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  “I’m fine,” Amelia insisted. The annoyance had run out of her voice, leaving only sincere and tired. “It’s just leftover toxins from handling your mother’s parasite. Would you hand me some ginger from my pack?”

  July dutifully opened Amelia’s knapsack and began to search its pockets. There were a seemingly endless supply of jars and envelopes, each labeled in the doctor’s cryptic scrawl. She pulled out one that looked to her like a root and held it up. “Ginger?”

  Amelia gave a weak smile. “No, that’s malleyroot. More poisonous than the parasite, I’d bargain.”

  “Oh.” July, eyes wide, dropped the piece back in the bag and continued to search. She tried another root, and before Amelia said a word, returned it to the pack. “What am I looking for?”

  “It’s in a paper wrap, labeled ‘Ginger’.” Amelia instructed. “I figured that would be clear enough.”

  “No offense, but you should invest in a scribe, because your handwriting is like––well, like a doctor’s.” July pulled a bundle of wax paper from the pack. “This one says ‘G-something’.”

  “That’s the one.” Amelia snatched the bundle with two dexterous fingers, flicking the paper open with an efficient turning motion. Inside the package rested a brown-skinned root with a deep yellow center, sliced into uneven discs. She plucked away one of the smaller discs, placing it between her lips before wrapping the root up and handing it back.

  A moment of quiet made July aware of how sore her feet were getting. She jogged as part of her training, but jogging was an exercise in pacing––this was the slow, eroding endurance of a marathon. She groaned inwardly, wondering how the doctor kept on like this all day, every day. How long had she been travelling the continent, looking for her cure? Years? Decades? July imagined a young Amelia Saul, not unlike herself––albeit less muscular, and graceful––leaving home, all on her own, to find something she wasn’t even sure existed. She imagined how much sorrow must’ve filled that woman––how much fear, and bitterness. It was not a pleasant image.

  Amelia interrupted her thought with a pointing hand, indicating the horizon. The woods peeled away on either side, and distantly, she could make out the shape of a building.

  “A farmhouse,” Amelia guessed, her voice warped slightly around the ginger in her mouth. “We’ll see about stopping there for the night.”

  July grinned. Prayers answered.

  By the time they reached the farmhouse, the horizon had begun to chew away at the sun. The farmer that owned the estate, seeing the pair of travelers on the road, came out to meet them at the edge of his property. It was sizably larger than the Casperan fields, July judged, but the man, with a sun-wrinkled face and trusting features, reminded her of her father, so she didn’t hold it against him.

  “Evenin’, ladies,” He began, with a wry smile. “I s’pose you’re looking for somewhere to stave off the dark.”

  “If you could spare room in your barn, yes. We’ll be no trouble at all.” Amelia took charge of the conversation. It was clear to July that bartering wasn’t a new art to her. “In fact, I am a doctor by trade. If you have any livestock to examine, we’d be happy to call that payment.”

  “You don’t say! A doctor.” The farmer seemed to chew on these words for a moment. “Well, there was a particularly nasty flu ‘round these parts last year. It’d be a weight off my shoulders if you’d check my cattle for bumps ‘n all that.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Amelia repeated, returning the farmer’s wry smile. They started off towards the barn, but paused, the farmer struck by a thought.

  “Say, are you two ladies travelling alone? I don’t mean to overstep, or nuthin’, just that I’d never let my own wife walk the highway by her lonesome. They say beauty attracts thieves better than gold.”

  Amelia laughed. “You’re kind, sir. But July here is man enough for two, I think.”

  July’s cheeks flared red, but she did not disagree.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  July rolled uncomfortably on the bale of hay, one arm supporting her head and the other wedged around her midsection. She tried not to feel ungrateful for the farmer’s generosity, even if the wool blanket he spared for them was as scratchy as the bales of hay. She couldn’t help but find herself homesick for her province of Lochmount, for her home in Little Rock, her own bed and blanket–

  The barn door swung open with heavy grace, illuminating the open room with moonlight. July sat up, happy for an excuse to leave her makeshift bed and restless thoughts for a moment. Amelia stepped in, pensive as always.

  “How are the cows?” July asked through a yawn.

  “Healthy as can be,” Amelia replied, straining not to yawn herself. She found her own hay bale, placing her knapsack next to it before spreading the wool blanket on top of the bale. She laid herself on top of both and sank a comfortable distance. “It helps keep the straw out of your clothes if you put the blanket down first.”

  July turned back to her bale and began rearranging, cursing herself for not thinking to do so earlier. Then she flopped onto the hay, squirming into a good position and staring at the barn’s wooden roof. “Amelia?”

  “Mel. My friends call me Mel.”

  “Are we friends?”

  A breath. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “You travel a lot, don’t you?”

  “You could say that.” There was a laugh from Mel’s side of the room. “I’ve been on the road for the better part of my entire life. I spent a few years in the Republic of Amora, studying herbs and medicine; then another year in San Della with my mentor, Judas; but for the most part, yes, the road.”

  July was surprised by how Amelia––Mel, she amended––opened up. She decided to push a little further. “Do you miss home?”

  A second of silence, and another thoughtful breath. “Yes. I miss it terribly. But there’s nothing for me there––not yet. Besides, that’s why people leave home; so they can come back someday––better, and different.” Amelia spoke with a practiced caution, as if this was something she told herself quite often.

  July turned this thought over for a while, still staring at the patchy wooden roof. It was comforting, like a warm coal tended in the dark, glowing and pulsing. Eventually, she realized that Mel’s breathing had deepened into that of sleep. She closed her eyes and listened, still turning her thoughts––still tending the coal.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  It didn’t feel like long after when a loud bang woke July. Her dreams, the vague shapes of a farmhouse and the ocean, withered as she batted away the fog of sleep.

  “Mel?” July whispered, getting to her feet. She pulled on her boots and tiptoed to Mel’s side of the barn.

  Nothing. Mel’s hay bale was empty, save the crumpled wool blanket she slept on. July began to wake up in earnest, her stomach sinking. She moved quickly back to her bale, picking up her short sword and fastening the sheath around her waist. Her hand touched the sword’s pommel, round and cool––it was a comforting feeling.

  She slid the barn’s heavy door open, letting the light spill in as Amelia had done earlier. The cool breeze of the night chilled her cheeks as her eyes scanned the fields. A midnight walk, that’s all it is, she assured herself. Amelia gets restless around midnight, and she went out for a walk!

  A gray splotch moved in the distance.

  July instinctively dropped into a crouch, hiding behind the wooden fence that surrounded the farmer’s fields. That’s just Mel, walking by the house. Right? She peeked over the fence’s edge.

  Two gray splotches moved in the distance.

  Walking by the house with the farmer? July shook her head. Not likely. She moved along the fence quickly, headed towards the farmhouse.

  As she got closer, the situation became more apparent, and her stomach sank further. Mel and the farmer were in fact out; they were leaning against the side of the house, hands on their heads. The gray splotches were two large men, dressed for t
he night and large knives in hand––highwaymen. Between the pairs sat a pile of coins, a bag of plundered crop and the farmer’s leather jacket.

  Keeping to the fence led July behind the highwaymen, where she could better assess the situation. The sound of chatter carried on the wind, and July could hear some of the farmer’s pleas––the words wife and indebted came across quite clearly––and the voices of the highwaymen. Mel, cool under pressure, remained silent.

  July leaned out from the fence to catch Amelia’s attention. Her eyes widened, surprised––quite conspicuously, July lamented. She flapped her hand open and closed in front of her mouth––keep them talking––then forked her fingers at the highwaymen’s backs. Mel gave a fraction of a nod.

  There was about ten yards of space between the edge of the fence and the highwaymen. She only needed time enough to close that distance. July crept forward, slowly pulling her sword from its sheath.

  “You know, it’s bad luck to prey on a farmer’s fields at night,” She could hear Mel saying. The men, previously rummaging through Mel’s knapsack, paused.

  “Is that so?” One of the thugs responded.

  Only eight more yards, she thought.

  “Oh yes. Dating back to the stories of the Saints Shina and Suna, food stolen from a farmer’s fields at night would turn a thief’s stomach sour,” She added.

  Five more yards.

  “I think you’ll shut your mouth if you know what’s best for you, miss,” The other man said.

  Two more yards.

  “Suit yourself,” said Mel.

  July slammed her foot into the back of the first man’s knee. He dropped clumsily to his hands, where she delivered a short kick to his head. A crack like a whip sounded, and the man crumpled. The other man, with the paralysis of surprise broken, charged at July. She chopped. The knife––and a couple fingers––fell to the ground. The man shrieked in pain, grasping his injured hand and turning to flee, but he was too slow. July was already upon him, bringing the pommel of the blade down on his head. He crumpled next to his partner.

  July turned to Mel conversationally. “I thought we weren’t going to run into highwaymen.”

  “Yes, I was wrong,” snapped Mel, snatching her knapsack from beneath the man. “It happens. Rarely, but it happens.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WALL BAL’LHORD. PRESSURE. AN OLD FRIEND.

  The farmer was much more grateful than Amelia. He spared for them what he could––two donkeys, as his travelling days were long behind him, and a rather tasteful bottle of wine. As well traveled as Mel was, she was relieved to be off her feet for a while, and between sips of wine from the metal flask at her hip, she felt her luck was finally beginning to turn around. Even spending a night on the ground outside wasn’t enough to mar her spirits.

  The air grew colder as they drew closer to the ocean. Mel could smell salt in the air. It was a comfort––a reminder of her time in San Della, learning under Bachman. July, on the other hand, appeared to be flexing each arm in alternation in order to stay warm. Mel made a mental note to buy the poor girl a proper coat.

  The highway began to open up, its stones growing wider and flatter and the trees on either side falling away. In the distance, a massive structure towered above the surrounding plains, oppressive.

  “The Great Wall Bal’Lhord,” Amelia noted. “The middle finger of the Bal’Lhord Empire.”

  July whistled appreciatively. “My dad says only the paranoid farmers build fences around their crop.”

  “Your father knows what he’s talking about,” Mel replied, revealing one of her rare smiles.

  By the time Mel and July sat under the wall’s titanic shadow, it eclipsed the sky, leaving only beams of sunlight to illuminate the path through crooked and disparate windows. At the intersection of the highway and the wall, a rounded gate opened the territory to travelers. Two guards on either side––Lhord’s Army soldiers, dressed in noble red chainmail and wielding winged spears––flanked the opening. It was enough to make even a perfectly innocent traveler feel nervous of divine judgment.

  “We’re lucky––the traffic is light today,” Mel informed July, who nodded anxiously. Having visited the province of Tallan, July had surely crossed one of the Lhord’s Walls before––but Wall Bal’Tallan, the smallest of the three, was nothing next to this monolith. “Do you have your passport?”

  July held up a blue leather-bound book with the Amoran crest on its cover. “Passport, birth certificate, even a letter from the guild.”

  Mel smiled. “Just the passport should be sufficient. Sometimes they give trouble to people from the Republic, but as far out as Lochmount, you’re practically cousins.” She patted the girl on the shoulder and maneuvered her donkey in front. “I’ll even do the talking. Easiest border-crossing ever.”

  As they pulled up to the mouth of the gate, a Lhord soldier stepped in front of Mel’s donkey, which stopped abruptly and neighed, annoyed. Mel patted its face. The soldier was tall with broad shoulders and a shrewd, impatient face. Exactly the type they would want on the border, Mel thought with some distaste.

  “Passport, miss?” The soldier held out a gloved hand.

  Mel pulled her passport, thick and frayed with stamps and endorsements, from her jacket pocket and passed it over. “Just renewed not two months ago.”

  “Dr. Amelia Saul. Female, forty-five years of age. Born in Cloudless, in the province of Prycoast, country of Amora.” He read aloud. “Is this all true?”

  “As you say,” Mel nodded. “The other donkey is with me; she’s my escort. July?” She reached a hand back and felt July give up her passport, beaded in places with perspiration. Mel handed this to the soldier, who gave it a cursory glance before returning it.

  “You are the Dr. Saul that served directly under the Amoran Council?” The soldier’s beady brown eyes locked on Mel’s own, and she felt the scrutiny of his question.

  “A lifetime ago, yes. Chancellor Sonya and I share a birthday,” Mel replied.

  The soldier, apparently satisfied, waved them forward. “Welcome to Asla.”

  Passing under the stone arch, July caught up to Mel’s side.

  “I didn’t know you were doctor for the Amoran Council,” July said incredulously.

  “It’s not something I advertise,” Mel snapped, sternly shutting down the line of questioning. “Attracts the wrong kind of attention.”

  July nodded, miming a lock and key motion in front of her lips and tossing the imaginary key away––but the look of awe in her eyes only dimmed a little.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  The shrewd soldier watched the pair of donkeys crest the cobbled hill towards San Della with growing impatience. Once he was sure they were out of sight, he murmured a word to his fellow guard, then leaned his spear against the wall and stepped into a small door in the middle of the round gate’s wall. Inside stood a long sheltered hallway, nests of papers and junk covering a long stone countertop––letters, false passports, shift schedules and all else.

  “Why are you not on duty?” Came a voice from the depths of the hall. The captain of the guard stepped from its dark corners, closing in on the lone militiaman, larger in every regard.

  He instantly snapped off a salute. “Captain, Dr. Amelia Saul just passed through the gate.”

  “I see,” The captain’s deep voice clanged off the cold bricks of stone. “Send a messenger to Lhord Historia. Prince Bal’Szukin will want to know––the doctor is in San Della.”

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  When did the reins get so slippery? July wondered, wiping her palms on her pants and adjusting her grip. The scattered homes of the countryside began to cluster as the city of San Della grew closer. The traffic thickened, and soon July looked out over two contrary rivers of bobbing heads. She stuck close to Mel, watching her back and memorizing her outfit in case they were to be separated.

  “The plaza is coming up,” Mel called over her sh
oulder. “We’re looking for a skinny blue house with the number eighteen on it.”

  “Eighteen. Got it,” July confirmed. The crowd tightened, and July felt her throat begin to tighten with it. She kept her eyes up, looking at Mel. That got her most of the way to the plaza, until Mel began to dismount her donkey.

  “We’re walking?” July asked, doing her best to mask the flare of panic the thought incited.

  “Yes. No animals in the plaza––city regulations.” Mel said, with a nonchalance she envied.

  July gulped, gathering her fortitude and slipping off her donkey. She pulled on her knapsack, tying the donkey next to Amelia’s in the short stable that lined the wall of the city’s inner portion.

  “You with me?” Mel shouted over the din of the crowd. July, realizing that she’d been watching the crowd from the safety of the stable, dove into the line of travelers hastily, keeping her eyes on Mel’s tan jacket.

  Tan jacket. Tan jacket. Tan jacket. She repeated the words in her mind, forcing the fire in her lungs to quell. She timed her breathing with the step of her left foot, just like in her training exercises. She was getting closer to the tan jacket, but the sea of bodies resisted her motion. She gave one heaving push forward, but a wayward foot tangled with hers, turning her step into a stumble. She fell into the back of the tan jacket.

  The jacket turned around, revealing its occupant to be a short, slender man with curly blonde hair.

  “Watch it, kid,” He spat, shoving her back in the direction she came. The crowd swallowed him back up as he continued on his way.

  July felt her heart kick into overdrive, beating frantically as if at the peak of the hunt––the fight or flight moment, pure animal fear. July, paralyzed, watched the convulsing mass of bodies shift around her endlessly, in all directions. Her burning lungs grew more intense––she tried to gasp in air, but it only fanned the flames. In that moment, she wondered with a fearful honesty if this was where she would die.