Page 100 of The Hanging City

“And if you don’t, I will do far worse than front lines to this creature.” He gestures to Azmar. “And since you’ve shown such dedication to our little half-breed, he’ll carry out the punishment.”

My stomach clenches.Two days.If returning to my father isn’t arduous enough, earning his trust and gleaning the information in so little time would be impossible. And yet I must make good on my offer now. For Azmar’s sake. For Perg’s.

I meet Azmar’s eyes. They’re golden and sorrowful, full moons above pained and pinched features.I’m sorry,I want to cry.I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

The fist around my heart pulls, ripping it out fiber by fiber, unraveling every stitch of hope. Dizzy, I rise to half-numb feet. “I will do as you ask.”

I hear a grunt from Azmar—words unspoken, frozen before he can earn more of the council’s wrath. The fist starts to break the skin.

“Excellent.” Qequan leans back in his chair. “You will leave now. We’ll give you enough to see you there. And if the drought devours you, it’s no leather off my back.” He gestures with a finger, and Yog rises and knocks on the door I came through. Both guards enter.

Now. I’m leaving Cagmarnow. To see the man I’ve spent years fleeing.

I’m leaving Azmar.

I turn toward Azmar. Take a step—

“I saidnow.” Qequan taps his fingers.

My cracking lips part. I stare at Azmar. Of course they wouldn’t allow us a goodbye. We disgust them. They hate us. Why would they let us have one more moment together?

I’m sorry,I mouth as tears blur my vision. Each guard takes me by a forearm.I’m so sorry. I love you.

Azmar reaches for me. I think he mouths,I love you,as well, but the guards pull me back and slam the door so swiftly I don’t see him finish.

The fist rips my heart free. I am bloodless as the guards drag me away from the only family I can claim, equip me with minimal provisions, and usher me to the hot surface. Past the scouts, southeast, until I’m clear of the watch. Then they drop me onto the dry sand and leave me there to rot.

Chapter 23

I waste little time burning beneath the afternoon sun. Time will not mend me.

The horizon, an eternity away, expands to emptiness, save for some hills and rock formations.Last seen in the East Leagues.How long ago was that? Did Qequan send me to my death to make iteasieron him?

I should never have climbed the city. I should never have let my curiosity and the need to sate my own desires draw me to Tayler and a township that was far, far north of me, if I guessed correctly. But that doesn’t matter now.

Opening my little sack, I survey what the trollis gave me. No weapons, of course. Hunting is slim in these parts, but even so, it appears it won’t be an option for me. Another waterskin. I drink from it carefully, knowing I’ll need to ration. A day’s worth of food, and that’s only if I stretch it. Picking out a floral disk, I chew as I walk. At least after so long in the dungeon, I’m eager for the exercise.

I walk and walk and walk, loosening my knotted mess of a braid to shade my skin and arms. I see Azmar’s pained expression every time I blink. Feel its weight on my heart.

The farther I walk, the angrier I become, the more absurd it all is, from the culture of Cagmar to my inability to claim a caste of my own, for if I could, Grodd would have no power over me. I hate him, andI hate Qequan and his insufferable council, and I amso angryI could weep anew, but I don’t, because water is precious. But apparently love is not. Life is not.

Is it so much to ask the gods, the almightycouncil, for an iota of happiness? Is joy something so fine, so light, that I cannot hold on to it for more than a few days? All my life it has flitted away from me, afraid of the curse within me. Azmar called it a blessing. I laugh into the nothingness surrounding me. The only people I haveblessedhave threatened to throw me into a canyon, murder me, exile me. Hurt my loved ones. Forced me to manipulate lawmen and farmers, bending them to his will, taking everything that was good for himself.

And I’m going back to him. Myfather. Now that I have Ritha’s account, he is even more vile than I’d ever supposed. I feel as though I’m laying nearly eight years of hard-fought freedom at his feet, just to appeal to another tyrant, and it stokes my anger into the evening hours. The stars keep my course straight, though they offer me no guidance, no answers—nothing I can understand, at least. I walk and walk and walk, and inside I steam and fume and burn.

Anger is good. Anger fuels me. Anger keeps up my pace, one foot in front of the other, even after the sun sets and darkness consumes the world. Anger propels me forward when I trip over stones or dips in the dead earth. Anger keeps the sorrow and the fear at bay. Anger is my shield, and my crutch, keeping me warm when the temperature drops and the stars climb across the sky, almost like they’re watching me, curious to see where I’ll go. They shift, the space between them deepening, darkening, then lightening one, two, three shades.

I hear a voice far to the east, where the ground spans a black plain ribbed with periwinkle. A man’s voice. How far have I walked? At my pace, fifteen miles at least. Is it so hard for Qequan to march his army here? Perhaps he wants to keep his advantage. Cagmar is a nearly impenetrable fortress.

“I said halt!” the voice bellows again. I don’t heed it. I’m too angry to stop.

Sand slides under his footsteps as he nears me, the blade of a spear glinting in the light of a rising crescent moon. He grabs me by my bruised arm, and it makes me rage.

“Who goes there?” he asks, then stutters, “A w-woman? Where are you from?”

Through gritted teeth, I answer, “I’m Ottius Thellele’s daughter. Do take me to him.”

He hesitates. At least I know I have the right place.

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