Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(15)

The raven-haired, copper-skinned girl can’t be more than six. She sucks her thumb as she watches me from her crumbling front step. There’s a doll tucked under her arm, an ugly thing as big as her head, made of cloth scraps and bits of colorful thread. Judging by the doll’s long curly hair and pink robes, it must be a woman.

“How long has your mother or sister been gone, sweetheart?” I ask, nodding to the doll.

She pulls her thumb out of her mouth long enough to say, “My mom. Last spring. She had the black fever.”

The black fever. A sickness so foul, even the healers can’t cure it without killing themselves. It’s been ravaging the people of the Ashes for years.

“And where’s your father?”

“Scrubbing boats.” The girl pops her thumb back into her mouth and looks in the direction of the harbor, though tall, old houses block it from view. As she returns her gaze to me, her brown eyes widen as if seeing me for the first time. “Your clothes . . .” she says slowly. “You’re a mage, aren’t you? The kind that brings people back to life?” She grins.

All this girl will ever have of her mother is that doll, sloppily made by some friend or relative to look like the loved one she’s lost. I’ll bet every child in these rickety houses has at least one doll like that, a poor substitute for what they dream about but will never be able to afford: a raising by a necromancer. My services.

“Take care of yourself, all right?” I say, but the girl doesn’t seem to hear. She’s busy crooning a lullaby to her doll.

“May he reign eternal,” she says moments later, a farewell so faint I almost miss it.

The people of the Ashes adore King Wylding for never forgetting them, for not looking past them the way merchants and many nobles do. He comes down here sometimes, to serve them soup and bread, but I think they’d be a lot better off if he served them gold from his coffers or gave them jobs. Of course, that would be a change, so instead he’ll keep doing what he’s done decade after decade, wondering and worrying why his subjects are still suffering.

“May he reign eternal,” I echo hollowly.

Pulling up my hood, I practically fly to the harbor, where the sun in my hair, the stench of fresh-caught fish, and the green-and-yellow banners of the Paradise snapping in the breeze push the little girl from my thoughts. The worn dock creaks under my weight as I tread the familiar path to where the Paradise is anchored.

There are crates stacked all over the ship’s main deck. Barrels of elderflower wine from Ethria Province. Tart green apples from Adia Province. Bananas from Idrany Province, the islands that make up Karthia’s southernmost point. But the good stuff is down below, behind a false wall in the back of the cargo hold. Coffee beans. A bitter thing called cacao. Spices with delicious names like cardamom and anise.

I’m about to jump on board when a tangle of salt-crusted raven hair catches my eye, gleaming blue-black in the morning light as Kasmira bends to inspect a crate. Her cool brown skin is several shades darker than mine, and knowing she’s from Idrany’s largest island makes me think one of my parents must’ve been from Idrany, too.

“Well, well,” she drawls, turning to face me with a gleam in her deep gray eyes, “someone must be needing another fix.” She grins, her teeth bright white against her skin, and beckons me closer. “You’re in luck. I haven’t eaten them all myself yet.”

“Good. I’m desperate.” I hurry onto the ship and join her by a stack of crates. “After the night I had, I’d do anything to get my hands on some.”

She arches one perfect brow. “Anything?” She draws the word out, giving me an appraising look that makes heat rush to my face.

I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of kissing her, except that my heart chose Evander long before I even realized it.

And since Kasmira is the only one who can take Evander out of Karthia, she’s partly to blame for last night’s stupid fight. Today, I just want to get my coffee beans and leave.

I cross my arms and step back. “I’m in a hurry.”

Kasmira frowns. “What’s wrong, Sparrow? You’re not your cheerful self today.” She studies the bandage on my arm, a scrap of one of Evander’s many black tunics. “Something happen I should know about?”

The concern in her voice melts my anger faster than a flame on wax. I stretch out my injured arm, holding very still while she peeks under the bandage.

“Doesn’t take a healer’s Sight to tell this isn’t infected.” She releases me, brushing away a strand of dark hair that’s fallen across her forehead. “What’s really hurting you?”

I reach for Kasmira’s hand, telling her everything that happened last night, starting with Master Nicanor’s death.

I’ve barely finished describing how I cut my arm too deep when Kasmira winces, pressing a hand to her forehead. She sways a little, so I steady her with an arm around her shoulders.

“What is it?” I whisper. She wouldn’t want any of her crew overhearing that she’s not feeling well. They’d give her more lip than usual, and they’re hard enough to control as it is. “Do you need me to fetch a healer?”

But as Kasmira rubs her temples, I realize what’s ailing her. “You’ve been changing the winds again.” I try to keep the worry from my voice, but I can’t help it.