He woke in pain.

  The first thing Isaac saw was a colossal rig cage which seemed to hold up the sky. The ribs spread across the night like comet trails, curving and falling, and the cartilage connections between the ribs and the central pillar of the sternum were glowing the same color as fool’s gold. He realized, all at once, that he wasn’t looking at the night sky, but a gigantic cavern underneath the rib cage, carved out like a body cavity. The twin glowing rows of cartilage casted only a faint light, leaving the ceiling of this cavern hanging in a starless black and the floor below in a pale twilight.

  He was lying on stone. The white fabric they’d used for shawls had been laid out beneath him like a blanket. He was shirtless, and his torso was wrapped in bandages.

  His face felt like a skull wearing a loose human mask. His body was deflated. Dangerously low on energy. He might’ve lost a sizable fraction of his bodyweight in the catacombs. He tried to move, and his entire body screamed in response. There were so many punctures in his skin that he might’ve appeared like a victim of an iron maiden. Underneath the more severe injuries, his pelvis continued to throb with a dull pain.

  He turned his head. Next to him, Zaria was slumped against a battlement made of brick and mortar. The haft of her poleaxe rested on her shoulder and her chin laid on a bent knee. She was watching an open hole in the floor, the rungs of a ladder curving down from one end, as if she expected a horde to climb through at any moment. The sluggish blink in her eyes suggested that she’d been keeping this watch for some time.

  “Hey,” Isaac said.

  She nearly dropped her poleaxe. “Xotra’s cunt, Isaac, I was beginning to think you’d never wake.”

  “Me too, actually.”

  She rested her weapon on the stone and crawled over to him. “So, how’re we feeling, then?”

  His body seemed to be suffering a number of crises. He had to pick which one to solve first. “Water.”

  She tilted her head. The cartilage light shining from above framed her face like a row of fireflies. They seemed to be on the top of an open-roofed watchtower, complete with battlements and arrow loopholes.

  “Water,” he repeated.

  “Now, now. Mind your manners.”

  He looked up at her with as much indignation as he could manage.

  She shrugged. “You know me. Stickler for rules.”

  “Please.”

  She reached beneath his head to rummage through his pack, which he only now realized was serving as his pillow, and pulled out a waterskin. He tried to sit up off the floor, but he lacked both the energy and willpower to work through the pain. Instead, she reached down and gently lifted his head, bringing the waterskin to his lips. She poured slowly, pausing to let him swallow and breathe. The fur of her hand was soft and warm.

  “Does my squire need further aid?” she asked, tossing the skin over a battlement.

  “Rations. Please.”

  She dug into her own pack and tossed him several cuts of salt meat. He attacked them like a starving animal.

  “Afraid I need to shield myself from this sight,” she said, sitting back. “Might be collateral damage.”

  He gnawed furiously at the meat, only barely chewing it enough to swallow. He had never been so ravenous in his entire life. Even the worst of his uncle’s training sessions hadn’t left his body quite so desperate for nourishment.

  It was only when he started on the third cut of salt meat that he noticed something. His hands were still freed. He looked down at them as if he’d never had the privilege before. He flexed his fingers, twisted his wrists, went through a few mnemonic movements. It felt good.

  “Heavy lifting,” Zaria said, as if it was a speech she had rehearsed many times. Her body had tensed, her eyes focused on his hands. “I mean—you know—all the broken machinery. Stone doors and what not. You need some gallant knight for the heavy lifting, frail human that you are.”

  He stopped chewing and watched her.

  “A-and your casting, right? Not fast enough, at times—heat of combat, the point where every second counts, you need some solid steel at your back. Simple and true, that is.”

  He licked salt off his lips.

  “And—and you barely know how to lace your boots. I’ve forgotten more practical knowledge than you’ve ever studied. Tying rope, dressing wounds, battle tactics. I should be the one leading this expedition, really.”

  He feigned the casting motion of a spell, sudden and quick, and she flinched away, grabbing her poleaxe.

  “Mutual dependency,” she said. “That’s all I’m saying. Trapped this far in the earth, harried by monsters and thralls . . . well, there’s nothing for it now but cooperation. Right?”

  “It would be smart,” Isaac said, his hands still raised.

  “Aye. Brilliant, actually. Wise beyond measure.”

  “I agree.”

  Her hand was still on her weapon. “Do you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Great. Relieved to hear it.”

  “Thanks for pulling me out of there, by the way.”

  “Oh, think nothing of it, love. That lighthouse mimicry was more impressive, really.”

  “Thanks for saying so.”

  “Anytime, squire. Quite a . . . quite a powerful mage you are.”

  “Got the titles to prove it.”

  “Aye. Right. Heard those before.”

  Neither of them moved for several moments.

  “Zaria,” Isaac said. “I do agree with you. I need your help. I would’ve never made it out of those catacombs without your assistance. There is a place for dumb, brute strength.”

  “No need to qualify my talents as such, love.”

  “Accurate, though, isn’t it?”

  “To a point, I’d like to think.”

  “Look,” he said. “I’ll just need one favor from you, and we can bury the hatchet. Okay?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Sure. Anything you require.”

  “Come closer.”

  She looked at him, unsure. He beckoned her forward. She leaned in.

  “Closer,” he said.

  She hesitated, almost said something, and came nearer until she was perched over him. He grabbed her by a sliver of her torn leather cuirass and tried to pull her in. She hardly budged, not even really trying to resist him, and so he had to lift himself closer to her. “I told you so.”

  “That’s a bit petty of you, Isaac.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And I fucking told you so.” He released his grip on her armor and laid back down on the white fabric. “That’s all. Consider the matter resolved.”

  But she stayed above him, eyes roaming over his face, and she looked like she had much to say. More excuses to give, more tales of pain and fear, more descriptions of pirate laws and customs. Instead, she cleared her throat, looked away, and said: “Sorry. Should’ve listened.”

  She sat back down next to him. He continued to tear his way through the rations. After a while, his body seemed to have acquired enough nourishment to begin healing itself.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “A watchtower for some constabulary, looks like. It’s got high cover, perfect overwatch, and one way in and out.”

  Isaac looked down at the open hole in the tower floor. She must’ve climbed up the entire ladder with his limp body hanging on her shoulders.

  “It’s a city,” she said. “No different than any other I’ve seen. Just empty. Nothing but old stone and dust.”

  He pulled himself up between two battlements and gazed out over the edge.

  Buildings stretched down the body cavity of the giant corpse, their rooftops covered in shadow from the yellow cartilage light. It was a far bigger city than the one he had grown up next to—it might’ve held a population in the tens of thousands, far in the past. He could see streets and shops, the occasional pillar of watchtowers, water mills and granaries, signs written in a language that hadn’t been spoken in millennia.

  All the buildings were made of stone, curving and concave like the sockets of bone, and most were still in remarkably good condition. Of course, there was no sunlight to beat down on their roofs, no rain to erode their walls, and not a single footprint in the dust that covered the streets. It was an archaeologist’s wildest dream.

  “It’s a necropolis,” Isaac said. “A city for the dead.”

  “Ain’t that just a big graveyard?”

  “No. This was an actual city meant to house the dead, people like you or me brought back to life. This empire practiced necromancy as commonly as agriculture. That’s why the catacombs are above the city. They conquered many nations, transformed them into vassals, and part of their demanded tribute were shipments of bodies and prisoners, which they’d use to sustain their unnatural lives. The bodies would be left in the catacombs, then collected and processed.”

  Zaria tossed a loose brick over the edge of the tower. “Glad they’re gone, then.”

  “They’re not all gone. There’s one left. And she knows we’re here now.”

  For the first time, he became aware of the silence all around him. It wasn’t just a lack of sound, like he’d experienced in the desert. The silence had a weight to it. It felt full and heavy.

  “Well,” the hyena said, “I travelled a good ways through this necropolis with you on my shoulder, and I saw nary a soul. Wherever she is, she hasn’t been here for centuries, at least.”

  “We’re probably safe here. She’ll need time to consolidate her forces again.” Isaac sat back down on his blanket. “Give me a moment, and I’ll cast a warding spell on the floor. Keep anyone from climbing up.”

  “You can do that sort of thing?”

  “I can do a lot of things. If I’m given the chance.”

  She gave a sheepish nod and dug into her own pack for a waterskin. He laid back down on the blanket and continued to chew his way through the rations. Despite their difference in size, he was easily eating more than her. They laid next to each other in silence, sating their various needs, resting and breathing.

  Isaac took stock of his injuries. Most of his body was covered in punctures, but, like he thought, they were mostly shallow. It had just been the sheer number of them that had driven him to blood loss. Some good sleep and a prodigious amount of rations would have him combat ready in less than a day.

  He realized, absently, that it was likely night on the surface. Much had happened today. They had been awoken by a patrolling sandship, travelled to the tomb, dealt with the sphinx, certain other things had occurred, and then they’d fought through an army of thralls. He was exhausted. Sleep called to him.

  Speaking of . . . certain things, he could still feel the wounds on his neck. The dagger wound gave him a slight discomfort every time he swallowed, and her teeth marks ached whenever he bent his neck. His pelvis throbbed with his heartbeat. And, lying on the floor as he was, he could smell her musk on his skin, like it had seeped through his clothes. He grabbed his shirt, took a tentative sniff, and grimaced at the fierceness of the odor. He would likely reek of her scent for days.

  A snort came from his side. She was grinning down at him. “Thinking of fond memories?”

  “Just remembering that I need to burn my clothes and skin.”

  “Uh-huh. Betcha five silver you’ll be poppin’ a stiffy every time you catch a whiff.”

  He tossed his shirt away. “Could we, just once, have a normal conversation?”

  “Are we normal people, all of a sudden?”

  “I just want to state, for the record, that it would be nice.”

  She folded her arms, sliding down the battlement. “You wish to speak serious about the topic, then?”

  Isaac glared up at the glowing rib cage.

  “Didn’t mean much by it,” she said. “Didn’t even cross my mind you’d think different, neither. Fucking’s always seemed like something basic as breathing. Everyone does it. Everyone wants to.” She paused. “You certainly seemed like you did.”

  Isaac got back to his feet, fast enough that he wobbled and almost fell off the tower. “I’m casting the ward now.” He went through the mnemonics, gathering a purple light in his hands, and spread it over the ladder hole. It remained as a solid purple film across the gap. He knew, from experience, that he could walk across it, but the tower reached very high in the air, and he didn’t wish to try.

  “Seemed like you took it different than I intended,” Zaria continued. “Seemed half a world away, afterward.”

  He walked to the opposite end of the watchtower and gazed out over the city. It stretched far past what he could see with the faint cartilage light. He remembered his texts, the essays he had read, describing the overview of this empire and how it had fallen. No one had found this city before. No one knew it was here. It was nameless and barren.

  “If you want to speak your piece, Isaac, now’s the time. I think we’re both of the mind that I deserve it.”

  He gripped the battlement.

  “Wasn’t my intention to hurt you,” she said. “Not permanent-like, anyway. If I did so . . . I’m sorry.”

  He turned, ready to say something rash, but stopped himself. She was sporting new injuries. He hadn’t seen it that well from the side, but fresh blood was coating the spotted fur of her thigh, and she was leaning against the battlement in a way that suggested painful bruises.

  Her ears rose up. “That your way of asking for round two?”

  “No,” he said, stopping his stare. “You’re still bleeding. Why didn’t you bandage yourself?”

  “Used most of them on you, love.”

  He ran a hand down the white fabric wrapped around his chest. “Thanks,” he said, quietly.

  “Nothing to it. Just . . . triaging. That’s the word, right?”

  “Yes. That’s—” He looked at her wounds again, both the new ones and the old, and made a decision. “I can make you a poultice. It’ll ease the pain, accelerate the healing.”

  She blinked. “You can do that?”

  He went for his pack. “Like I said, I can do many things. Some would say useful things.”

  “No, Isaac,” Zaria said. “What I mean is—I told you of the torture and horror I went through before we met, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “You could see evidence of this very same plight splayed across my body. Clear as day.”

  “Of course.”

  “And anyone with a bit of medicine practice could tell that these wounds were causing me great woe and suffering, aye?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And you did nothing for this. Could’ve eased me of my troubles at any moment. Just kept your mouth shut and let me fester in pain.”

  “Sure did!”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  She blinked up at him with a mixture of surprise and anger.

  He shrugged. “Didn’t seem smart to aid my enemies.”

  “Didn’t seem smart to admit that, neither.”

  “Look, do you want to die of blood sickness or not?”

  She waved, lying back fully on the floor. “Aye, aye. Work your learning.”

  He pulled out the alchemical supplies from his pack—mortar, pestle, and various vials of liquids and powders. The specific poultice he had in mind would be difficult to craft with his travel kit. The recipe called for precise measurements of its ingredients, along with a very specific ratio between the bases and reagents. In fact, with his dwindling supplies, crafting enough of the poultice to heal Zaria’s various injuries would likely exhaust many of his vital ingredients.

  He glanced back at her. She was lying on the floor with her eyes closed, taking shallow breaths like it would be too painful to do anything else.

  Isaac crafted the poultice in several batches, storing the excess in empty phylacteries and tossing used vials over the watchtower edge. The mixture was a dark green emulsion, still boiling upon itself. It usually took a few minutes for the liquid to evaporate. As he waited, he gazed out over the necropolis again and thought of crafting elixirs in his uncle’s laboratory. Beakers, flasks, flaming bellows, the quickening of ingredients into solution. His mentor’s face over rows of glowing potions.

  When it was ready, he crawled over to her and tried to determine the worst of her injuries. It was difficult. She had many of them.

  “Which one hurts the most?” he asked.

  In response, she rolled over onto her front, displaying her back. A long, diagonal slash went from her shoulder blade to the opposite hip. It had bled prodigiously into her fur.

  He gently applied the poultice into the laceration. Immediately, Zaria flexed and gasped. “My word! That’s—oh, there’s this rushing coolness. . . .” He kept applying the mixture along the length of her wound, and her exhale was like finally letting go of a heavy weight. “That is divine, Isaac. Thank you kindly.”

  “You know,” he said, making sure the poultice was evenly spread, “you could’ve said something. You never gave any indication these were bothering you so much.”

  “Would you have aided me if I’d bent your ear about it?”

  He thought about it and didn’t answer.

  “Exactly,” she said. “Not that I blame you. Just how it is. You show weakness to someone and they take advantage.” She gave another cooing breath as he moved on to different injuries. “You hole up in the sick ward while under way, and someone will pilfer through your bunk, steal all your possessions. You do sloppy deck work ‘cause you got burns and bruises, and the first hand’ll just call you idle, deny your grog. Might be another crewman that’s got your number decides it’s their time to strike.”

  He began to scrub the early stages of blood sickness from a few cuts, packing the poultice tight in the wound.

  “Never a good idea to show pain to anyone,” she said. “Only ever gets you trouble. Always gotta look strong and fierce.”

  “That’s a hard way to live.”

  “I suppose. Don’t know any better.”

  Isaac thought of his uncle and the cane. There had been several times where he had crumpled under the force of a blow, crying and begging for mercy, and the next strike had only come harder in response.

  “Hey,” he said. “Do you . . . regret what you did? On the Saber?”

  “What’s this?” she responded. “Is my squire leading the conversation for a change?”

  “It already feels like a horrible mistake.”

  She chuckled into the crook of her arm. “You take yourself far too serious, love.” She laid in silence while he continued to dress her wounds, long enough that he began to think she wasn’t going to answer. Then she heaved a sigh and said: “No. I don’t. Not for a second.”

  “Even after all the pain and grief it’s caused you?”

  “Are you suggesting I should’ve turned a blind eye?”

  “Not suggesting anything. Just asking.”

  She opened her eyes, staring into brick and mortar. “My one regret is that I didn’t do more. Still lots of little faces in those crates.”

  “I’m merely curious—” He chose his words carefully. “The way you told the story, it seemed you were exceptionally furious about the slaves being children.”

  “As anyone should be.”

  “You know what I’m getting at.”

  “Aye. I do.” She sighed again and Isaac became aware that she was just as beaten and exhausted as he was. “When I saw them faces staring up at me, I thought of my father. Hadn’t done that in years.”

  “Your father?”

  “He owned a tinker shop back in the home country, a squat little hovel on the edge of the docks that always smelled like blood and fish guts. General handyman type—could fix anything you put in his paws. Made a living patching carts, shoring up buildings, fixing toys. I was one of nine other siblings, one of the few that was his only real kin—the majority were urchins he’d let in off the streets. He never could say no to teary eyes.” She seemed to drift away for a moment. “Got the portrait? Real helpful sort?”

  “Consider it painted.”

  “Well, he was always pinching coppers ‘cause of it. Refused to charge full price for his services. Said he’d feel too bad taking half a farmer’s livelihood just for patching his wagon. Course, he was a father himself—he needed bread on the table. So he dabbled in the fencing business. Middleman sort. Taking stolen goods, fixing them up proper, and sending them off. Us kids, we were his soldiers. His pinching army. We scoured the wealthy districts for any pocket swinging with coin. Never the merchant district, never the craftsmen. That was his one rule for us. Never steal from those who need it.”

  He saw the edges of her smile. “I was always his best. Nimblest fingers in the crew. Ran the shop while he was out, kept the youngest siblings safe and managed. He’d never say so, always go on about doing hard things for survival, but I could tell, one way or another, he had pride in his eyes.

  “Well, times got tougher. I’m sure you heard about the war. When the farmsteads were razed, the price of bread soared. After the naval blockades, the docks were empty and quiet. Everyone started tightening their belts. His repair business dried up ‘cause no one could afford it, and even the fencing took a hit when the smugglers fled or disappeared. I’d hear him crying at night, going mad from the stress, trying to figure out how he was going to feed nine hungry mouths. We starved. Not a single coin to share. Two of the youngest died of illness they might’ve survived if they’d had some morsels to suck on.”

  She paused for several moments.

  “One day, I come home, same as always, and he’s staring out the window, watching the sea and crying his eyes out. He looks at me like I’m the most horrible thing that’s ever graced his shop. I don’t mention it, trying to be nice, but he stops me, and he looks me in the eye, and he gives me the tightest hug of my life, and tells me he loves me. I nod along, say something stupid about keeping strong, and he looks at me with pain in his face, and goes back to staring out the window. I don’t think twice about it and head back out for another pinching run.

  “That night, I’m returning along my same route from the noble district, avoiding the patrols, and four men came out the shadows. Daggers and claws. I stand no chance. They’d waited at exactly the right spot. Tied me up before I could even yell for the guard and dragged me off through the alleys. I’m fighting hard as I can, but it’s useless. I’m weak and hungry. They’re strong and vicious. I’m led to a warehouse like cattle.

  “I get tossed into a room full of other kids. We’re all filthy and scared. There’s shipping crates off in the corner, and I don’t need to know what the label says to figure things out. We’re being bought and sold. Shipped off to parts unknown for cheap labor, used as unbroken slaves. Crying and screaming, we’re all loaded into the crates and sealed in tight. I thrash until I’ve got splinters in every knuckle. Nothing works. My coming fate settles in my mind.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “But, just as I hear the hands start loading us, there’s a commotion. Yelling and shouting. Clashes of steel. It comes closer and closer until I hear the voice of my father screaming himself hoarse. I yell back, and he comes and breaks the lid off and he makes the most awful sound when he sees me. Scoops me in his arms and just starts apologizing. That’s all he can do. Just says he’s sorry over and over until it’s not even a word anymore, just moans and tears.

  “An arrow hits his back. I’m ripped from his arms. The same thugs who grabbed me descend on him and he hardly as a chance to swing his sword before he’s cut to pieces. As he’s dying on the floor, the meanest thug spits on him, tells him all sales are final, and shoves me back in the crate. Last thing I hear is him calling my name while he’s choking and drowning.”

  Isaac noticed that he’d completely stopped healing her wounds.

  “I don’t get sent to a plantation,” Zaria said. “I’m unboxed on a pirate ship and told to get to work. Learn the ins and outs of sailing at the edge of a dagger. Life goes on. I apply myself to the task until they no longer keep a close watch on me. Before I know it, I’m just like all the rest. Just another pirate.”

  She gave a small moan as he applied more poultice.

  “For years, I hated him. Hated what he did to me. Cursed his name whenever I could. Then, after a while, I just decided to never think of him again. Never give him anymore consideration than he was worth. A while after that . . . I started to understand him. I started thinking how desperate he must’ve been. It was simple arithmetic—sacrifice one to save the many. I was strong and quick—I fetched a fair price. It might’ve meant survival for the rest. He definitely sounded like it was the worst mistake he’d ever made. He’d tried to fight through hopeless odds to make it right.

  “So, when I saw those kids in the crates, I thought of my father again, and I just decided to follow his example. I don’t regret that.”

  Isaac didn’t want to ask his next question, but felt compelled to. “Do you know what happened to your siblings?”

  “I can guess.”

  He nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “I, uh . . . I’m done on this side. Could you roll over?”

  She flipped onto her back. Her straps of leather armor and cloth had deteriorated even further, now to the point where they were only barely preserving her modesty. He saw several lacerations starting to succumb to blood sickness and bent to examine them.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to talk your ear off about it. Didn’t mean to sound like I’m broken about the experience, neither. Won’t say I’m stronger for it, but it’s not weighing me down anymore.” She sighed under the application of more poultice. “Perhaps your massage is making me too relaxed for my own good.”

  Isaac paused his scrubbing. “I could still kill you horribly, you know.”

  She broke into laughter, echoing it down the empty city.

  “I’m going to take that as confidence in my good nature.”

  “Sure, love. Whatever you wish.”

  “Could’ve mixed poison into this poultice, for all you know.”

  “Then you’re a marvelous executioner, squire.”

  Isaac gave a small roll of his eyes and continued his treatments. “Well, I’m . . . sorry that happened to you.”

  “So’s everyone I tell the story to. Doesn’t change nothing.”

  “No, but still—I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t respond. Instead, her tail rubbed against his leg for a moment. It felt nicer than he cared to admit.

  They spent the next few minutes in silence, broken only by her sighs of relief.

  “Right,” he said, sitting back up. “That’s the best I can do. Don’t fall on a sword and you’ll probably avoid death.”

  He made to stand up, but she grabbed his arm. It wasn’t a hard grip, like he’d experienced earlier. It was gentle. “Isaac,” she said. “I’m sorry for fucking you.”

  He blinked several times, completely caught off-guard. “It’s—it’s fine.”

  “Don’t you go being polite on me. It ain’t fine. I took advantage, and I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Your first time should’ve been something nice, and I’m sorry for taking that from you.”

  A warm blush spread across his face. “You gave me a choice. I didn’t say no. I’m not bearing a grudge.”

  “Then you’re a nicer sort than I’ve ever known. I was mean about it—just wanted to watch you squirm. Got that in spades, but—”

  “Zaria,” he said, more firmly. “It wasn’t bad. In fact, it was—” He paused, searched his feelings, and, suddenly, the words came out before he could stop them. “It was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  She looked at him in speechless silence.

  “Not trying to be flattering,” he said, quickly. “Just painfully honest.”

  She continued to watch him in shock.

  “I mean, I’ve—I’ve always known that I was horribly ignorant of basic life. Never had much common experiences at all. Never tasted an ale, never rode a horse, never even travelled outside my tower until now. Books have always been my only reference for much of anything that people take as fundamental. I thought I could be satisfied with my duty. Convinced myself of that, at least. Had to believe my father’s life was worth the discipline and pain and restraint and seclusion, had to believe that the path laid out before me was the one I wanted. It was all I could do because it was all I’d ever known. But I never—it never occurred to me—”

  He fumbled his words, feeling her gaze on him. “I never truly understood the profundity of my ignorance until—until what happened in the chapel. It changed my entire perspective. It was like gaining a new sense of reality. It was like becoming truly aware of myself for the first time in my entire life. Like every moment before then was just shadow, and that was my first time ever seeing rich, beautiful colors.

  “I feel aware now. Truly aware. I want to experience more. More of everything. More life. I want to travel the world, I want to be moved to tears by sweeping vistas, I want to speak to as many people as possible, I want to hear their stories, I want to accomplish all the dreams I’ve always had, I want to not feel punished for having dreams at all, I want to do what I want, I—I—I—” He couldn’t get the words out strong enough. “I want everything. You know? I want.”

  “Isaac,” she said, her grip soft on his arm.

  He flinched, realizing everything he’d just said. “Sorry, sorry, forget I—”

  “Isaac,” she said. “Are you saying I fucked you so hard it made you rethink your entire life?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  She blinked at him a few times, expression slowly changing.

  “Sorry,” he said, feeling horribly seen and vulnerable. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—forget I said anything, I don’t—”

  She tugged him a little closer. “No one’s ever been nice to you before, have they?”

  He tried to answer. The words did not come. He couldn’t speak. It was never wise to speak.

  “Not properly, I mean. No love or care.” She searched his face. “Nothing but caning and shouting.”

  A knot was rising in his throat. He knew the pain was coming. That’s all that ever happened. Any time he spoke of himself, any time he dared ask for anything, any time he ever hoped. . . .

  “You ever had someone tell you you’re good enough before?”

  He looked down. His face was burning. He could imagine no other outcome but pain and scorn.

  She leaned in close. “Have you had a hard life, Isaac?”

  The tears came before he could stop them. He tried to pull away, tried to run and hide, but she came forward, and her arms wrapped around him, and she pressed him to herself, her fur warm and soft, her chin resting on his head, and she held him gently and completely.

  It was the first time anyone had hugged him before.

  “Sorry,” he said, feeling small and afraid. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please don’t—I’m sorry—”

  “Quit being sorry,” she said. “Let it out.”

  And he wept on her shoulder, hugging her back with all his strength, feeling her grip tighten in response, crying louder than he had ever dared before, crying with such a sense of freedom that it only caused him to cry all the harder, his face buried in her chest, her gentle voice at his ear, her presence of safety and warmth making him despair at all that he had never known, all that had been denied him, and his tears came in such a flood that it felt like he had saved them his entire life for this singular moment of release.

  Far below the earth, in a long list city of the dead, tired and wounded and surrounded by enemies, he hugged her, and she hugged him back, and, for the first time in his life, he did not worry of punishment.

  He was not sure when he stopped crying. Time did not seem to matter. The fool’s gold light of the giant rib cage did not shift. Nothing moved in the city except for them. When he became aware of himself, he rested his head against the crook of her neck and let the tears dry on his face.

  “I’m so sorry, love,” she whispered in his ear. “I was too wrapped in my own concerns. I lost my temper. I never meant to hurt you as such.”

  He pulled back enough to meet her gaze. “It’s fine. Really. Don’t—”

  “Isaac, for the love of Xotra, stop apologizing. Stick up for yourself. Call me a cunt. Spit in my face. Stop feeling like you don’t deserve no better.”

  He wiped his face, taking a deep breath through a raw throat. “I meant what I said. What happened in the chapel—it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It made me aware of all that I never knew, and all that I want. My life feels divided between before and after the incident, now. You know, I—I liked it. I liked it a lot. I’m glad it happened.”

  She gazed into his eyes, unsure of what to say.

  “I mean,” he said, “you could’ve been a little fucking nicer about it, but here we are.”

  She began to laugh.

  “Have I ever heard a word of appreciation? ‘Oh, Isaac, thanks for rescuing me from my cutthroat friends. Thanks for trying to give me all the treasure. Thanks for protecting me from a necromancer’s thralls.’ No, nothing. You fucking pirate.”

  She released her grip on him. “Okay, love. Point taken.”

  “No,” he said, “you stupid bandit, I’ve risked my life several times over for you, and I will hear some gods-damned thankfulness for it.”

  She gave a small bow. “My brave squire. Couldn’t ask for better.”

  He retreated back to his knees. “What am I saying? I care nothing for the opinions of common thugs. I am beyond such concerns.”

  “Oh, aye. Clearly, you are destined to achieve longer titles and fancier robes.”

  “Yes. Better things. High Warlock at Arms. Chancellor of the Spheres. Grand Archon of the Guild.”

  “Well,” she said, “just don’t forget about us little folk when your head’s higher than a cloud up your arse.”

  He got back to his feet. “Keep to your corner tonight, pirate. I expect no funny business.”

  She returned a mock salute. “Aye, capt. You know me. Prim and proper, as always.”

  He met her gaze, and, for just a moment, he thought he would find something hidden under the surface. Some mockery held just behind her eyes. Some disgust at his weakness. The slightest bit of rejection at his expression of plights and fears and wants.

  But he saw nothing. Zaria was looking at him with her usual cocky expression. She flicked her head over to his blanket across the watchtower. He looked away, felt a small smile worm its way over his lips, and moved back over to his resting spot.

  He laid down on the blanket and looked up at the glowing rib cage. He felt the heavy silence of the dead city around him. He imagined the ancient sorceress further down the cavity of the corpse, raising more thralls and abominations in response to their intrusion. He thought of his father trapped somewhere in her lair. He wondered if he would still resemble all the portraits he had seen of him.

  “We’re not normal people, are we?” Isaac asked.

  Zaria snorted. “Is that what you’ve always wanted, love?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Always.”

  “Isaac, would you have been satisfied shoveling manure and tilling fields? Would you want to spend all your life on the same few acres of farm, hoping not to get blight on your crops?”

  He thought about it. “Probably not, no.”

  “You think other people like being normal? You don’t think they imagine knights and royalty and magic, too?”

  “What do knights and royalty imagine, then?”

  “Probably the deeds of some better knight. Probably imagining how much more gold that king over yonder has in his palace. If they’re real out of touch, they probably think that shoveling manure is some noble calling, much the same as you’re doing. People just want what they don’t have.”

  He scratched at his bandages. “Is it ever possible to stop wanting?”

  “Why would you want to?”

  “Because wanting just leads to suffering.”

  “If you don’t want,” Zaria said, “then you’re not living, far as I’m concerned. Life’s got too much to offer for you to spend it feeling sorry about what’s gone or what never was.”

  “It’s not that easy to let things go.”

  “Course not, love, but life wouldn’t be worth living if that were so. Pleasure would mean nothing if you’d never known pain.” There was a pause. “Truth is, I like being alive. Suffering and all. Won’t die with no regrets, but I’m starting to think no one ever does.”

  They laid in silence for a while.

  “Isaac,” she said. “Thanks for mixing your herbs. Feel better now than I have in days. Weeks, really.”

  He had used many of his most important reagents. It was likely that he would be unable to craft any other potions, should the need arise.

  “Sure,” he said. “Happy to help.”

  They laid in silence again. Isaac tried to calculate the dimensions of each of the giant ribs. A single one could’ve walled a village. He tried to imagine what was causing the cartilage to glow as it was. He wanted to climb up to the top of the body cavity and walk along the ribs and gaze down at the necropolis and see it as no one had seen it before.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’re you going to do with your half of the treasure?”

  “Glad to see you’re not worried about me stabbing you for it.”

  “I just assumed the stabbing would be for some other reason.”

  “Wise of you, love.” There was a pause. “I’m gonna learn to read.”

  He glanced over at her. “Really?”

  “First thing I’m doing once I’m no longer being hunted.”

  “Any reason why?”

  “Oh, none at all. Proud of my ignorance, really. I love having to ask directions while standing next to a sign. Warms my heart when I’m cheated for not reading a contract.” Her face was held in profile, staring up at the cartilage light. “My father always promised me that’s what he’d do for me, the second he was able. Every time I handed him a bag of coin, he’d go off about me attending some academy in the upper districts so I wouldn’t have to pinch off the streets. Make something better of myself, he’d say. Always wondered what might’ve happened, if things had been different. Who I could’ve been.”

  “You doing it for him?”

  “In some way, sure. Not all of it. It’s like—” She waved a hand in the air. “It’s like you said, actually. I don’t know what I don’t know. My ignorance is such that I don’t even have a true notion of it. Right? That’s what you said?”

  “More or less.”

  “How can I be better if I don’t know better? How can I be something other than a pirate if I don’t have no other talents? My lack of letters has restricted me my whole life. Even now, it’s a struggle to fix my words to my feelings ‘cause I don’t have the words themselves.” She paused. “You tell me, Isaac. There a word for something . . . not becoming? Something that never got the chance to exist?”

  “Unrealized,” Isaac said.

  “Could you . . . write that down for me?”

  He ripped off part of his bandages, grabbed a stencil from his pack, wrote the word as legibly as he could, and handed it to her. She looked down at the torn bandage, blinking at it.

  “That’s it, then,” she said. “I want to learn my letters because I don’t want to be ‘unrealized’. I want to have potential again. I want to steer the course of my life clear as I can. I want the tools to figure out what I want in the first place. You get my meaning?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know exactly what you mean. I feel the same way.”

  “Never wanted to be a pirate, myself. Did you want to be a mage?”

  “Wasn’t really given the choice.”

  “And you never truly understood what you were missing, did you?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Do you know better now?”

  “Maybe. I’m starting to think I won’t ever know enough.”

  “Will that stop you from trying to change?”

  “No,” Isaac said. “It won’t.”

  “I think we’re kindred souls, then.”

  He didn’t answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stare at the bandage again, trying to mouth out the syllables to the word, connecting sound to letters. After a minute, she folded the bandage and tucked it into a pocket at her waist.

  “Gonna turn in now. You certain that spell will keep the monsters out?”

  “We’ll be fine. We don’t need to post watch.”

  “As you say, then. I’ll trust your judgement.” She wrapped the white blanket around her chest, closing her eyes. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” he replied.

  He laid there on the stone, staring up at the giant rib cage. After a while, Zaria began to snore. A little longer after that, he closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately.

  His dreams were vivid and wild.