We talk more after that. The tension not entirely gone, but not between us, either. We laugh and it is genuine and warm. He explains that the pulse I sense from him is the Will imbued in him; Ostius told him little else except the distance he needed to stay away to avoid me noticing it. Explains how he came closer in order to alert me to the raiders, that night. Shows me how he was able to track me, all these months—a roughly ten-inch, grey stone stylus that Ostius gave him, which pulls gently toward me as he dangles it from a chain. When I recognise it as the one Relucia gave me at the naumachia, and explain softly its connection to me, he immediately and sorrowfully tucks it away again.
I ask about the test tomorrow, Fornax. He knows nothing of it.
Eventually I catch the fact the moon is sinking rather than rising. My father sees it too.
“You could join me.” I say it into the reluctance we both clearly feel at the idea of parting. “Lir doesn’t have to know—”
“I can’t.” He looks uncomfortable, then sighs. “The druids here. They will sense exactly what you sense, if I get too close. And they will know why,” he says firmly, as if determined not to sidestep the fact. “Ostius warned me—they have ways of dealing with the dead. Quickly and efficiently. I have to keep my distance.”
“Oh.”
He hears my disappointment. “That does not mean you have to keep yours. I’ll stay nearby. Close enough for you to know where I am, now. Whenever you are able to get away, Diago, I will be here.” He matches my sudden smile fondly. “But now, you should get back, before your druid notices you’re missing. Get some sleep. And whatever this task of yours is, tomorrow—be careful.”
We embrace again. It still feels impossible, his arms around me.
“I love you.” I haven’t said it yet, and the words almost stick in my throat. I’ve needed to tell him that for so, so long.
“And I love you, Diago. Always.” He squeezes me tight, then releases me.
It’s hard, walking away. Parting so soon, after so long. And yet I can, because I know I can come back. I know my father will keep his word and that when I need him, he will find a way to be there.
He always has. He always does.
Lir’s snores still boom off the hills long before I reach the halo of our campfire’s embers, assuring me that my absence hasn’t been noted. I settle in to sleep. My father’s pulse, faint though it is, sits reassuringly in the back of my head.
And as I close my eyes, I find myself smiling.
LXI
IT IS AS I SKULK THE LONELINESS OF DUAT’S DARKESTcorners that I finally, truly grasp how much more this place is prison than refuge. Though I never meshed with Ahmose in the way easy friends do—I often found him to be gloomy, irritable, humourless—hewasmy friend, and I trusted him. Trusted his insights. I saw this city, for the most part, reflected in his eyes. And now I realise that even having had Ka’s lies exposed so plainly to him, he never quite viewed his home as anything less.
There are three accessible exits to the outside world: two in Neter-khertet and one in the east, highly visible ramps carved into the outer walls that climb to distant, equally visible obsidian archways. Guarded by Overseers and used exclusively by iunctii departing to work the mines, or hauling carts of refuse to be disposed of in pits dug into the baking sands. I watch each one for more than a day. Conceal myself on a rooftop for the first. Find a house with an overlooking window for the second, after ascertaining its residing iunctus works as a servant in the east. For the third, the eastern one and by far the most exposed option, I have to risk milling around the nearby streets with false purpose in my step. My hands shake with tension at every pass. Without Ahmose, there is no way to distract an Overseer wanting to check my face. No way to get close enough for physical contact before they realise who I am.
I am not stopped, not noticed. But in the end, I learn little more than I already know. Each entrance has an antechamber between Duat and the outside world that is only ever open on one side or the other, presumably to prevent contaminated air from rushing inside. The iunctii who are sent out are generally healthy-looking, built for labour. Few who leave return the same day. Those who do come back into the city drag carts filled with what look like raw metals or stone. Their skin is red and they move with the slow effort of those in constant pain.
There are never fewer than a half dozen eyes fixed on those coming and going. Worse, I can’t even see the mechanism for opening and shutting the antechamber doors. I don’t think it’s being operated by either workers or guards. Not directly, anyway.
I’m not getting out through there.
For almost a day after coming to the realisation, I seriously consider the Gleaner’s entrance again. I know the way back there, can get past themutalisgate to it without any trouble. And the Gleaners have those rooms where they seem to … rest. If I can just reach one of them, I could get it to simply fly me out.
But it’s not practical. Far too great a risk. Those tunnels are narrow and long and could have a Gleaner walk into one at any time. All it would take is a glimpse.
Which leaves the river.
It’s loomed as an option since my escape from Ka’s temple, even if it is the most unpleasant one imaginable. I can’t just swim out via the Infernis—I’ve seen the columns Caeror mentioned that guard the river’s exit from Duat, and they do look exactly like the Seawall at Solivagus—but the overflow area beneath remains an option. Those pipes were large enough to allow a person through. Just. And according to Netiqret, they don’t merge back into the river until the other side of the city’s walls.
There are two main issues. The first is that the straps fastening my Vitaeria won’t resist the poison of the Infernis, so I need a way to keep them touching me that doesn’t risk my losing them mid-swim. I could try swallowing them—they’re probably small enough—but there’s also a chance they lodge and cause an internal problem that I have no way to fix.
The second is that, aside from the inevitable pain, it’s still not without significant danger. The pressure of the acidic water flowing through those narrow pipes is immense. Crushing. If there is a choke point, a sieve, anywhere narrow enough that I can’t slip through, I won’t be able to get out. Just as surely as if I swam over the Seawall above, I’d face being trapped drowning in the caustic poison for … I don’t know how long. Hours? Days? Gods, maybe until I die of old age.
I make very, very sure the other exits are untenable before I really consider it.
The night after making the decision, I start to experiment. A secluded spot, hidden from the bridge and streets on both sides. I submerge my legs for ten seconds, skin tingling and then itching and then burning until I can take it no more. I emerge and scramble out and scrub off anxiously. My flesh remains unblemished.
So I try again. And again. A little longer, each time.
The next day, I make three cuts on my arm and—hissing between gritted teeth—pry open the wounds with my knife and jam the razor-thin Vitaeria beneath my skin. As soon as the blade slides out again, the flesh pulls taut. Not restored, but sealed over. The discs form uncomfortable, visible lumps along my arm, but they are never in danger of falling out again.
