pneumatophany (n.) the manifestation of a spirit or phantom.
Ina's new life was one of colour – not merely the deep hues of the petunias Azula cultivated with an almost fervent care in what time Ina could spare her from the bakery; not merely with the saturated colours preferred for garments by the Illéan people of Aizsaule, not only with the bright shades which decorated the shutters and tiles and doors of Septītais Street.
No – Ina's new life was defined by the threads.
They dripped everywhere: from wrists and from fingers and from necks, like some strange homespun jewellery invisible to everyone but Inanna. The streets were carpeted with the stuff; overhead, there was a thick carpet of strings lacing together every window and every door and every avenue. It reminded Ina of the old telegraph lines which swallowed up certain streets in Opona, a dozen wires strung to a single post; but here, there were several hundred dozen wires, and several hundred posts. The whole of the shop window was swallowed up by a veritable tapestry of rainbow threads, like a woven curtain.
It had almost been a relief to spend time with the other Warriors, for the simple fact that they were only tied to each other; Khal and Ghjuvan bound together by deep navy, the pale fraying yellow between Azula and Ilja, that delicate silver-and-red chain that tied Zoran to Ina. That was simpler. It didn't overwhelm Ina to look at them, the same way it overwhelmed her to glimpse the Illéans – or, at least, it hadn't. And then she had noticed a tiny pale purple thread snaking between Zoran and the old lady who lived opposite; the charcoal grey which bound Kinga to the captain who had destroyed her eye; the amber chain which tied Azula to some of the younger customers, who invited her to hang out by the river after work, though she never accepted their kind overtures; the pinks and oranges which linked Ina with her customers, even those to whom she merely sold a loaf of bread. What a strange realisation that had been – that you were bound, in some sense, even to strangers.
A strange, and exceptionally uncomfortable, realisation – every time she recalled the reason that they were here.
These thoughts occupied her for the whole of the next morning; she moved almost mechanically as she and Azula moved in a sleepy haze around the kitchen, preparing the first batch of that morning's bread. The string which joined them – a lovely deep, deep blue, bright rather than dark, like a thread of pure spun sapphire – was slightly worn, like a bracelet worn for many years, and trailed them around the kitchen as they performed their well-learned morning rituals. Much of the dough had been kneaded and left to rest the previous evening; Ina was glad for that much, because her mind was so otherwise occupied by the simple matter of the threads – and where they might lead.
If Belle Seo was in Illéa, then surely – surely – there should be some tie between her and the other Warriors? They had grown up together – spent ten years in one another's company – trained alongside one another – surely if anything rendered a thread, that must? If the threads indeed showed interpersonal ties, as Ina suspected that they ought…
It was hard to focus, with such thoughts cluttering her mind. She nearly burnt herself on the oven lifting out the krentenbollen; from the suspicious look Azula shot her, she knew that her absent-minded clumsiness was not exactly going undetected. Outside, the sky was still rapidly lightening into day; they would have to work quickly to be ready for opening, and Ina was glad for the excuse of business to justify her quietness.
Belle and Azula had been close, together with Hyacinth making up a little trio of the younger and more delicate Warriors. And now she could be in Illéa? Ina hadn't told the Devil of Kur of Ilja's news, at the guardsman's advising – let me make sure first. It would do them no good to jump to assumptions… though Ina couldn't imagine that there was an alternative explanation that would make much sense.
Eunbyeol Seo. It was almost printed on the back of her eyelids.
If it was really Belle… could they really hope to trust her? What was she doing in Illéa – she was a civilian, wasn't she? Like Nez, like Ragnar, like Uriasz. Maybe they had granted her the Wheel, Ina thought desperately, as she mechanically set out the window display and flipped the sign in the window. Maybe she was their eleventh Warrior, another xrafstar to help them in their mission… maybe, maybe, maybe.
She spent much of the day in this kind of thoughtful stupor, not quite absent enough to call it dazed, because she thought hard the whole day long. Around two in the afternoon, Zoran joined them in the garden for some lunch, and together he and Ina danced around the topic of Belle's Selection as Azula muttered unhappily about the state of her flowers and the druj corpse which still lay in the courtyard – surely that can't be good for us? – and prepared a lunch to bring up to Khalore in her attic apartment. When she had departed, Zoran looked at Ina, and again they said nothing – but she could tell, just from meeting his gaze, that they had both spent the whole day thinking and that neither of them had much to show for their efforts.
What good was simply thinking? They wouldn't be able to do anything until they heard from Ilja again. He had been dispatched to find more information on this Eunbyeol Seo – Mønt had fallen, so she would certainly have been placed in one of the surviving districts. Hopefully he would be able to find some address more specific – then they could decide what their next steps ought to be.
If it was Belle….
Zoran met her eyes, and smiled, like he could see that she was thinking about it again. The thread which linked them was a delicate, perfect silver chain, reddening as though stained by rust on Zoran's side; it bound them, finger-to-wrist. Sometimes Ina couldn't even see it; other times, it was as real and physical as the table in front of her. Today was one of those times – it rippled like quicksilver as Zoran raised his teacup to his lips, and murmured, "you should take the evening off, Ina."
Ina shook her head. Occupying her hands was the only thing keeping her sane right now. "I promised to deliver Pepijn some bread after dinner – it will be good for me to get a walk."
"Go to bed early at the very least." Zoran's voice carried no trace of castigation or reproach; he was merely a dear friend who wanted her to be well. Ina treasured him more than words for that. "Let Azula open the shop tomorrow."
"Maybe." It was a nice day, dry and bright; a light breeze stirred the leaves of the trees which grew beside the bakery, slouched against the wall like a teenager with bad posture. The wind rustled across the scaled skin of the dead druj which had been left in the yard; Ina made a mental note to call Ghjuvan tomorrow to ask him what they were expected to do with it. Surely the tagma would want to study it? Or maybe they had an abundance of druj corpses to scrutinise. "Thank you, Zor."
"For what?"
I don't know what I'd do without you – but Ina couldn't bring herself to say that. It would put too much of a burden on him, when he already looked so tired, when he was recently so quiet, when his eyes so often had that faraway look. It would be too much to give voice to the dependence she felt for his quiet, warm presence; it could only go unspoken. She would have fallen apart, over and over and over again, without a few tiny fragments of kindness: without the scent of fresh bread in the morning, without the feeling of Azula's hair on her arm when the younger Warrior fell asleep on the couch after work, without the little rooftop meetings with the scattered Warriors having quiet affectionate arguments as they paced back-and-forth through the sunflowers – without Zoran.
So she just said, "for the tea. It's lovely."
And he smiled. "The best Kass District has to offer."
Those first long weeks in Aizsaule, there had been a hole in the roof of his house. Ina knew this, because she had spent many nights with him, watching the stars through the cracked wound in the ceiling – counting them, and naming them, and trying to spot constellations. Zoran had only a mattress at that time; he would take up one side, one arm behind his head, and Ina would take up the other, with a foot of space between them. Zoran had never questioned that, or asked her why; he never tried to touch her if she didn't want it; he never spoke, if she didn't seem inclined to respond. He would just smile, and tilt his head back, and say nothing. They would just silently watch the stars spin in the inky night canvas.
These were the same stars that her family in Irij would be looking at, Ina had thought, and that had calmed her somewhat; these were the same constellations that her father might be able to glimpse from his barred window. They still existed under the same sky. There was always going to be a place, somewhere, that she could still call home.
It was a place now – it had to be. No longer a person. Home had a different, more hollow meaning for her now.
God, how long was she going to keep loving him? Loving bones, loving stones, loving the memory of him? It had only been six months but there was some awful impermanence to the image of him in her head, like she could only see him from the corner of her eye, like she was merely remembering him the way that she had remembered him last and not the way he truly was. She wore it in her heart like a physical weight – sometimes she wanted to tear it out of her chest and hold it in her fist, just to lighten the burden that weighed on her ribs night-and-day. How long was she going to keep loving him? As long as the stars burned, as long as the sea washed upon the sand, as long as the seasons followed their celestial plan… She had no words for how long. Long enough. Ten years, if that was what was left to her – nine and a half, if that was what remained.
She still wanted to cry when she thought of him, when she touched the dog tags around her neck, when she woke in the night expecting him next to her. Sometimes she did cry. When they had first arrived in Aizsaule, when she had first had a few moments to herself to process the week that had preceded them, she had cried so hard that she had blackened her eyes; she had worn swollen shadows to rival Nez's for the week that had followed. She couldn't even bring herself to say his name, to think it. When the people of Aizsaule asked her about her husband, she just smiled and dismissed the question as politely as she could manage. She didn't want to talk about it; the druj-plagued people of the walls could respect that much. Everyone had lost someone.
She thought about that later in the evening, as she made the short journey down the hill to Pepijn's house. She had spent a long day being stared at, leered at, the object of much unwanted attention; she was glad of the break, of the fresh air, of the walk. The old man lived in one of the narrow apartments overlooking the river, with a window-box overspilling with verbena and snapdragons. It was an older area, and Otrais Street was narrow and cobbled; the railings which ran along the river had ropes wound around them to lash the floating boats to the quay. Old Pepijn was sitting on a wooden box outside his building, with his pipe clenched between his knuckles and speaking animatedly to a motley collection of the usual suspects – Vīksna, Txori, Krievs and Rudzītis, the older men who gathered on street corners in the early evenings to loudly discuss the day's going-ons and put the world to right. She could hear their conversations turn as she turned onto the street and they caught sight of her – oh, it's the widow, lovely thing, sad what happened to her husband, isn't she a pretty little darling, the bread isn't bad either, was he a soldier I wonder?
They were tied tightly to one another with strings of pale orange and light green, reminding Ina of early spring flowers – a tenuous kind of link, the colour of gossip rather than meaningful conversation. Pepijn had a darker orange linking him to Ina; it seemed to ripple with yellows and pinks as she moved closer; it was a warm colour, innocuous. She didn't dislike it.
Pepijn accepted his bread with good grace – "how is the garden looking, Mrs Hämäläinen?" – and waved his hand to gesture her closer – "be careful on your walk back, the paqūdus are in foul humour today" – and then reached into his pocket to pull out a handful of grimy coins – "how much do I owe you, then?"
Ina accepted what he offered, dropping the coins into the pocket of her apron as she nodded and smiled automatically. Her whole day had passed in such a strange blur of people and smiles and coins; she wasn't sure she even knew what time it was. "I'll do that. Thank you."
As she backed away, there were a few calls from the other men: stay safe, won't you? And more olive bread, more żymła, more krentenbollen! And if you're free on the weekend, I have a very handsome nephew I can introduce you to…
Ina smiled; Ina waved; Ina walked away.
She took a longer route back to the bakery; she enjoyed these little deliveries, and what little freedom they accorded her. And this part of town was so pretty – like Old Kur, if anyone had put effort into keeping it in an acceptable state, like a quaint village frozen in time. Illéa was a little less advanced that Irij, but that was to be expected – no trams, no telegraphs, no bicycles, no photographs. The smallest things that she had taken for granted at home – she had spent the first months here petrified that she might give the game away with some careless mention of a telephone or a phonograph. She had got better, but gradually, gradually; even learning to cook here had been like learning a skill totally anew. Sleeping was easier; there were no trains, no trams, no automobiles. When dusk fell, the whole quarter fell silent.
And dusk was falling now. There was no curfew in place, but if what Pepijn had said bore any relation to the truth, then she didn't want to get caught out after dark. The guardsmen could make life difficult for you, even if you weren't contravening any rules.
The last pass of her journey brought her along the narrow path known affectionately as Ne Street, which Ina understand to mean something like "Not-A-Street" or "Street Zero". It was an alley that snaked like a spine with scoliosis through the centre of the town, running along the back of many of the businesses and homes in a kind of pedestrian highway that could carry you from one side of the city to the other almost exactly as the crow flies. It was darker here than it would have been in Opona, where alleys were so frequently wreathed in gaslight and amber light; there was still enough sunlight to light her way, and Ina knew from experience that after sunset there would be enough light from the moon and stars to illuminate her path as well. She held her basket closer to her, as the air grew a little colder, and kept walking.
"Young lady!"
She stopped. There, in a little alcove, two men had stepped out of a little alcove, one of the many little nooks carved into the walls of Aizsaule buildings to offer a place for people on the street to garner shelter from the rain or pause for a cup of tea in hot weather. It was also a favourite post for the paqūdus of the district, where they could pass their evening watches in relative comfort; Ina found herself facing a pair of them now. Their pale gold-and-grey coats were distinctive; the grey was much darker than that worn by the palace guards of Ganzir. It always reminded Ina of their cadet uniforms, all of this grey garb.
"Sirs," she said, rather hesitantly. "Can I help you?"
"Are you lost, young miss? It's dangerous for a young woman like yourself to be out so late."
There were two guards, a young man about Ina's age and a taller, older fellow who might have been of her father's generation. It was the younger man who had spoken, and that galled Ina much more, given the patronising tone, than if it had been his comrade. They were bound to one another by a very pale blue thread, like a pallid imitation of that which tied the Warriors together – bicep-to-bicep, like puppets dancing in a line.
"Mrs," she said, slightly stiffly, certain that her irritation was showing in the lines of her body. "I'm fine, thank you."
"There was a curfew imposed." The older guard had a slight squint; he turned it on Ina now. "Didn't you hear about that? Home before nightfall. Do you think you can make it back before then, little mouse?"
"The sun's still up," Ina said, feigning politeness. Her smile was automatic – she could recognise the look in their eyes. It had become familiar, after six months wearing her curse. "So I should be fine, thank you."
"Maybe we should walk you home."
"Just to be safe."
"Just in case."
"Do you live around here, darling?"
"Look at her little apron – and her pretty dress."
"I'm alright, thank you..."
"It wouldn't be right to leave you alone."
"Where did you say you lived again?"
"Oh, we'd only be doing our job."
"We can find a place for you..."
The taller guard reached forward and seized her arm. Ina's skin crawled. Something hard and barbed caught in her throat. The strings between them drew taut; they were red, so red, like blood, more scarlet than red, more maroon than scarlet… the last time she had seen strings like these, she had almost strangled Xynone Hanover to death with them.
Red, very red –
The guard's hand had frozen on her arm; he was looking at her, but his eyes had gone wide, very wide. No – he wasn't looking at her. He was looking behind her.
Ina didn't dare look, and as it turned out, she didn't have to either. There was a voice, not quite strange and not quite familiar – "Inanna, darling, I was wondering where" you were."
The man reached past Ina, quite casually, and wrenched the guard's hand from her arm. The guards stumbled back; abruptly, the strings which connected them to Ina, waist-to-wrist, had faded into a sterile grey. No longer red.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?"
The shorter guard opened his mouth. For several long moments, nothing came out; then, at last, he managed to choke out, "no, thank you, nothing."
"You stopped the lady."
"...no, thank you, nothing."
There was the tiniest note of mirth in the man's voice. "Do you require anything else from her?"
"...no, thank you, nothing."
"Well, then. Mrs Hämäläinen, might I escort you?"
"Yes," Ina said, automatically. Why did he sound so… familiar? He had a deep voice, with the slightest hint of an accent; it was warm, but not overly friendly, not like those guards had been; Ina did not have any sense that harm might come to her if she went with him. "Thank you."
"Please, don't mention it."
She took his arm carefully, and they began to walk. He was wearing a jacket of a military cut, but the colour was not one that Ina had learned over her time in Illéa – not the green or blue or red of the tagma, not the gold of the paqūdus, not the grey of the palace guard. It was quilted in a geometric pattern of pale pink and pale blue, like periwinkle and baby's breath. He had calloused hands, and skin tanned gold; there was a scar on his knuckles, between his middle and ring finger. He was taller than her – not that this was a distinguishing trait, of course – and leanly built, more like Ilja than Ghjuvan. Built like a blade, Commandant might have said.
"I'm sorry to have caused bother for you," she said.
She sensed, more than saw, that he had smiled. "It isn't any bother, Inanna. I'm glad I found you."
They had come to the end of Ne Street, and were ascending the hill towards the Kivi Bakery, when Ina risked a look up at the man's face. In the gloom that had settled over the city like a physical mantle, she could not distinguish much – his whole face was in shadow, but she could tell that he was sharp-featured, as leanly defined in facial features as in physical build. He had pale blonde hair, a little longer than was conventional in Illéa; it might have been closer to gold in warmer light and just that thought meant that it hurt Ina to look at him, so she did not look long.
"Found me?" She let a little good humour leak into her voice. "Were you looking for me?"
"Oh," he said. "You might say that. But the world's a big place."
He said in such a strange manner; Ina wasn't sure if he was trying to pass some sort of coded message across to her. The thought occurred – was this something to do with Belle? Maybe she had been sent here with this man, whoever he was – maybe he was a xrafstar – or maybe he was just a friendly customer who had seen a girl in trouble.
Once again, Ina was left with only maybe, maybe, maybe.
He gestured at the bakery. He had a set of heavy rings on his right hand; they glittered gold, like stolen coins, in what little light escaped from the neighbouring houses. "I'll leave you in peace, then."
Ina wasn't sure what she could say, except for, "okay." She paused. "Can I ask your name? I appreciated your assistance…."
"You can ask," he said. Stepping back, he gave her a wry smile – his teeth were very white in the dark, white and sharp – and he pushed his hair out of his eyes in a gesture that struck Ina as, again, so utterly familiar that it was almost a physical agony that she could not place a memory to it. "Look after yourself, won't you? I'll see you soon, Ina."
And then – oh, it was only as she watched him turn to go that she realised the simple, obvious absence. She could have shaken herself – how had she not noticed before? How could she have been so blind? So stupid?
This man – whoever he was –
This man had no strings on him. None at all.
Ina's first thought was maybe he doesn't know anyone – but no, he surely had spoken with such dismissive scorn to those guardsmen that it would have spun some dirty grey string between them to show that much. And he had protected her – and yet, no thread connected them.
He just walked away. She would have called to him, she would have asked, but she knew – she knew – that he would not give her any answer. Instead, Ina could not bring herself to tear her eyes from his back until he had disappeared around the corner, and out of sight.
Then, and only then, did she allow herself to reach, hesitantly, for the gate to the courtyard. She unlocked it carefully, and stepped into the garden, noting absently as she did that Azula's petunias seemed to have been totally lost to the crush of the druj carcass. Absently – yes, she was focusing on all of this because she wasn't sure what to make of what had just happened. The yard was totally silent, and totally doused in darkness; even Khalore's window was black, despite the relatively early hour. Dusk had fallen only a few minutes earlier, but it had fallen totally; days were strange and abrupt like that, here in Illéa. It was strange to see the bakery so still and silent after the bustle of the early morning. Ina drew her cardigan tighter around herself, gently touching the dog-tags which lay beneath her blouse, and then nearly jumped out of her skin as a voice beside her said, "who was that?"
Kinga had spoken almost directly into her ear. Ina only just avoided punching her out of sheer shock. She refrained, but only just; living in Illéa had done nothing good for her nerves. "Don't do that to me, Kinga."
In the darkness, her shrug was a mere waver of shadow. The almond-coloured string which bound her to Ina, throat-to-wrist, rippled with that movement. "I thought you could see me. I saw you."
Ina smiled thinly, her mind still occupied elsewhere. She responded almost instinctively: "you thought? That's not like you."
It was strange just how unwavering and intense her gaze still seemed, with only one eye, through the dark. "You're dodging the question, Na."
Ina wasn't sure when Kinga had become so concerned with her comings-and-goings, and the comings-and-goings of the other team members. It had been a sudden transformation, and absolutely total: if they were all trapped here on Illéa, then Kinga, more than anyone else, was their keeper. But Ina could remember seeing Kinga again, for that first time since the strings started appearing, silhouetted on the bridge in Nav. Ina had expected to see a fraying string upon her wrist, more than anything else – something weak and frail, something barely-there, to tie her to her team-mates.
It had been a nice, and yet an unnerving, surprise to see that string wasn't really the right word for that which bound Kinga to the other Warriors. She was chained to them – brown, all of her chains, that same solid brown. It had been unnerving for any number of reasons: the absolute immutability, the absolute identicality. It shouldn't have surprised Ina and yet it had – the idea that Kinga felt the same way towards all of them, with such a bland and flat colour and yet with such a powerful and unbreakable link. It was a contradiction in terms; it was impossible to read; it made Ina view the taller girl with much more wariness than she ever had before. Not untrustworthy, that was not the proper term – this was one of the most trustworthy threads that Ina had ever glimpsed, but it did not suggest any warmth, any affection, any care beyond that mandated by their shared allegiance to the cause of Irij. It showed no sentiment which might justify Kinga's quiet proclamation on the roof all those hours ago: we're friends. You need to keep secrets from your friends?
Ina had quietly pleased herself with this analysis, at the time and again now. She was getting better at it – if, indeed, any of this was an accurate assessment. The colours and the quality of the threads had baffled her, when first she had glimpsed them; over time, very gradually, she had imposed her own understanding onto certain patterns. They were not so simple as she had hoped, red means love, and the like – it was more like looking at a painting and trying to discern by meanings of design and shade and warmth what the creator might have intended to communicate. She had not dared to ask herself who the creator might be in this instant – the nature of the xrafstar curse would make redundant any such musing. It was beyond such understanding; Ina was pleased to have this sort of shaky dialogue with her own curse after only six months. It would have been hubris to expect more. And this much made her feel useful.
And that man had no strings at all. None. Not even the grey of apathy, that Ina had occasionally glimpsed between strangers meeting for the first time – just nothing.
Against her best instincts, the little voice of self-preservation in the back of her skull that spoke with Avrova's voice, Ina was fascinated.
Kinga was still waiting for her answer. Ina just shook her head. "Ran into some trouble with a paqūdu, that's all." She paused. No, she thought – Kinga was her comrade, if not her friend. They couldn't start keeping secrets from each other, not when they were here in hostile territory. She turned to the tagma-in-training and said, keeping her voice low, "he helped me out, made some excuses."
Kinga quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. She always did this; it was infuriating. When the silence became too overwhelming to countenance for much longer, Ina was compelled to continue, certain that her frustration was apparent in her voice.
"And he didn't… my curse doesn't seem to affect him."
Kinga shrugged. "Maybe you're not his type."
Ina shook her head. "Not that part."
The other Warrior lowered her voice. "This concerns you?"
"It's… out of the ordinary." Ina smiled gently. "That's always going to concern me slightly."
Kinga took a step back. "Did he seem dangerous?"
"No," Ina said, and was surprised to recognise the confidence with which she said it. She had not had any sense that he might hurt her – the opposite, in fact. There had been no question in her heart, walking at his side, that he would keep her safe. It had been… an overwhelming certainty, without apparent root.
"Did he know you?"
"...he called me by name."
Kinga took a step back. "He can't have got far. I can try to track him from the rooftops..."
Ina smiled – the girls newly christened Hämäläinen and Kaasik finished the Commandant's old advice in chorus. "Most people watch their feet, not the sky."
"Be safe," Kinga advised her. The brown chain which linked them rippled as she took a step back and racked the switch on the cannon slung at her hip. Yes. It couldn't hurt for Kinga to scope him out. She was the best Warrior for the job. If anyone could handle a potential danger, it was Szymańska.
"You too. Stay out of sight."
"You didn't see me, did you?"
Ina rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me."
Kinga set her foot against the edge of Azula's wooden flower-box, and then paused, seeming to catch herself right before she took to the roofs. "Oh – Na?"
Na. When had she started calling her that? Na, the widow Hämäläinen, Nanna, the baker on Septītais Street… She almost missed the good old days when she was simply Inanna Nirari. "Yeah?"
"Save me some of that chałka, yeah?"
"If you behave yourself," Ina said, "and if you don't get caught – I can make you some krówki as well."
Kinga shook her head, and smiled ruefully. "You know, I'm starting to see why Pekka liked you so much."
Before Ina could even think about responding, Kinga had fired her hooks into the little clasps which hung from the bakery gutters – standard-issue for all Illéan homes, to allow the tagma to travel easily within city boundaries – and lifted herself, relatively smoothly considering her thorough accumulation of injuries, smoothly into the air. Ina watched her go – but it was only a few moments before she was totally immersed into the darkness.
Ina was left alone in the courtyard once again, thinking about strings.