The Hour of the Crow

Chapter 29: Altered Homes

It was only when the familiar mix of dried fish, bread fresh from the oven and human waste hit his nose that Arran realized he had been homesick. Although the tunnels' thick stone walls kept out most sounds and smells, the bustle of a marketplace trickled through the round grids in the ceiling along with a steady beam of sunlight. The tunnel was broader here, as though this is where the Uniformists or the Exclusivists—whichever group this section had belonged to—had used this spot for secret gatherings.

Without intending to, he had stopped walking to stare up at one of the grids. A child playing with a wooden camel figurine met his gaze with large brown eyes. Rust-colored stains smudged the boy's hands as well as his toy and covered his face like freckles. Bile rose up in Arran's throat as he realized it was blood.

"What happened to you?" he whispered, casting a furtive glance in Inna's direction. She stood at the entrance to another, narrower tunnel, her arms crossed over her chest.

The boy's bottom lip quivered. "They took my maia," he sobbed. "Do you know where my maia is? Is she down there with you?"

The poor child couldn't be older than five. Arran opened his mouth, though his mind spun with a dozen different questions, but a large shadow fell over the grid and blotted out the sun. He could only see the brown leather tips of heavy boots.

"What are you looking at?" a gravelly voice asked.

Arran caught the boy's gaze and put a finger to his lips. A small, wet smile broke through on the child's face.

By the time the guard pushed the boy aside to peer through the grid, Arran was already gone.

Inna raised a brow at him. The flying carpet leaned against the wall beside her. "What was that?"

"I'm not sure." He shook his head. His earlier good mood had dissipated. The upsurge in energy had been a welcome surprise after the miserable trip to the village of Juzadi, where they had entered the tunnels. Now, however, he felt as though someone had stabbed a dagger into his stomach, twisting and turning until his vision swayed.

Inna was still watching him with that dull gleam in her eyes. Even in the gloom of the underground tunnel, her concern was palpable. Ever since he had started coughing up blood two days ago, she had treated him like a porcelain vase, afraid he would crack and break if she let him slip from her grasp for a moment. It made him want to tear his hair out.

Fighting the nausea, he placed his hands on either side of her head to trap her against the wall. A soft noise escaped her parted lips. "Don't look at me like that," he said.

"Like what?"

He leaned forward until his nose nearly brushed hers. Zazi's yellow gaze eyed him closely from the safety of Inna's shawl. "Like I might drop dead every time I breathe out."

She scoffed. Her warm breath tickled his cheeks. Instead of arguing with him, though, she jutted out her chin and pursed her lips. "We should keep moving," she said.

His surprised chuckle bounced off the walls as she pushed him away and picked up the carpet. Her steps were fast, angry, heading blindly into the darkness. He had to tug at her sleeve several times to steer her in the right direction, and even then they had to turn back more than once. She didn't speak another word to him until they had reached the right ladder. Zohra's house sat just above their heads.

He took a step aside to let Inna pass. "Ladies first," he said with a sweeping gesture at the ladder. Her eyes found his in the shadows, burning brightly, before she placed her right foot on the lowest rung.

As soon as Arran poked his head through the hole in the floor, he was catapulted back in time, to the day when he had met the mind warpers for the first time. The relief that overwhelmed him now, being back in her house after a month away from home, felt twice as strong as it had that day. He braced himself against the wall, feeling dizzy.