The Hanging City (60)

I stare at her a long time. “Joy?” I repeat, raspy. “He gets blessed with joy, and I’m cursed with fear?”

“You seem to have used it well.”

I turn away. “It’s the reason I had to come here. People don’t cast joy from their homes, their townships.” Their families.

Several heartbeats pass before Ritha says, “I’m sorry.”

“Who was the other?” I meet her gaze. “You said you knew of one other?”

“The other was just a story. A story of a child who could cast fear into the heart of any man, just by looking at him. But”—she pauses—“that child would be a woman now.”

My lips part.

She holds up a hand. “I know nothing more than that.”

I hug myself, trying to process Ritha’s words, trying to piece together the dark history of the mother I never knew and the person I’ve become. So often, I’ve wanted my fear gone from me. I wanted to be normal. Had I been normal, perhaps my father would have seen me as a human instead of a tool. And yet in some sick, disturbing way, this shifting is all I have of my mother.

I think of how frightened I’d been when Grodd had his thick fingers around my neck, dangling my body over the chasm. Was that what Artlina had felt like, running through the dusty dark, while in labor, with my father at her heels? Or had it been worse?

What a terrible, horrible way to die.

“I shouldn’t tarry.” Ritha stands and places a hand on my shoulder.

“O-Of course.” I wipe my eyes and pick up the candle, taking it to the door. I open it and move aside, allowing her to pass through. She bids me no farewell. Doesn’t even look back, but heads west, down one of the narrower tunnels with no lifts. I know there are more servants’ quarters down that way, but I didn’t know it connected with anything. I wonder where it leads.

I turn back too quickly, and the small flame of my candle extinguishes. Lamps dimly light the corridor. I glance down the other way just as a familiar form in the lift drops out of sight.

My hands go limp. The candle holder clanks against the stone floor.

Ritha had been followed.

And as Grodd vanishes, I choke on the realization that he now knows where I sleep.





Chapter 15


My fear doesn’t linger.

It’s one of the disadvantages of wielding it: even if Qequan hadn’t threatened me with my life should I use it against one of his kind, Grodd’s fear would dissipate after he left. I had to actively project it into him, to keep him afraid. In truth, I will always be afraid of Grodd, but he will not always be afraid of me.

I can’t leave Cagmar. I have nowhere else to turn. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to leave. I have a place here, though it feels as precarious as a harness without a rope.

I think of Tayler and wonder if he’ll keep his promise to meet with me. If the worst happened and I had to flee . . . perhaps he’d trust me enough to take me with him.

And then I think of Azmar, and misery darkens my thoughts.

I don’t sleep. Every creak, every imagined footstep, keeps me alert long after my candle drowns itself, until the early rays of dawn brush my little window. Grodd does not come. I need to bathe, so I drag myself upstairs. Neither Azmar nor Unach has woken. I pump water to get the job done, only what I need, not even bothering to heat it first, and work quickly, scrubbing dirt from my hair, my skin, my nails. I clean everything up when I’m done, and I’ve a little time left until my shift. Dragging myself to the kitchen, I start breakfast, yet I’m unable to compensate for my sluggish movements and sloppy knife cuts. Gripping the end of the short counter, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to find some semblance of peace.

I hear his footsteps as though they come from very far away. It’s an effort to open my eyes. Azmar moves beside me, folds from his pillow creasing one side of his cheek. He puts a hand under my chin and guides my face up.

His brow creases. “What happened to you?”

Unach’s bedroom door opens and Azmar’s hand immediately drops.

Unach comes around the corner, surprised to see me so early. Her mussed hair bounces as she wipes a forearm across her mouth. Her gaze moves between me and Azmar.

“I didn’t sleep,” I admit.

Unach massages the bridge of her nose. “I wish I still was. My shift isn’t until noon.”

“Why?” Azmar asks me.

I blink, trying to wake myself. It helps a little. I pull my hands from the counter. “Grodd knows where I live.”

Azmar tenses.

“I saw him last night in the corridor.”

Unach frowns. “What reason does he have to visit there? His Pleb housing is on the east side.” She curses. “That bastard’s pride. I didn’t beat him thoroughly enough.”

“You’re sure?” Azmar murmurs.

I hug myself. “Ritha came to visit me. I think he followed her.”

Unach grabs a cup from the kitchen and crosses to the water I have boiling over the fire. “He won’t kill you. He wouldn’t dare.” She dips the cup. “Not with the law and his caste.”

The assurance doesn’t ease the anxiety rooted in my chest like a thorn tree. “He can do worse than kill me.”

Unach frowns.

I glance to Azmar, noting his tight jaw. He’s thinking again, but he must feel me watching him, for he meets my eyes.