of Elders is a remnant of our history. While we defer to the parliament in Adrest and the Crown in Canalas City, our great friends, he said, with a thin smile, our Elderate is an heirloom of one of the many far-off cultures that led to our beautiful city’s creation. It’s an old and strange institution, but ah – he smiled.

Sometimes things that are old and strange can be lovely. That’s to the point, really. Elder Shayid was many things, and among those, he was indeed old, and definitely not usual.

A gentle laugh rippled through the crowd.

The service was pleasant, Alrik thought. Kind. That made it worse for him.

Sometimes all we can hope is to die after a good, long life, in a gentle way. A slide into whatever lies beyond with no struggle, no fear. Friends, I feel peace in my heart telling you that Elder Shayid passed in this way, in his garden, playing his favourite hand drum.

Alrik bit his teeth and looked at the ground as Mullamar went into Shayid’s life, from his revamping of the Cinuravese Elementary School program to his interest in painting. Alrik was one of only two people in the city who knew how Shayid had died.

The other was a man, a year older than him at nearly twenty-one, named Baalgali em-Fuahim: The person Alrik was at the funeral to find.

Alrik looked up and brought himself up to his full height. He was still unsure about whether to share what he knew. If he did, who with – the Elderate? The police? Not them. Baalgali was the son of a powerful ambassador, and rich men like that were obsessed with their image.

Alrik cursed and slipped away into the sea of blue houses that made Cinura. Baalgali wasn’t at the funeral.

Down an adobe street, around a corner to a lane where the buildings had been washed the colour of the morning sky by sunlight, Alrik stopped briefly and breathed in the air. It was pure, here, in the mountain city. The cool, clean air floating off the Ollossal Sea to the south diluted the smells of faeces and coal smoke and alcohol that came off the city itself.

The street he stood on sloped down such that, as he reached the top, he could see the ocean itself, ink black between two mountains. He continued on, thinking. His feet took him to a place his mind knew it’d work best – the office and study of Doctor Melalhir, a little, dusty room at the top of the old Lagtower, to the south.

Alrik didn’t have too far to go.

He passed a smattering of urchins playing in the entrance of an ivy-covered alleyway, smiled at them, and turned left, feeling the upward incline in his thin legs. He continued up the curve and reached the mossy base steps of Lagtower, sitting down for a moment to catch his breath.

He opened the door, old white pine with creaky hinges, and trotted bandy-legged up the narrow staircase, surrounded by old rough-cut stone. He knew the tower would be empty – he’d seen Doctor Melalhir in attendance at the funeral. That was good. He needed some quiet.

Alrik slid his key into the lock at the top of the stairs and turned it. The old wooden door pushed open smoothly. Immediately ahead there was a wide window left ajar to circulate the air, fading sunlight bathing the room in egg-yolk orange. Alrik lit some candles in two candelabras around the room with some of Melalhir’s matches and closed the window with a whoosh, pulling the curtains closed.

In the flickering light, the contents of the room both became clearer and more distorted. Along each wall were shelves, stacked high with books and old scrolls and pens, and where there were no books or scrolls, there were jars. In one, the pickled foetus of a magically mutated lizard, with no eyes and stone-flecked skin. In another, the skeleton of a little red frogbird from Canalas City. Crowded between these were an old desk and a rickety chair. The desk was covered in scattered books and papers. Many of them, at a glance from Alrik, were addressed to someone referred to only as ‘K.’ Alrik felt guilty for seeing that much, and didn’t pry further.

In shrouded cases around the edges of the room sat things Alrik couldn’t see – things no one aside from the Doctor may have ever seen. He could only wonder about what they contained.

Sitting down on the chair, he talked to himself.

Yes, hello, good evening, mister em-Fuahim, he said, bowing slightly as he spoke, acting out the scene.

I am afraid – I am terribly sorry to tell you that – I really ought to preface this by saying... well, no, that isn’t right. He slumped down and covered his face with his hands. He tried again, no longer bothering to act out the motions. Mister Em-Fuahim, I am of the knowledge that your son was the triggering factor for the death of the late Elder Shayid. I know this is difficult to hear, and... He trailed off.

He walked to the window and gazed out, opening the curtains a crack. He could see most of the city from his vantage point. Cinura was built into a cirque, with its southern end sloping off downwards to the sea. This meant the southern districts of the city were colder, and the richer Cinures tended to be, the further north they tended to live. In the far north district of Murkurkil, posh, shiny men like the parliamentarians and the Elderate lived luxuriously in vast villas with vaulted ceilings and servant-tended gardens.

Unlike the rest of the city, their houses were not blue, but a cold grey, all ornate and laden with silver and gold. Alrik could see them from his vantage, their grey encircling the blue city like stones around a pond.

Ta ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta-ta ta.

Musical knocking came from the door. Despite himself, Alrik smiled. It was Doctor Melalhir.

Oh, hello Alrik! said the doctor, hobbling into the room. Ibo Melalhir was a short, hunched man who buzzed with energy. His skin was the colour of burnt umber, and his eyes were sparkling and dark. His clothes were black in mourning, but his shoes shone with red velvet, and he had an unusually thick head of snow-white hair. As soon as he entered the room, he got to work, momentarily ignoring Alrik. He adjusted some objects on a shelf, dusting as he went. He reached into his satchel, carefully placing three small succulents on various shelves around the room. He quickly, almost anxiously, folded the many notes and letters he’d had on his desk into drawers and folders, out of sight. He did this all in silence.

Alrik felt the urge to talk bubbling up in his chest like a nasty cough. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The doctor was adjusting a telescope. Alrik spoke, but couldn’t address the elephant in the room immediately. "You attended the elder’s funeral. I saw. Shame about him, hmm?" he said.

The doctor nodded, frowning, turning a dial on his telescope. "Yes. Shayid was a good man. Kinder than most."

Alrik nodded. He looked away, then stared back at the doctor. I saw Elder Shayid die. It wasn’t natural and I know who killed him, he blurted.

All the air escaped the doctor’s body in a puff, and he slumped. After a pause, he sat at his desk and motioned to the other chair in the room. In the candle-lit darkness, the stern-faced doctor might have been made of gold and rusty iron. Sit, child. Explain.

Alrik didn’t want to remember, but he forced himself to, struggling to form the right words.

I was out in the night three days ago walking in Murkurkil, up near the Can’las houses. I’d walked far that night; my mind was wandering. I was troubled, and hoped my walk would help me think. The path I walked went from dirt to paving and then the outermost Can’las house came into view; I didn’t know, but it was Shayid’s. Alrik stuttered. The doctor waited, rigid.

"I stopped on a low brick wall and lit a reed of worrywort; the Cinro pharmacist says it should help my nerves. A while after I started smoking, I saw Baalgali em-Fuahim. At first, I thought he was drunk, stumbling down the path. But as he approached, I felt a change in the air. All the hairs on my skin stood like needles. He was buzzing with electricity, and looked like he lacked control. I’m no magical expert, but I believe he was under the influence of something powerful."

Seems so, said the doctor. Continue.

"Alright. So, I saw Baalgali, saw his state, and I was frightened and decided to leave. I snuffed out my reed and stood. However, once I did, I noticed Mr Shayid walking out into the garden of the nearby house. In his garden, the Elder sat and began making music. I couldn’t see him clearly through the bushes, but I heard him drumming. Something about the drumming must have attracted Baalgali.

I panicked. I thought I could either stay where I was or try to talk to Baalgali. Try and get him to snap out of it before he got anyone hurt. I know him, a little – I’ve done deliveries to his house. So, I went towards him, but the magic was – Alrik shook his head and blew from his cheeks His magic was terrible. I was knocked back like an angry juksha had hit me. My blood felt red-hot. Baalgali continued to the elder, and I think the shock was too much for him, and he dropped. A stopped heart, maybe. I don’t know.

The doctor was silent and pale. They both sat in silence for a moment, and Alrik bit his thumbnail.

The doctor’s eyes looked at nothing. They cleared, and he looked at Alrik. Give me time to think. This changes some things, though I don’t know exactly what. Thank you, Alrik, for letting me know, but you must go from here now. If anyone finds this out, they might be worse than angry. You or I could be less than safe.

Alrik’s stomach twisted. Unsafe? Here, in the tower? Or where? The city?

Melalhir shook his head, stood, and ushered Alrik to the door, hands clasped together. Doesn’t matter. Go home. Don’t tell anyone, don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Keep a low profile.

He closed the door on Alrik, leaving him blinking in the darkness of the stairway. Alrik shook his head and walked down the stairs, stomach abuzz, cringing at shadows.

Alrik was neither poor enough to live in the far south nor rich enough to live anywhere near the north, and so, like most Cinures, he lived somewhere in the middle. For him, it was the district of Coelhar, an area of middling reputation, middling temperature, and government-mandated middlingly sized trees.

His flat was also, vitally, on the border of the district of Cinro, the lower-income trading district. At night there was some distant ruckus, animals kicking up dust, a few torches and arcane lights, but during the day it was a termite mound of activity; the bluish houses framed dozens upon dozens of stalls filled with mountain river fish and jellied eels and boxes of bananas and blueberries and sweets and cheap cloth. Merchants called out to passers-by and shouted monkeys away from their produce, and small colcol cats stretched out on rooftops to soak up the milky sun.

Alrik’s mother and father, respectively a smithy and a tailor, journeyed to the Cinro Marketplace daily to sell their wares.

He inhaled deeply, trudging on, approaching his flat. In arcane light, he saw a shape upon the doormat. A colcol cat, lounging in some of the heat seeping under the door from inside.

"Come here, colcola," said Alrik, picking up the feline, which went limp in his hands. He walked a distance and placed the cat down, brushing its side with his hand.

Go have a bath, little one.

Alrik walked back to and opened the door and the warmth from inside made him flush. He smiled and took off his shoes and heard his father complain from the other end of the room.

"What is wrong with this naca bloody calefactor?"

Alrik’s eyes adjusted to the firelight from the hearth, and he saw his mother and father standing before a dingy old arcane machine. The heating element stood in the centre of the contraption, drooping.

Alrik’s mother stood beside her husband in a deep blue nightgown – always one for comfortable clothes, like her son – and regarded the calefactor with disdain.

Alrik’s mother tottered over, not so fast as she used to be after her sickness five years past, but still frighteningly fast, and as Alrik remembered when she wrapped her arms around him, remarkably strong, too. He felt the air go out of him like a squeezed pair of bellows.

She patted him on the back. Gods, Alrik, I swear you grow taller and skinnier by the day. You should have taken my offer to work at the Cinro bread stand – some Canalas loaf from the bread bins might fatten you up a little. She paused, glancing at her husband.

Alrik’s father was leaning down and tinkering with the moribund heater, the panel on its backside unscrewed and open. Arvid, say hello to your son.

Alrik’s father grunted and then turned around, his face softening. He walked to his son and took him into his burly arms, and Alrik was once again gratefully crushed. The pressure made him feel secure. His father let go and took another look at the calefactor. His father truly was a man, broad-shouldered and muscled, with only a little softening in the middle from age.

Alrik was told that he took much more after his uncle Foskir, his mother’s brother. A tall and thin man. Another beanpole.

Alrik’s father turned and regarded his son with his dark eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. Tell me, son. What do you know about calefactors? About, er, other such machines? You have some general knowledge in many areas.

Alrik hesitated. His mind was so full already. Alrik’s mother glanced at them both, exhaling gently, and waddled to the kitchen.

"Upa, I think you’ve gotten me wrong, said Alrik. My free time comprises wandering the outskirts and in-skirts of the city writing about interesting plants and animals. My favourite part of yesterday was when I found a perfectly preserved egg laying on the ground. I know about as much about calefactors as a juksha knows about mathematics."

In any case, said Alrik’s father. You’re smaller than me, and your hands are smaller than mine. Root around in there for me, will you? Any mez you find in there are yours. Gods know, some have probably ended up in there.

This turned out to be lucrative. Three double-mez coins had somehow accumulated within the turns of the calefactor; Gods knew why.

Alrik pocketed them and then reached into the back of the machine and pulled out a vial of gelatinous liquid. It was green in a way that suggested former vibrance, but now held a closer resemblance to sputum. Alrik grimaced and handed it to his father, who held it limply, unsure what to do with it.

There’s your problem, said Alrik, his chest swelling with the authority of his limited knowledge of the subject, as he rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. The toxaument vial that provides the heater’s power has expired.

His father scowled at the small glass tube. "Expired? I bought the nacas thing last tenday. A bloody robbery, that’s what it is. I’ll be sure to speak to Mr em-Kaddin on Sufur street, I swear. What’s the point of spending so much if we have to use the smoky old fireplace, anyway?" He closed the inner panel with a huff. The heating element wobbled and then fell off.

Alrik’s mother called out from the kitchen. Will you be having dinner with us tonight, Alrik? He looked at his mother in confusion. She never asked him that. She would just tell him.

His mother stood there, frumpy in her nightclothes, clutching a spatula and a dish filled with potatoes covered in city spices. Her expression was genuine. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But then why did she ask?

"No, thank you, uma. I’m quite tired and would like to retire to my room. Please keep some food cool for me if there’s any left after you’re done."

Alrik’s mother looked at him and nodded. She put the pan down and motioned to him.

He walked to her, and she embraced him again. It was still strong, this time, but not so hard. It was deeper, almost, like she was trying to keep him there with the force of her arms alone. The hug broke, and it looked like she might cry, though Alrik didn’t know why. Goodnight, my son, she said.

His father clapped him on the shoulder and said the same. Alrik walked down the short hall to the door of his room. He looked back for a moment, then opened the door and collapsed onto his bed.

He pulled a linen and alpaca wool quilt over himself and curled into a foetal pose. The doctor’s words played in his head and carried cold fear with them. A low profile. If only he could keep that with a clear conscience.

I must tell someone, he thought. I need to tell Baalgali himself.

Chapter 2

L umi! Lumi, wake up . You’re slipping.

Lumi opened her eyes. She felt ill and dissociative from the hours of touching the Layer beyond. The tang of the toxaument pine needles was still strong on her teeth, but their effect was fading. Gimme a bit more to chew, will you? she asked Aurin, cracking her neck.

He passed her a handful and she grabbed it, grinding it up between her teeth. It tasted like cut grass. She closed her eyes. Time to focus. Time to cross back over, and to not slip again.

The toxaument mixed with the spit in her mouth, and the warm night air before her dilated like the pupil of an eye. The world she saw before her was altered. Tilted. From this new angle, she could feel further. The next layer, the Quodrine, floated beneath the seen world like water under oil. It was exciting and sickening, and it made her stomach lurch. She raised her hands and looked out, seeing the contractions of air from Elder Mullamar’s mouth, and willing them stronger, louder. The other sonoranteer, a boy named Taksin, thanked her silently from the other side of the Anmon Courtyard. Hopefully, the volume hadn’t dipped too much when she went under.

Time felt different through the Quodrine. Sitting there in her corner, fingers outstretched, what could have been hours or minutes slipped by and she felt her magic fade. Mullamar’s speech stopped, and Elder Shayid’s family and friends, his many grandchildren, and their terribly off-tune musical performance finally left.

Six mouthfuls of tox were more than enough for the night, and the sky was brightening. Lumi lowered her shaking hands, sat back, and closed her eyes. She severed her connection to the Quodrine with a big hacking spit onto the ground next to her, and her stomach dropped.

Aurin was by her side, one strong arm around her shoulders. Welcome back to the world, Lume, he said. His voice was low and playful. You did good, sis, eh? Most of the mourners have stumbled home by now. You can rest. He sighed. So that’s fifteen half-mezzevos. That’s good.

Is it enough for the piss test they’re going to make me take in a tenday to ensure I didn’t sneak any home? she asked.

He laughed. "Two tendays of good bread and butter for a little discomfort on your part? That’s definitely something I’m ready to deal with."

Lumi poked her brother hard in the ribs.

Now, I know you do well with sound. I saw some of your work last night; it was good. For someone of your experience, your skills as a sonoranteer are above average.

Lumi smiled, but her smile had a sour tinge. For whatever reason, her mentor had opted to leave the funeral early last night, absent for most of the time she was casting. She wanted to know why; Gods knew Doctor Melalhir was the only person in the city, perhaps the entire country, who knew enough about magic to teach it to her. But she kept her mouth shut. If now was the time she had to learn, she would learn. Thank you, Doctor.

The doctor laughed. He sat heavily on his desk chair, reaching underneath it.

Lumi sat across from him on a stool, the cramped space of his Lagtower office around them.

"I know you do well with sound, he restated. And that is commendable. Manipulating sound requires a certain alacrity and quickness of wit. However, sound carries no physical weight. As a magicworker, the bulk – he chuckled at that, – Of your work is dealing with tactile things. Hence, the boiled water test." He took the item from under the desk. It was a glass kettle with an iron bottom.

You want me to boil water with magic? Is putting the kettle over a fire too cheap and easy? said Lumi flatly.

Melalhir looked at her evenly, his face stern. I want you to boil the water in this kettle. It’s room temperature right now. Take your tox.

Lumi shrugged and did so, reaching into the pocket of her rough trousers and procuring a vial. Inside was a dark green liquid flecked with purple and white. She pulled the cork out with a ‘careful!’ from the doctor and downed it. She blinked and snorted as it entered her body, was absorbed into her throat and from there her veins and muscles and brain. Her heart sped up, but her breathing slowed and deepened. Melalhir appeared before her, as she opened her eyes, like a shifting oil painting.

That was better than last time; either it was a more pleasant mix, or she was getting used to it.

Maintain your grip on the usual world, cautioned the Doctor.

His words came at Lumi as if through a long tunnel. Images arrived in her mind a half second after she saw them. She closed her eyes, outstretching an arm, and exhaled, focusing. When she opened her eyes once more, the blur had receded to the edges of her vision. She could see each individual hair, mole, and follicle on the Doctor’s face in exquisite and uncomfortable detail.

The glass of the kettle no longer looked smooth and uniform, but was now a cracked, bumpy landscape, like a great sheet of scarred ice. The iron at its bottom looked like a mountain face, flecked with rust and impurities that now looked enormous. The water looked largely the same as it had; whatever smaller parts it was made of were harder to see individually. Still, she focused on it, tracing its movements by the tiny particulates of iron and dust floating within. They looked as big as stones. With a psychosomatic shaking of her right hand, she made the patch of water boil. She took what made up the water and made it shake.

Interesting tack, said the Doctor, the words bouncing around the tunnel before reaching her.

Lumi stopped and watched as the agitated water boiled and then, mixing with the cool water in the rest of the kettle, mellowed out. She puzzled over that. How best should she heat the water, if it was impossible to heat the whole kettle’s worth by working on the water directly? She snapped her fingers. I’ve got it, she said. I just have to –

Lumi! came a shout from the door. Come quick!

Fuck! Lumi’s connection to the Quodrine shook, and she vomited in her mouth, turned around and fell off her chair. The shouter was Girrin Halver, a thin girl with eyes like wide bowls, hair like embers, and an affinity for puffy beige skirts. The one she was wearing now billowed as she ran towards Lumi, thrown up with the wind from outside. Slender fingers gripped Lumi’s broad back, and she felt them through the Quodrine’s film.

Doctor Melalhir handed her something – the kettle – and she knelt, shaking, and pushed two fingers down her throat. She gagged and vomited again, losing her breakfast and the magic.

The toxaument floated in the kettle’s torpid water like a foul tea.

The Quodrine faded to the periphery of Lumi’s mind, and she slumped again, Girrin’s bony arms supporting her. She let the small girl help her up.

The doctor stood still, observant and concerned. He looked to Girrin. I trust you have an excellent reason for interrupting Miss Hellemar’s studies.

Girrin looked at him with disgust and began to lead her friend away. When she stopped to speak, Lumi heard everything as if through rushing water. I don’t know how you convinced Lumi to be your little magic experiment, right, because she’s usually smart. If you touch her, I swear to Mond, I’ll throw you out of this tower.

The doctor went white, and Girrin spat at the ground. "Aye, don’t think no one knows about that because people do. You touch my friend and I’ll fucking cut you. I don’t care how magical you are, you old limpet," she said.

Lumi quietly protested, but Girrin shushed her as she led her out.

It was soon after sunrise, and the air was clear and crisp.

Girrin held Lumi’s hand and waved down a bright red carriage, driven by a broad man with a tall hat, a moustache, smoking a fat cigar. His clothes had the cut and style of Murkurkil, but they were wool instead of cotton. A wannabe rich man.

Girrin reached into her pockets and pulled out a fat handful of mez. The coins glittered upon her hand in the morning light. We want to get to Ollol, please, sir. Far as you’ll take us. Got a little brother in the south side.

The driver eyed the money.

Girrin handed it to him, and he bagged it in a satchel by his side. Very well. Won’t stay long so my juksha don’t freeze. Hop in, girls.

Girrin helped Lumi inside, and Lumi rested her head on Girrin’s lap. The inside of the carriage was lined with yellow mildewy velvet. From the ceiling hung a small arcane light, currently unlit.

The driver commanded the two powerful gracile juksha into a light trot. The wheels of the carriage creaked and turned.

Lumi stirred. Girrin, you can’t spend that much money just to get us across the city.

Girrin shushed her, stroking her head. My ma and pa give me more than I need, Lume, you know that. Plus, we need to get, ah, there, she said, lowering her voice. We’re bloody late. Lots of things to talk about.

Like the expedition. Lumi sat up, most of the green gone from her face.

Girrin sighed and stopped stroking Lumi’s hair. Yes, including the expedition. Tell me, Lumi, why can’t you just stay here and fight it with us? What is it about that frozen fucking wasteland that has you so enamoured?

Lumi was silent for a moment. She opened the curtain. People had begun their daily activities, setting up their stalls and hugging their loved ones goodbye as they headed off to work. Everywhere were sunwaaks, musket over their shoulders. A noodle cart was being shouted off their place by one of them and moved to somewhere it’d be less in the way of pedestrians – and not sell as well.

The snow, Gir.

Girrin blinked. You can get fucking snow at home, Lumi.

You know that’s not what I mean. Down there is the biggest magical leak in Einea. People are afraid to go. We take back a square metre of snow, boil that down, access the magic in it...

Girrin begrudgingly nodded. It’d be useful. It’d give us an edge.

A huge one.

If, and only if, we were able to use it. There’s a chance it wouldn’t work. We couldn’t access it, or it’d be too bloody strong. We’d burn our arms off or some shit.

I’m willing to risk a lot for that chance, said Lumi. She spoke softly, her arm hanging limply out the window. They turned onto a street where the dark sea could be seen more clearly, the landmass of the frozen island Upollos paper-thin against the horizon. Lumi daydreamed and hoped she would be there soon, on her way to the bottom of the world.

Chapter 3

Alrik awoke, cold and contorted, with mist licking the outside of his room’s little window. His room was spare, just his bed and his shelf and five books on various kinds of natural history. He moved, groaning.

He felt cold and not only because of the chill in the air. He felt drained of life, tired though he had just awoken. He climbed up on the bed and looked out the window. He could barely see a thing for the mist. He suddenly felt terrifically lonely. In that room, with that mist, he might as well have been the last person in Einea. He could have called for his parents for comfort, but he didn’t want to bother them. Melancholia was no cause for being a nuisance.

He did not fall asleep quickly, but sat for an hour beforehand in painful silence.

The sun rose over the blue city and burned the mist away. In the night there had been thunder, but the sky was clear now.

Alrik awoke with a finality that meant he wouldn’t see sleep again. He thought of all the other people waking up – the children in their homes. The Elderate. Baalgali.

He clicked his tongue thrice – a nervous tic – and got dressed.

Undershirt is sweaty again, discard it. Underclothes. Shirt. Breeches. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped black hair and washed his face with water left in a bucket in the house’s main room.

It was mundane. He tapped himself on the head with the heels of his hands, as if that would unplug some reservoir of clear thought in his foggy mind. It didn’t. He went to give his hair another look in the mirror and then turned away, shaking his head.

He stepped out onto the street and was met with a wall of smell and sound. Spices, sweat, and meats wafted from busy nearby Cinro, with the sounds of squabbling humans, grumbling juksha and chattering monkeys. Quieter among them were the colcol cats.

Where was Alrik walking to? He was not entirely sure. He knew what he was walking towards, at least. Baalgali. He needed to talk to him. He hadn’t looked self-aware when he’d killed Shayid. He had to know what he’d done if he didn’t already know. Alrik had to tell him.

It’s not reasonable, the logical part of Alrik’s mind told him. It changes nothing whether he knows or not. Let it go.

But he couldn’t. He had to do the right thing.

It was Ochtdi, the first day of the weekend, so the streets were busy – even Sarrayup street, far from Cinro, was buzzing. There was some chance he’d see Baalgali on the street; that would make the ‘finding Baalgali’ part of his problem relatively easy. However, the ‘telling Baalgali he was guilty of manslaughter’ part, Alrik thought, was likely to be harder.

The chance was slim, anyway. Baalgali was a rich boy and lived up in Can’las Town.

Alrik took a step to the side of the road, remembering the worrywort and papers in his coat pocket. He fumbled around with sweaty hands. Taking a small piece of paper and a tube of dried wort, he rested against the speckled blue of a low house and began assembling a cigarette. He looked dead ahead, trying to ignore the people walking by. He licked the edge of the paper and rolled the herb in, striking the match against the wall of the house. It lit, and he burned the cigarette and closed his eyes.

The drum beat in his chest settled a little, and the knife of self-consciousness lost a little of its edge. He looked up at the sky. It was mostly clear. A rare sight.

Alrik heard men shouting and looked back down to the street.

As he watched, a huge white juksha bucked its rider off its saddle and bolted, trailing a length of thick, frayed rope. People scattered as the creature charged past, barrel-chested and puffing and stomping the ground with chunky footpads. Its eyes and nostrils were wide with fright, and it flicked its ears nervously, tail whipping.

Sorry! Sorry! said Alrik, pushing past someone as he made chase.

The creature bellowed as it crashed headfirst into a cart filled with lychees and plumbs, wooden splinters bouncing harmlessly off its leathery hide, then backed out, kicking dust into a thick cloud.

Policemen – the sunset walkers, or ‘sunwaaks’ after their bright orange uniforms – pointed their muskets at the animal, but Alrik waved his hands, trying to stop or at least distract them, as the creature continued its rampage. His heart was beating so hard it hurt his chest.

Hey, hey, hey! It’s okay! We’re handling this! he shouted to the sunwaaks. He could not let the creature be shot.

The juksha took a sharp turn through an alley and Alrik followed, stumbling after it onto Cinura’s main street, where everything was somehow brighter, louder, and smellier. He turned, running into another alleyway, where decrepit people were consuming odd-smelling substances just out of the hubbub of the main drag, and then turned into a smaller, less populated road. The alleys were mazelike, but he knew the way.

Alrik took a running jump and grabbed onto the lip of an alley wall and pulled himself up, looking over. This alley was higher than the main street, and he could see the juksha continuing its trail of destruction north, approaching the outskirts of Murkurkil.

Alrik grimaced – Murkurkil was filled with the kind of people who’d gladly kill an animal to maintain the integrity of their front lawns.

Catch it, and hide it away somewhere until people calm down, he thought, dropping from the wall. Protect it.

Alrik ran through the alleys, acid building in his muscles, making his body pulse with pain, to reach the creature without drawing the attention of the crowds in the main street. He wasn’t sure what he’d do when or if he caught up with the creature.

But if it’s going Murkurkil-ways anyway, he thought to himself, why not?

He thought of a few reasons, but chose not to acknowledge them.

At last, the beast was directly beside him, the two of them separated by only a thin alley wall. He could hear it panting and grumbling. So, seeing the fence ending, he breathed deeply and leapt around the corner, ready to stop the beast; to help it, hopefully. In doing so, he collided with someone.

Moons! the woman shrieked, tumbling over and spilling her colourful skirts.

Alrik stumbled and yelped as he hit the cobbled stone. He scrambled to his feet and ran towards the woman.

The juksha, bellowing, thundered past.

Ay-oor, I am so sorry, Alrik said, grasping the woman’s arm and helping her up.

She glared at him with watery blue eyes, dusting off her dress.

You’re lucky the road this way is cobble and not dirt, boy, she said. Otherwise, my dress would be ruined. I’m on my way to a wedding, for Mond’s sake.

Alrik looked at the dust still hanging in the air. He’d never catch the juksha now.

Alrik had heard accents like hers before, but he couldn’t place hers – was she from Canalas City? Her paper-white skin would have suggested as much, though skin colour varied wildly in Cinura.

She warned him to be more careful and turned to leave.

A thought struck him. Hello! Excuse me, I’m sorry but –

"What is it, donnai?" she interrupted. She held herself like one of the penguins Alrik had seen once caged by a street vendor – high, proud, and unintentionally silly.

What wedding is it – is the one you are attending? Alrik stammered.

The woman narrowed her eyes and looked him up and down.

He wasn’t wearing rags, but he wasn’t dressed like a citizen of Murkurkil.

The wedding of Darrus Brindle and Maria. The nephew of the bloody king.

She left, trotting north.

His pride wounded a little, Alrik watched as a sweaty-looking farmer type, puffing hard, streaked past where the juksha had gone. Alrik laughed under his breath. Maybe it won’t get caught. It could reach the edge of the city and run free, he thought. The idea was unrealistic but comforting.

He began to walk north, too. The nephew of the king of Canalas himself, ruler of half the continent, here in Cinura? That sounded like a honeypot for men with too much money. Men with too much money and, Alrik hoped, their sons.

Some said Cinura was first coloured blue because of the peace its founders wanted it to represent. Others said it was an offering to a Kandrii god. Some said it was chosen because the colour somehow repelled mosquitoes. In any case, the city was not a uniform colour; with differing sun damage throughout, minutely different shades of paint, and the many minds and cultures that had formed the city, no two houses were the same shade of blue. A humble cyan jutted against a deep pelagic storehouse, and many smaller buildings for various uses: coloured pale and bright, purplish, and greenish, but always blue.

Alrik used these differences to mark his journey; the houses became paler and their paint scabbier towards the outskirts of town before the colonial houses began.

He ran his hand across a rough wall, brick covered in hard clay and painted over in lapis. He passed a great steaming building with an ornate silver door and noises inside. A small sign in Nuarec by the door said, ‘remove shoes before entering,’ in faded and flaking gold filigree. From the outside it looked like a brothel, but it smelled like fetid skins and bleach.

Alrik wrinkled his nose. Passing the dye-house, Alrik felt the incline in his legs, and turned to see a lengthy procession of wedding goers, flocking like geese up a switchback. Their dresses were in the colours of Dubcloch; thundercloud grey, gold, white and noon-sky blue. The king’s colours. Some of them hoisted little flags. Even in Can’las town, they stuck out.

The procession flowed through Can’las