The Winds of Kalmor
He tilted his head to one side. His ruined senses sometimes glitched without warning. He waited for the low buzzing to fade, then stepped past the woman and into the tent.
The bitter scent of burned herbs hung thick in the dim space; they must have been at it all night. Beneath it lingered another smell, faint and unsettling, like fruit on the verge of rotting. It was the strange scent that had begun to cling to the woman’s skin.
He held his breath for a moment, then drew the air in slowly. Quietly, he called her name.
“Thalia.”
No answer came, yet he could feel her presence. He moved deeper into the cluttered space, boots crunching over scattered bowls, bottles, and cups, his eyes sweeping the shadows. His steps halted when he saw the pile of clothes beside the rumpled bed.
He crouched before the large chest in the corner and lifted the lid with care. Curled inside, small and tight, was a familiar shape.
His body reacted again, a strange, hollow kick beneath the ribs. He steadied himself and laid a hand on her shoulder.
The woman, face buried against her knees, slowly raised her head. Beneath lashes heavy with tears, her eyes shone—pure, unclouded blue, like something that lived only in the deepest sea. Clear tears glistened across skin so pale it seemed translucent.
He cupped her damp cheek, thumb brushing the faintly reddened chin, then gently tipped her head back. Thin scratches marked the slender column of her throat. While he studied them, her cracked voice slipped between blood-red lips.
“The monsters… did you drive them all away?”
He met her gaze again. Those deep blue irises trembled like water about to spill.
He remembered the first time he had looked into them—the day his color returned, the first hue he had seen.
A tightness seized his throat. He drew a long breath, forced his stiff limbs to move, and gathered her up. Her arms wound around his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A soft, broken sob soaked into the taut skin of his throat.
“I thought they’d taken you again.”
Barcas tightened his hold. Never again. The words hovered on his tongue, then sank back down his throat. Since the accident, he swallowed his words more often than he spoke them in her presence. The unspoken things piled inside him like sediment, pressing against his ribs until his brow furrowed. He smoothed a hand down her narrow, trembling back.
Her rigid body gradually softened, curling pliantly against him. When he eased her head from his shoulder to look at her face, her eyes were half-closed with exhaustion. He brushed a thumb over her drooping golden lashes, then adjusted his grip on her slipping form and scanned the tent.
An overcoat hung from one of the tent poles. He snatched it down, draped it over her, and carried her outside.
He crossed the camp at a brisk pace. Several mounted warriors paused in their work dismantling tents to watch with curious eyes. Barcas pulled the coat higher, covering her to the crown of her head.
Those men had stared at her like starving dogs ever since she was barely five kvets tall. And she, terrified of them, sometimes exposed herself to their gazes anyway—as though she would not mind being torn apart.
He drew her closer to his chest and quickened his stride, shaking off their lingering looks.
Inside his own tent he laid her on the bed. Her body, noticeably thinner after only a few months, came into sharp focus. A sigh rose in his throat.
The worst part was how the thinness sharpened her beauty into something dangerous. His gaze slid over the delicate line of her throat, the sharp points of her shoulders, the prominent collarbones. He looked away toward the tent flap.
The young page who had followed him for service was staring at her. What remained of Barcas’s nerves sharpened to a razor’s edge.
He dismissed the servants and fastened the entrance tightly. It was not the wisest choice. The tent quickly filled with the cloying sweetness of her scent. A strange thirst burned in his throat; he swallowed dryly.
He raked a hand through his still-damp hair and glanced at her again. Tear tracks had dried on her pale cheeks. Years-old words she had once sobbed in terror echoed in his mind.
“He said it. Like he was addicted… he said he couldn’t stop looking for it… over and over.”
Barcas bit the soft flesh inside his cheek until the taste of blood bloomed. He tapped his temple once, twice, then picked up the overcoat from the corner and stepped outside.
The metallic tang of blood filled his lungs. He breathed it in deeply, trying to scour the cloying scent from his senses. Barakan, already armed, approached.
“Preparations are nearly complete. Once your tent is struck, we can leave at once. Shall we begin now?”
“In one hour,” Barcas said, voice low.
He paused, then added, “Let everyone rest first. We depart after that.”
A faint, knowing smile touched the man’s lips. He shrugged lightly. “As you command.”
Barakan turned to relay the order to his men. Barcas settled onto a waterskin and gazed through the dense line of trees toward the distant Nordern Plains. A dry wind scraped across his cheek. An oddly familiar scent drifted on the air. He tried to place it, but a wolf’s long, mournful howl rose from the forest’s edge.
He turned his head. The mournful sound stretched across the trees.
* * *
Her weakened body could not endure the long journey. Fever took her. Thalia lay staring at the swaying canvas ceiling, breath coming in shallow gasps. The carriage moved no faster than a walk, yet even that gentle rocking felt like torture.
She pressed both hands to her splitting head.
Outside, a sharp horn blast sounded. Had they finally reached their destination? She struggled upright and peered through the window. In her fever-bright vision, the vast plain stretched endlessly. Lush green grassland met the sky, and a strong wind whipped across it.
She opened the window and let the cool air wash over her burning face.
“That is Kalmor.”
The sudden voice startled her. A man rode alongside the carriage, smiling warmly as he drew nearer.
“I am Tyrone. We were introduced before—do you remember?”
Thalia pressed her lips together and fixed him with a wary stare. His smile faltered slightly. He studied her for a moment, then continued gently, undeterred by her coldness.
“You do not look well.”
“……”
“We will reach Laedgo Castle soon. There—can you see the walls?”
He pointed ahead.
Thalia followed his gesture. At the horizon’s edge rose gray-brown walls the color of ash and sand. She leaned farther out the window for a better view.
Laedgo Castle looked as though it had been built from massive, piled stones. Thick, undecorated outer walls climbed the hillside without a single gap. Above them rose towers and keeps, all sharp angles and straight lines.
Unconsciously, she wrapped a hand around the back of her neck. A chill traced her spine. Perhaps it was only the bleakness of the place she would now call home.