Chapter 21: Mystery at the Dorks
Xiall's blood turned to ice as the figure vanished. No---not vanished, but faded, as though it had been made of vapor. One moment it was etched against the sun, and the next it dissolved like smoke in the wind. The sky was clear again, almost mocking in its brightness.
Yet the dread remained.
He felt hollow, as if something vast had looked at him and then turned away, leaving an afterimage burned into his gut. His breath came shallow, uneven. The riot, the flames, the screaming mob---all of it suddenly seemed like noise, a distraction from the real horror: that whatever was up there had seen him.
His hand brushed his pale hair. Too white, too unnatural. His eyes, almost colorless, set him apart from everyone around him. Was that why it noticed him? Or---his heart lurched---had it seen deeper? Into him?
He shuddered at the thought. For an instant he had felt it: a faint tug at the edge of his mind, as though his thoughts were being unraveled. What if it had glimpsed his nightmares? The ruins of Eden? The Tree that haunted his visions? What if all of it was laid bare to that colossal gaze?
No. He could not dwell on it. If he believed that, then it meant the thing knew too much. It meant his life was already forfeit.
He clenched his teeth. He didn't want to burn like the woman in the square, screaming while strangers cheered. He didn't want to vanish as a nameless oddity. Not before he uncovered who he truly was. Not before he untangled the visions that plagued him.
He wanted freedom. Freedom from fear, from lies, from the gaze of things that shouldn't exist.
And yet, another thought intruded. Perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps the figure hadn't cared about him at all. There was a slim chance---but he wasn't willing to gamble his sanity on it.
He inhaled sharply, trying to calm the tremor in his chest.
"What ails you now?"
The voice struck like a knife.
Tiffany. Her auburn hair shifted with the wind, catching stray beams of light. She was watching him. Not the road, not the cart---him.
His heart stumbled. He had been frozen, staring at nothing, long enough for her to notice. Too long. She already watched him too closely. Last night at supper, her sharp eyes had picked out his unease. If she grew suspicious now…
He forced himself to meet her gaze. He thought of smiling, but remembered her words from the night before. Creepy, she had called it. The memory stung. The smile died.
"At least if you wanted to ask about my well-being, show a strand of concern," he muttered inwardly. Of course, he didn't dare say it aloud.
"Nothing," he said instead. His voice was steady, though his pulse thundered. "I'm not used to riots. Or watching someone burn at the stake. It made me… ill." He paused, then added lightly, "A touch of nausea."
The lie was neat, believable.
"Oh, that." Her tone was indifferent, though faint contempt lingered. "Pay no heed, lech...." She caught herself. "Xiall. You'll grow used to it. Such sights are common here."
She turned away, eyes fixed forward, as if that ended the matter.
Xiall kept silent. But inside, her words chilled him more than comforted. Common. What kind of world grew so numb that fire and screams became ordinary?
Still, a different question stirred in him. What had hardened her like this? What scar had turned her eyes so cold? He wanted to ask. But courage fled. He had enough shadows gnawing at him without carrying hers too.
The cart rattled on.
---
Aclove Harbor came into view.
For a moment, all fear fell away.
The smell of saltwater struck first, sharp and bracing. Then the sound---a roar of gulls, the groan of timbers, the crack of sails in the wind. The harbor stretched wide, a mouth to the sea, its piers bristling with ships of every kind.
Xiall's eyes widened. He had never seen the sea before.
It was vast, endless, a restless expanse of steel-blue that swallowed the horizon. Sunlight flashed on the waves like shards of glass. The rhythm of the surf struck him in the chest, steady, eternal. For a heartbeat, his dread shrank before the immensity of it.
The ships dwarfed anything he had known. Merchant vessels with hulls painted in foreign colors. Sturdy grain-barges stacked with sacks, destined for countries across the far western sea. Sleek ships flying banners he didn't recognize. Rigging snapped in the wind. Sailors shouted in strange accents. The harbor was alive with trade, with voices that spoke of lands beyond his imagination.
He caught himself staring. Tiffany noticed, of course.
"You've never seen the sea," she said. Not a question. A statement, delivered flat.
Xiall swallowed and turned away, embarrassed by his awe. "Not this close," he muttered.
She almost smiled, but it faded too quickly to be sure.
They pulled up to a pier where a burly man waited. The dockmaster, skin tanned and creased like old leather, barked orders at passing laborers. He turned as Tiffany halted the cart.
"Grain for export," she said crisply. "Two dozen sacks, bound for the western convoys."
The man grunted, scratching his beard. His eyes flicked over Xiall and dismissed him.
"Get it off," he growled.
Xiall set to work, muscles burning as he shouldered sack after sack. The air reeked of tar and sweat. Sailors cursed as they loaded crates. His arms trembled, but the rhythm steadied him.
Until he noticed the crowd by the pier.
A ship had just docked, its sails sagging, its hull streaked with salt. A narrow gangplank was lowered, and people shuffled down in a thin line.
Refugees.
Men and women, their clothes ragged, their faces gaunt. Children clung to weary mothers. Their eyes were hollow, frightened. They carried nothing but themselves.
Guards waited at the bottom.
"What's this?" Xiall muttered under his breath.
The dockmaster overheard and spat. "Refugees. From Ashen County, out east by the Wastes. Say their villages were torn apart by shadows that walked." He barked a humorless laugh. "Bandits, more like. Or deserters. The Order'll sort the truth soon enough."
Xiall froze mid-step. Shadows that walked.
The phrase struck deep, too close to what he'd seen, what he feared. His gaze locked with that of a young woman among the refugees. Her eyes pleaded silently, wide with terror. Before he could even breathe, the guards shoved the group onward. They were herded toward a grim stone building flying the Order's inverted golden crucifix.
His throat tightened. He turned back to his sacks, but they felt like lead.
---
By the time the cart was empty, the sun was falling. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. The sea glittered red in the dying light.
They rolled away from the harbor, the cart lighter, but his heart heavier.
Halfway up the road, Xiall lifted his eyes skyward. Mostly to guess the hour. Partly to be sure No figure marred the clouds. No pressure smothered his chest. The sky was ordinary.
He exhaled, relieved. Yet still, unease gnawed. Why did he feel watched?
"Leche—" Tiffany stopped herself. "Xiall."
He turned.
She looked at him, her expression unreadable. "You're not from around here, are you?"
The question lingered like a blade between them.
He blinked. He had expected this. If she hadn't asked, he'd have wondered if she was blind. She too was an oddity---auburn hair, milk-pale skin, unlike Avalon's people. Maybe Old Matt had told her something. Or maybe she had simply seen too much.
Either way, it was time. Time to close the distance.
He drew a breath.
Time to get close to the auburn-haired beauty in front of him...
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