Song of Ashes

8: A Decision

No one in Kogoren prayed any more. To Sarka, who had not been born yet when the Queen's Crest erupted and the Cataclysm broke the land into pieces, the goddess was almost a myth. Even Jakor's story of the Beloved and the futility of leaving did not change her mind.

She had battled a wildcat and lived. What were ghosts compared to real teeth, real blood?

Now, she had only to find a way out of the ashlands. The pirate-merchants Jakor had mentioned seemed to be the likeliest lead, and to find them, Sarka needed to rely on someone who had been beyond the borders of Gold Eagle's Roost since the Cataclysm. She knew of only one such person: the former ash-walker, Aneir, who had settled into retirement in their town over a year ago.

While Sarka's wounds healed, she began to store up meager bits of food, whatever she thought would keep during a journey of uncertain duration. She also considered the problem of currency and how she would barter for what she needed along the way. There was only one thing Sarka had, after all: her needle.

She took her mother's shears from the tall wooden chest. She took out the snowy muslin and the treasured floss in its rainbow of colors. She laid her materials out and settled to work.

As the wound to her shoulder hardened into gnarled knots and the scratch to her face healed into pale, shiny scars, Sarka sewed. Her shoulder became stiff and sore from holding up her work, but had the cat taken her right, she might never have exercised her skills with any artistry again. She was lucky.

She had no choice but to keep her embroidery sessions short. She reserved most of her energy for plain sewing to earn her livelihood, but once she had completed her chores and her work for the day, Sarka spent a little time working on her personal projects. Stitch by stitch, she created two handkerchiefs.

Simple handkerchiefs they may have been, but they were the most beautiful work that had been seen on Kogoren since the Cataclysm. In the corner of the first, Sarka put a bird with a cascade of tail feathers in a rainbow of colors. The feathers shimmered and shone when she rippled the cloth in her hands. She edged the work with a simple blue border. On the second handkerchief, she worked a fish in red, orange, and gold, its flowing fins and sparkling scales perfect in their minuscule details. She bordered this in blue also, with a scalloped pattern to recall the waves of an ocean she had never seen.

The day before she planned to leave, she slipped the bird handkerchief into the pocket of her thin dress. Then, she crossed through town to the house where Aneir the Ash-Walker had retired from her grueling trade and knocked on the peeling door.

An aging woman opened the door a moment later. She squinted, although there was not much light to accost her in the early afternoon. Over her plain tunic, she wore a long ash-walker's scarf wrapped around her neck and up over her graying hair.

On Aneir's face, Sarka saw a familiar series of expressions. First, shock; then, a careful schooling of the features into calm. Finally, a careful interest, an intentional interest directed at anything but Sarka's scars. She had seen the same series of expressions on a few faces in town as she'd picked up the threads of her life.

"Yes?" asked Aneir.

"Do you still have your donkey?" Sarka asked. Politeness was an afterthought, which was unusual-normally politeness did not factor into Sarka's conversations at all. "...Madam?"

Aneir cocked her head. "Sarka, right?" Her faded eyes flicked down to Sarka's shoulder, where careful stitches had repaired the torn fabric of her dress after the wildcat's attack. The stitches were neat, but not invisible. Even harder to hide were the faded bloodstains; although both Tey and Sarka had worked on the stains, they still bloomed, rosy pink, all down the sleeve and over the breast of the dress. "You're the one killed that cat. Survived it, moreover."

"Obviously," Sarka replied. Then, "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I imagine you're tired of questions. Well-what do you want with the beast?" Aneir jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. "He's out back, penned up and still alive. It's about the only entertainment I still have, trying to guess how long he's got left."

"I want to buy him."

Aneir wore a perpetual squint as a woman in a better world might have worn spectacles, but now her eyes narrowed further, and she looked Sarka up and down. A long moment passed while Sarka suffered the woman's silent regard. Finally, Aneir said, "In the old days I might have invited you in to share some supper. To talk. Get your story from you. But in the old days, you'd have had a donkey of your own, and I don't have any supper."

"I don't want anyone to know," Sarka said. "I want to come here early one morning, when it's still dark, and take him away in secret. If they know, they'll try to stop me. They won't be able to, but I can't be bothered with the arguments and explanations. Your silence and your donkey. That's what I want."

"When he dies, I'll be able to eat him. I would have by now, but I haven't the heart to kill him. He trotted me all around this godforsaken land. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to some meat once it's over, though. Why should I give him to you?"

Sarka reached into her pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. She held it out to Aneir, who threw her a suspicious glance as she took the folded square of cloth and spread it out on her open palm.

It had to be the cleanest and most vibrant thing that had graced her eyes in two decades. Sarka knew it.

"No one has a use for this trash any more," Aneir said. She did not look up. She stared down at the bird, turning the fabric in her hand so the gorgeous threads shimmered in the dingy light.

"Does it need to be useful?" Sarka asked. "It could just be yours."