[IC] Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

[Nemaisare]

If she did not understand, it was no surprise to him, though he found it difficult to face the confusion of her expression while having no explanation of his own. He did not understand either. In that, they were truly well matched, indeed.

In fact, Curdle had no idea what he was doing. Not in the slightest.

And with no words to ease that confusion, he elected to remain silent beneath her stare. Whether accusations or exhortation followed, he could remember clearly enough to know that he had begun this journey somehow, and he had started the fall into this place that was hers. Accidentally, true, but accidents were never innocent in his world. She had every right to be upset, and he would accept her decision. He would, he promised himself, though the longer she stared at him in such broken shock, the more shaken his resolve felt.

Had it been any longer before he realized where her mind had taken them, he might have found himself on his knees and begging. Begging for help, for escape, for remembrance, for her hands to do what his could not, or even, simply, for an answer. Any would do better than the silence she surrounded him with then.

Only, as the tremble stirred from his voice to his hands and weakened his gaze, made his breath stutter, sound returned. A crowd at his back and to either side, isolating them before the very stall where fate had seen him pause. Was it really only two days now? Not even.

Shaking fingers reached for woven cloth between them and stilled in fright as he watched his skin and bone dissolve and reshape itself as though the strange light magic he’d seen before tumbling into her dreams made up his body now. And, like midges, was stirred by every breath of wind or—as the air was still here—her every wayward thought.

He was not here.

No, yes, please, it was not true. Not yet, his thoughts were here. He witnessed as she did, the changing patterns of the market, the shifting colours of her cloth weavings. Dreams, he thought, did not understand the value of inertia. How could he be anywhere else? Yet what she said was also true. He was here, but somewhere else. He might have led her there through the streets her mind conjured. Away from the city square to a small, plain wall with a wooden door guarded by two men through which one could look in on an old man, stiff and weary. He could not have said how this was possible, or how he knew it to be the truth.

So, he held his tongue, and still she questioned him.

He managed only a shake of his head for his current whereabouts. And was grateful she did not press further. With her next breath, he regretted that she had not.

Flinching at that bald question that turned him into something other than what he should be, Curdle kept his gaze lowered as he pulled his hand back, wares untouched. In a moment of nostalgia, it lingered briefly on the hilt of the sword at his hip before dropping away as though burnt with the memory that he was no longer a guard, no longer anything, and unfit to bear arms. His fingers curled into fists at his sides as he took a breath to answer, once sure her questions were finished and he would not be interrupting, able only to hope she would not know he was breaking the law in her dreams. “I-I am Jinn. Lady Fiira Gerun’s Jinni, messi.” Or, he had been hers, until her final breath left without him knowing… Now, he did not know who…

No, he still was, until he finished what he had started. “She called me Curdle.” It was how he’d introduced himself. So long ago now, and far away. A lifetime past. When he was still young enough to believe that petty secrets mattered. Now, with plenty of regrets thickening in his stomach, it suited him better than his true name, he thought. He wished that he had known then what he did now, and shared even a little more with her, that he could have heard it said aloud even once over the years.

But now was not the time to make wishes.

Her last question stumped him. And his mouth moved for a moment without sound as he sought some simple explanation. “This magic, messi, is not one I have ever known. Yet, I think that it is mine. It is something I have done. I flew on-no, as the wind, here, messi. As the tales tell it, there is no Jinni alive who would ever ask such of the wind.” But maybe, once, there had been many. He did not know. Every story he’d ever learned of the Jinn was a frightening one, meant to remind them not of past glories, but of past misdeeds. There was nothing that might compare with the wonder of riding wings of wind so high above the dunes, or seeing the sun sparkle from within the sand.

But just as it should not have been his, so it could not have been any other’s either. He had heard of no Jinni this powerful. Then again, this power had trapped him in a human’s mind and left him at their mercy. It was not so great as his awe would have him believe.

“I do not know what comes next.”

[Alfbie]

Miria sighed in clear disappointment. The jinni's answers were cryptic, and parts of them didn't make much sense, but it seemed that he was about as sure as to what was happening as she was. Either that or he was lying. Either way, this creature was far more complicated than she gave him credit for, and unraveling this strange mystery of his presence in her dreams would be more difficult than she imagined. Nothing about this jinni--Curdle, as he called himself--had been easy from the moment she had met him, which forced her not to trust him. What sort of scheme was she falling into? What kind of magic did she find herself snared in? Had she been made a fool by a jinni yet again?

The subtleties of Curdle's shifting surroundings intrigued her, however, and she suspected that Curdle had just as much power to alter details of this dream as she did, as though they were sharing the same dream. The sudden sword at Curdle's hip made her think that he was once a warrior, someone that took comfort in the persuasion of a biting blade. That did not make her less wary of him.

"Pleased to meet you, Curdle," Miria stated stiffly, no welcoming warmth in her tone. She was guarded, cautious, not sure what to make of this stranger, needing to know more about him before she revealed more about herself than she already had. "My name is Miria." Her gaze flickered pointedly to the sword. "Why were you given the name Curdle?" She did not ask for his real name. Frankly, she didn't see how knowing it would make much of a difference, her concern resting in knowing enough about this person to get him out of her dreams. "And how long have you been working for...this Firra Gerun? I am assuming you were her bodyguard."

[Nemaisare]

Her sigh came on the heels of his own defeat. It only augmented the sensation of being lost and out of his depth. Caught too long in the sun. Never before had he wished so strenuously to ‘just be dreaming.’ Never had he thought that might not be the perfect solution. Or that it could be used against him. He, or she, was dreaming now, and look what it won them. Should she wake up now, Curdle was almost certain he would vanish like the mist that came from the sea.

So, when her first words were of the sort that might follow a casual introduction between equals, he could only blink at her. Surprised by the reminder that they did not know each other. Pleased to…? She did not sound it. Somehow, he could not believe that calm tone hid any pleasure. Yet he could not begrudge her tradition or the lie, he was the intruder here. Her name, however, made him smile. A slight shift in his expression, barely visible beneath his beard, though it lightened his gaze briefly. Miria. A pretty name. It suited her well.

In the midst of his fear, her calm and quiet bearing, though perhaps unfriendly, grounded the Jinni. Her attention and clipped questions gave him something immediate upon which to focus, and stole away the thoughts that were swirling through his head. Of death and dying. Of failure. Of red, red walls. Here and now was not a moment for himself. Questions were asked. Answers must be given, no matter how mundane.

“It was tradition, Miria messi, among Sherahd’s guard.” A tradition that may or may not have still existed. It had been some years since he’d been to that city by the sea. Renna had not held to the same ideas, but he remembered other cities from their journey there. “A second name marks ten years in service. My brother was Burden, another was Pox. “

Of course, it was both badge and blemish, as the nicknames were meant to keep their fellow Jinn humble. As a Jinni, ten years was not so long a time, but Sherahd was not as forgiving a city as Renna. Insult and caution notwithstanding, he’d worn the name through many more years, over forty, until he came to connect it with both the belittlement of the humans above him, and the strength of the Jinn around him. It had been almost second nature to introduce himself as such when Fiira had asked him for a name. But he’d paused before the sound emerged, so that he could not say he’d done it without thinking. He had been jealous of his position, having proved his worth. Angry at being tied to a girl younger than his daughter. Afraid of losing his family.

When he gave it to her, it had been with all the rancor of a man uprooted from his very life. And it had taken a long time for him to see that she was not so different, or powerful. An ignorance he’d held onto. One that left them both lonely strangers when they might have taken comfort in being from the same city, if nothing else. In the end, neither had remained turned away.

At her second question, he inclined his body towards her, respecting a well-placed guess. “I was, messi, for sixty-three years.”

Almost, he left it there. It was answer enough, wasn’t it? And wiser, to only agree with the one who held all the power. Curdle had learned that art well over the years. But he paused too soon after he finished speaking for it to go unnoticed, and stayed uncertain as to how important it was that she place him accurately. He could not let the silence grow too long, however, without risking upset. So, he took a breath before adding, grey eyes still averted. “This Jinni was her brideprice and dowry.”

Though uncommon, the practice was not as rare as the awkward arrangement might have sounded. But it gave much away about the state of affairs into which he’d been bound, and he hesitated to make such a revelation lightly as it meant he was demeaning her family. While he felt no great compunction to maintain their reputation before this woman, he did not want her to think ill of the girl he had come to know. Nor, it was true, was he sure she would not take offense at the implied criticism from a bound servant.

But Lady Fiira had been bought and sold for a symbol of status her family could not afford to keep. It was fact.

In the contract, the Leres family won high reputation, a monopoly, and a son. In practice, they handed over the reins of their salt trade operation and opened the city gates to a much stronger, higher ranked family. They had regained their wealth, but lost their independence. Still, the man now in charge was the Lady Fiira’s son. And the last Curdle had heard, he traded up and down the coast with a fleet large enough to rival the waves. But he had the Gerun name, and the Leres were all dead.

As much as his statement revealed about Lady Fiira’s family affairs, it said only a little about himself unless Miria knew the other woman’s history. At the very least, it revealed that he was meant to serve more than the one he’d been bound to. Though whether or not he had depended solely on Fiira’s whims once he swore his oath to her. He had only been wanting to say that he’d been more than bodyguard, without belittling the position or correcting her assumption too directly.

Instead, with his mind still wavering from the shock, he’d managed to compromise his master’s ancestors with so few words it was shameful. And as the realization struck him in increments, Curdle winced as if caught in slow motion. Eyes briefly widening before his eyelids came together, pressing tight shut. Shoulders curling up and in as he leaned back on his heels. Lips thinning. Breath caught. Fingers creaking into fists ready to deliver his own recrimination.

He had forgotten his own rule. Think before you speak.

[Alfbie]

Despite her history with the jinn, Miria did not know about their customs, their thinking, their way of life. Tamal had been so secretive about it all, preferring to keep details of himself in the here and now. After she had learned what kind of person he really was, Miria had wondered if knowing more about his background and his culture would have allowed her to spot the red flags she had missed in her blind devotion to him.

This time, she would not be so foolish, but her lack of detailed knowledge about the jinn meant that Curdle's reaction to his own response confused her. He seemed repulsed by his own answer, as though he had said something offensive. What was so regretful about what he had said? She thought it sad that he and his brothers had taken on such ugly names, but it unsurprising now knowing that he was from Sherahd, a place known for its harshness of the jinn it harbored. She had been there many times before, Sherahd a jewel for any traveling merchant. Almost bloated in its own wealth, the city served trade from land and sea alike. It was also a heavily guarded place, the best soldiers always coming from there. That would explain the appearance of Curdle's sword, which lead Miria to assume that he was, or had been, a very skilled fighter. But was this something to be ashamed of?

Curdle had also mentioned his master--he had been serving her for a very long time, since her marriage. For him to survive with the same master for so many years meant that she treated him at least halfway decently--it wasn't too common to see a jinni as old as Curdle. It also meant that he harbored no ill will towards his master, at least not in the end, unless she had been very good at keeping him under control. Miria carefully studied Curdle as she moved to sit down on the ground. He didn't look broken and abused. In fact, he could probably stand to live a couple more decades in his current condition. Then again, this was a dream; he was probably worse for wear than he currently seemed. Curious that he hadn't taken on a strong, youthful, more intimidating appearance.

But why the strange reaction?

Miria canted her head to the side, forgetting that she was supposed to be seeking information about this strange connection she currently shared with the jinni. "Is it wrong for you to care for your master, a married woman?" she asked as she tried to piece together the mystery that was Curdle. "It must be her ashes that you have decided to burden me with." If this was true, that meant that Curdle cared for his master very much, which made Firra Gerun a very foolish woman...or damn lucky.

[Nemaisare]

He should not have let his confusion and fear play tricks with his tongue, Curdle thought, as he watched her expression close in what he believed was the beginning of judgement. Circumstance had given him no fair first impressions of this woman’s opinion on jinn. He thought he understood what drew the lines of suspicion across her forehead, but understanding did not help him now. Too late. You could not take back words already spoken.

Yet, almost before he had resigned himself to her reproach, however she might choose to give it, the woman’s sharp eyes shifted to the side. A glance he almost missed, avoiding direct eye contact as he was, but when she moved to sit down, settling in front of him rather than raising her voice or her hand or turning away, he could not help but stare. Even when she brought her gaze back up, apparently comfortable with her position, he only just remembered to shift his focus from her face. That was not the reaction he had expected. And as her expression softened, head tilting, his fingers stayed curled in their fists to hide the trembling in his hands rather than in any anger at himself or readiness to endure.

It was the question though, asked so glibly of him, that left him truly confounded.

She, who had once loved a jinni. She, who had seen that love shattered by the jinni’s cruel truth. She could ask such a thing? Was it wrong to care? In many ways, Curdle believed it was. But what answer was she looking for? Would it turn a knife to tell her there was no insult in jinn caring for human, if hers had used her poorly? Or did she look for reasons behind the twisting of that emotion? Or was it curiousity alone that spurred the thought? She had seen the consequences and hurt that came of care. Maybe, as he once had, she wondered if it was even possible.

Having known of her for barely two days, and having learned more in the last ten minutes than he’d have liked, Curdle abandoned any hope of predicting her reactions. She’d lived a life much too far removed from anyone he’d known before, he thought. Sharp where others would have been merely cold. Turning away when another would have turned him in. Curious where others would have been sharp. Although… He flinched as she spoke of burdens; she was not without her barbs.

That thought brought a regretful smile to his face, and Curdle found his answer in the weary sentiment washing over him as he remembered his manners and lowered himself to her level. “Is it wrong to care for anyone? I was all the company she kept, Miria messi.” He shrugged loosely, tone impartial, lifting his hands together before his sternum in absent illustration of his words. “In the end, we were both old and lonely. That is all the care we had for each other.”

As his explanation finished, the man spread his hands where they had measured the feelings he and Lady Gerun shared, as though letting that imaginary emotion tumble free. For a moment, the air sparked in muted imitation of falling water between his fingers and the ground and as he watched the light splash into insignificance, it left him suddenly bereft.

There had been no love torn from his heart when she died. But for a while, he had forgotten what it was to be alone. Even if that was all she’d had to give him, Curdle could not say it had been nothing.

Now, even that was gone. She was gone, and he had only uncertainty, fear, and confusion left. In treating him as a friend, she had given him so much more than he could comprehend. Too much to lose, when he had never meant to accept it, never realized it was there.

As his hands dropped slowly to his knees, tears came, unbidden, seeping from unfocused eyes to creep through the time worn creases on his cheeks. They had taken their time in arriving, and, not noticing, Curdle strove to show her an unaffected façade. “I am sorry, messi. What she gave to me I should not have let go. It was no wish of mine to give you trouble.”

The apology was as much to Miria as it was to the woman who’d set him on that path. The Lady Gerun had trusted him to see this through. Whether she had thought of the trouble it might give him or not he didn’t know, and no longer cared to know. It was no excuse for failing a promise.

[Alfbie]

Miria lifted her eyebrows in surprise to Curdle's reaction. He had always seemed so careful and guarded with his interaction with her, as distrustful of her as she was of him, so she suspected. And though his answer was vague and very unsatisfying, his tears said what his words could not. It did not matter what kind of relationship Curdle had with his master. All that mattered was that they cared for each other, in whatever capacity, and he was mourning the loss of that relationship.

If Miria held judgement to anyone, it was not Curdle. Rather, it was to the Lady Gerun, because the Lady Gerun had obtained what Miria could not, was spared the harsh truths of most jinn, and had been lucky enough to befriend someone who was sincere in his emotions. Oh, how she wished Tamal's love for her had been true. How whimsical it would have been for them to develop a relationship well into their senior years, for her to trust him enough to tend to her remains after death, and for him to love her enough to comply with such wishes. She felt envious of the Lady Gerun to have found a servant as loyal as Curdle and to have kept him for the majority of her life. She wanted to hate the woman.

But Miria could not. How could she hate someone who had done nothing to Miria to deserve that hate? How could she hate someone that had loved and trusted even a lowly servant? From what little Miria knew of the Lady Gerun, she must have been a respectable, kind woman. When Curdle spoke of her, it was not the false compliments fueled by the fear of punishment for speaking the truth. No, this was the truth, it had to be. The woman was dead; there was no reason for Curdle to continue to speak so kindly about her. The Lady Gerun was very lucky to have not been alone at her death. She was the embodiment of what Miria had hoped to become and would never be.

Who would mourn Miria's death when her time of passing came? It would be her wares that some would miss, not her. Since discovering the truth about Tamal, she had been fine with this lonely existence. Better to die alone than die betrayed. Now, she was not so sure.

Curdle's reaction also said much about him. When Miria had sat down, it was simply to be more comfortable, as she considered it rude to have lengthy conversations with a guest while standing. Standing to a guest conveyed disinterest, and Miria was very interested in hearing what Curdle had to say. Furthermore, he stood in front of her booth--the closest thing to home that she had--thus, he was a guest.

Treating this lowly jinni as a guest was a sign that there was a lesson from Tamal that Miria has failed to learn: she was incapable of seeing the jinn as lesser beings than herself, at least not completely, regardless of what she thought of them. It had resulted in her heartbreak and near death, yet she had not thought of her mistake of sitting down to a jinni, not until Curdle had also sat down. Tamal would have remained standing. Curdle, on the other hand, knew his place in the world, or at least did not think himself as somehow above her.

Then again, the tears and the story could be a ruse to get something out of Miria...but what? A way to smuggle something illegal? She had already checked the Lady Gerun's ashes with a stick--something she now regretted doing. If the ashes were of another jinni, who was she to bar him from paying his respects? Curdle was not journeying physically with her... She could not find any reason for Curdle to deceive her. Not yet, anyway. She hadn't thought Tamal capable of such a thing, either.

"What has been done is done," Miria said dismissively, undermining Curdle's apology. "Apologizing won't undo what has happened. If you are haunting my dreams to make sure I take care of your master's ashes, I can assure you that I will keep them safe. If that's what I need to do to get you out of my head, then so be it." Her tone was hard, businesslike, borderline cold, Miria not wanting to think she held any sort of compassion for him or his master, even if her actions spoke otherwise. "Just tell me what I need to do to meet your satisfaction."

She rose to her knees, gently shifting through her wares until she found a square of cloth the size of a standard handkerchief, a royal purple background adorned with delicate, swirling designs in various shades of purples, pinks, reds, and blues that were distinctively jinn in style. Though the cloth had been woven with much detail, it was not one of Miria's better works. "This was one of my first weavings," she said, holding up the cloth to Curdle so that he could see the design. "Much care was put into every stitch, back during a time when life for me was...simpler, more innocent. I have no need for it now. I couldn't bring myself to destroy it, so I hoped someone would finally take it off my hands and that I could at least gain a little profit from it, but it never sells. I won't divulge the background or meaning behind it, the pattern is quite loud, and I'm not even certain if it is to your lady's tastes, but considering what I know of her, I think this would suit her. I can drape it around her urn when I wake. That was why you stopped by my booth in the first place, was it not?"

[Nemaisare]

What has been done is done…

Cold truth that he could not argue. Over time, yes, even the past was mutable. It could shift like the sands, but it took more than a day for memories to change. Curdle accepted the rebuke. Taking it as a reminder to be mindful of headlong impulse. She was right. He had not forgotten. Still, the loss of the driving force directing him was sorely felt.

The jinni merely bowed his head beneath the reprimand, willing to take responsibility, believing it that simple. Yet, he promptly lost his humble aspect the moment she continued. Haunting her- “No, messi! I do not-” He had one knee raised, the other touching earth, one hand reaching for… what he did not know, forgiveness or understanding or mercy or the balance he’d lost, as he lifted his head, expression desperate, terrified that in blaming him she might decide to do away with anything he held dear. In interrupting, however, he made yet another mistake, and closed his teeth over the rest of his protest. His outstretched hand visibly shaking before the rest of her words registered. The man wobbled on his one knee before pulling back in slow wonder as his fear became hope. He could not believe it.

North Wind must be sighing his name.

Kindness and practicality were not so rare in his world that Curdle could not understand when they were offered. Yet in this instance, he felt he had made so many mistakes he hardly deserved the second chance, strange a second chance though it was. After laying the urn at her feet, witnessing her secrets, invading her inner world… Even the Lady Gerun, whom he held in high esteem, would surely have threatened him with her cane. But in setting aside her earlier ire, this stranger set aside what he had done. Whether in word alone, he did not know. Perhaps she would come to regret it, but he would remember that she had tried.

He could not speak.

The silence gave her plenty of time to look through her cloth wares, arranged in the dream as she might have done in the waking world. But the moment she held it up, spread wide, the silence became a tight shield around which too many emotions curled like snakes, squeezing them apart as the market emptied around them. Even dreaming, Curdle pushed away anyone who might see him undone, though the action was not usually achieved so decisively. He felt the tears now, their warmth cooling on his cheeks, lines long untraced itching in a way he had forgotten. He did not move to wipe them away, not wanting to acknowledge their existence as he looked between her determined expression and the gift she was inexplicably offering.

He knew what that square of careful detail was for. Even through the distortion of watering eyes and flickering, unkempt distance he could see the gesture she was making. Ruining an old man’s composure, so that, for a long moment, his expression seemed on the verge of crumbling. His beard quivered beneath tight lips, eyelids blinking too rapidly, cheeks ticking as he forced control over his features. Even swallowing was difficult. He heard her words as if from far away when she expressed uncertainty as to its suitability, and Curdle could only laugh, shaking his head. It was a low huff of sound, more incredulous breath than anything, but it broke that strained stillness. Forced him into motion to press fingers into uncooperative cheek muscles, and tweak his beard to pull his thoughts together and check that he wasn’t dreaming. A fool’s paradise, that paradox.

“I-” He had to clear his throat to make himself heard. “Yes, messi, I am sorry, it was.” For all he had been prepared to forego the traditional cloth altogether, the sight of her tapestries had given him pause. He had not thought anyone would want what was meant as a memento, a memory. Now, he knew otherwise. Her husband and family were gone. Her son was no jinni to hold with the tradition, but he-he was. And he missed her more than he’d expected to. She was gone.

“She would-… She would say it is her honour that you give this gift, Miria messi.” He tried to remember the way the lady had often worded her appreciation of kind gestures, unable to express his own gratitude, nor the full depth of it. He was not certain what Fiira would have thought of this though. She had given no clear instructions beyond keeping her out of the dark. And he knew that many others would be against his actions. Distant son included. In good conscience, having involved her without consent, he could not ask for more without knowing she understood what she was doing. While the blame would remain squarely on his shoulders, if she was discovered to be helping him, there would be consequences. He had to explain before he accepted the offer, but… how?

“I think… Messi, I think it is her honour I have taken. She was to be interred alone, a full room beneath Renna’s sands. High honour, messi. One wall alone… it is enough for a full family. And the tile patterns…” The words came in a disjointed rush of sudden guilt, as he struggled to explain himself. “They were almost finished.” It was the wasted time and effort he mourned there, but knowing what she had chosen, he could not help but wonder if she’d forgotten the promise she’d asked of him. “So many birds I did not know lived in this world, messi. A fortune in colours no one will see. But that is how it is done, in Renna.”

Interment in Sherahd was done along the cliff, in natural caves, open to the elements and hungry scavengers. Being thrown into the waves was the least effort. Being carried to the cliff’s top was reserved for the wealthiest, and the greatest. Without her marriage to the Gerun family, Fiira might have made it above the ocean spray, but how much higher, Curdle could not say. He was not sure she’d cared, simply clung to that desire for the open air, the memory of how things would have been. He meant no disrespect with his observations, and the low notes in his voice evinced no immediate dislike of Renna’s choices. Humans did not deal with dead jinn. The intended honour was enough for him, but… there was always a but. “She had a falcon once, messi. A gift from Lord Gerun. She loved it, I think.”

Whether it had been for its beauty, its fierce flight, or because it was hers alone, and a gift from her husband, he did not know. But he’d seen her care for it, and dote on it, and brighten whenever she had it on her wrist. “A prized bird is kept in darkness, for keeping it calm, just so. Calm and quiet and still. She could not stand to see it in its little room, messi. Within the week, she let it fly unjessed.”

His gaze drifted towards the clouds above them as though he could see it flying there, remembering that final flight. Now and again, they thought to see it in the distance, though chances were just as good the bird had died or flown far away before settling. “She remembered it to me before she died. The Lady Gerun… she did not wish to insult Renna custom, messi. She could not say no. And the cliffs of Sherahd, they are too far for me to carry her.” Most especially when no one would have let him take her from the city. The tears were back as he finally came to his point; suddenly afraid he might have made the wrong choice. Uncertain of her understanding.

“She wanted no dark room for herself. I-… I meant to set her free on the wind, as jinni, Miria messi. It is all I could give her.”

Earlier, when he had prepared her body, begun the rituals and lit her from within with a final breath of life and fire, he had done it as an honour. To use their rituals and that magic on a human was not taboo, it simply wasn’t done. He had always thought that no human would ever want it, and now he could no longer ignore that thinking. Had his attempt to fulfill his promise honoured or disgraced her? He did not know. There was little he could do about it now. And if he somehow won free of his bindings, he would see it through, to do otherwise would leave the lady in an even smaller container than the room that had started this all. But Miria did not need to help him any more than she already had, if she did not agree. Though he could not help but hope.

[Alfbie]

“She would say it is her honour that you give this gift, Miria messi.”

Miria could not help but smile to this, as she did any time a customer bothered to pay her a compliment. It was not the prospect of payment that made her smile, though that, of course, was welcome. Even the simplest tapestry held a part of Miria, however small—memory woven into every pattern. To compliment her work was to place value and meaning on her life, even if the kind patron was not aware of the history of each of Miria’s items. The memories woven in this particular tapestry meshed well with those of the Lady Gerun’s in Miria’s opinion, and it pleased her to know that Curdle’s late master would have enjoyed the gift.

Curdle’s reaction, however, held Miria back from doing more than smile, and just a flicker of one at that. The old jinni seemed troubled, nervous, uneasy, and she listened to his gradual explanation with growing unrest of her own as she carefully draped the proffered tapestry in front of him.

When Curdle had finally finished, she leaned forward, her gaze locked on him as though she could unmask all of his secrets and intentions with just a glance. “Just so that we’re clear,” she began slowly, her voice low as though someone in this waking dream could possibly overhear them, “your master was arranged to be buried under Renna tradition in a tomb. Instead, you burned her body, contained it in an urn, and hoped you could actually make the journey on your own all the way to Sherahd, where you intended to release her ashes in the highest point possible.”

She leaned back, contemplating the absurdity of it all. “You wouldn’t have gotten very far. Even if you managed to make it to Sherahd, I doubt you would have been able to step foot onto those cliffs. Your task seems an impossible one. But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it.”

Miria’s expression hardened, that lovely ghost of a smile gone, replaced by years of pain and caution. “Somehow, I wonder how coincidental all of this—“ she gestured around them with both hands—“is. Did you bump into me by happenstance, or did you choose me for this task? I don’t know much about Jinn tradition or why your master would pit you against such an impossible task, but if anyone finds out that I am illegally carrying the ashes of a deceased noblewoman whose jinni had gone missing, I’d suffer dire consequences. So convince me why I should help you on this task. Convince me not to wake up and immediately abandon the urn at the first convenient place.”

[Nemaisare]

It was difficult to hold her gaze as he finished his explanation. The smile, small though it had been when he’d started, was gone, and she stared as a falcon might, considering, dangerous, different. He did not know what she was thinking as she leaned towards him. Curdle flinched as she took in a breath to speak, expecting the hard words that so often accompanied the aggressive angle.

They didn’t come.

Or rather, they came in a more collected fashion than shouting accusations. Her tone remained harsh. Her summary, before she’d even reached her confident doubts, made of him a fool. In all honesty, he’d had no plans beyond reaching Renna’s gates. He had not expected to make it even that far, but he’d tried, because even an impossible promise deserved a token effort. His gaze turned, ashamed, to the ground as she gave him greater agency and initiative than he’d even thought to use, let alone acted upon.

No… Shrinking in on himself, shoulders hunching yet further in a blind desire to shield himself from the world, Curdle’s head began to shake. Slowly. Incredulous. Confused. If their meeting was other than happenstance, only the North Wind could have arranged it; his own efforts had played no part in what transpired, beyond getting him caught and leaving Fiira to her fate. Again, he flinched as she reminded him of consequences shared, unjustly, on her side. She did not deserve to be drawn into this trouble he’d caused. If she wanted no more part in this, he would hold nothing against her. But her challenge… It tempted him, and then it dragged his eyes upward in a swift jerk, shuffling forward on his knees before he could help himself.

Yet, expression taut with the fear of what she promised should he not speak up, mouth open, watering eyes wide and staring, one hand grasping the cloth she’d laid out for him for support in this off-kilter world, he could not find his voice. The old jinni was torn between two beliefs. Afraid of leaving what remained of his master to her care knowing she had not accepted the consequences, and just as fearful of bringing those consequences down on her. He couldn’t ask it of her, but he had no other option.

As the moments passed and her frightening proposal, or threat, slipped into memory, his heart and mind calmed somewhat, and he sank back onto his heels. A small, self-deprecating smile twitching the corner of his mouth beneath his beard. He had given himself no other option. But this was a second chance. They were few enough, he should not waste it. A shaky breath in, and he began.

“I had given up, Miria messi. When you found me. I-… I could not do it. I thought it was enough to hope you might carry her beyond the walls. It grieved me most sore, messi, not to know if you would wait until then before emptying her urn. To be responsible for so many feet grinding her into the streets she would leave behind, this filled me with shame. Yet you have kept it safe. Kept it with you, offered even a mourning cloth to this no one.” He rolled the fabric between his fingers, marveling at the complicated texture within this dream world before finding the strength to continue.

“A second chance… It is gift enough, Miria messi, and I should not ask for more, even with North Wind guiding me. Yet this she asked of me, and I cannot let it go when you have carried her where I could not.” The old jinni paused there and bent forward to press his forehead to the soft dust of the marketplace stones. He raised his voice slightly to overcome the muffling of speaking to the ground, but he was too ashamed of having to make such a request of her to look at her while he did. “Messi, I am most sorry I have proved worthless in this. Please do not set her aside. If you will hold her, I will come.” How, he did not yet know, but he would make every attempt until he was no longer able. “If you will not, free her first. Please, messi.”

Sherahd was too far away indeed, on that he would agree, but he could not bear to think of the Lady Fiira caught in an urn so close to the freedom of the wind she’d wanted.

It was true that she was a human, and so, presumably exempt from the same rules the jinn understood. But, to Curdle, who lived his life for others because he had no choice, being denied that final freedom in death was more than symbolic failure on his part. He truly believed she was trapped in that urn: mind, body, spirit, whatever was left of her that lingered with them. She could not leave, could not sleep peacefully, could not ride the wind as jinn were meant to if her ashes were contained. It was not the notion of sacrilege or a broken promise that made him beg. It was his own fear of the same happening to him. His horror at what his misguided actions were doing to a woman against whom he harboured no ill will.

“Please. Do not leave her in the dark.”

[Alfbie]

Miria listened to this old jinni’s plea, her heart torn between compassion and doubt. Her countenance froze, as though rigid stoicism would somehow shield her from making one decision or another.

A part of her wished she had never offered Curdle that small tapestry for the urn, even if this was a dream and nothing physical was real. The emotions were more tangible than anything she could touch, see, and hear right now, like the life force of all movement and color in this subconscious world. Emotions controlled Miria’s stiff hesitation and this jinni’s calm desperation, and he had admitted that it was her kindness that made him choose her for this task of…

…Of taking the ashes of someone she had never known and probably never would have met if this person was alive to a very distant city that harbored at least a little animosity towards jinn customs. She wished she had been cruel enough to dump this Lady Fiira’s ashes the first chance she got, like any sane human woman would have done, and then she would be facing only her normal worries. She’d have her usual dreamless sleep or a nightmare-wrought attempt at rest as Tamal ever haunted every unconscious thought…

Tamal. Thinking of him now did not pit her among the apparitions of her past as it usually did. The scene did not shift in response to her thoughts, the market and her booth as steadfast as Curdle’s feelings towards his master even after her death. Miria looked at Curdle now, this haggard, worn creature, his physical presence imprisoned back in Renna and his consciousness chained to her thoughts. Whatever guilt, hatred, and regret she harbored towards the jinn in general, Curdle somehow kept it at bay. His presence had shattered the normal course of her dreaming, and now she was questioning his motives in a rather dull market place instead of reliving her blood-soaked regrets yet again.

Perhaps it was fate that somehow brought Curdle and Miria together? But Miria no longer believed in fate, or at the very least it frightened her. Still, she couldn’t ignore that with how cumbersome this Curdle could be, he at least had one use.

And she knew she could never turn this jinni away, not with a plea like that. Perhaps she should resent that Tamal hadn’t hurt her enough, as absurd a notion as that was. Or perhaps the years had softened her countenance too much.

“Sherahd is bound to be part of this caravan’s route,” Miria said, her tone clipped and frigid, “as it is a major trade hub. I will keep your master’s ashes for the time being, mainly because I don’t see it worth it breaking from the caravan to dump her over some sand dune. Knowing how the world works, a breeze will blow the ashes against me anyway, and that thought is too disgusting to bear. But I can’t make any promises once we reach Sherahd.”

Carefully, Miria stood, dusting off her clean, spotless clothes. “And you can stay in my head if you wish,” she said with a haughty sniff, looking quickly away from Curdle, “if your presence still allows me a good night’s sleep. Don’t expect me to engage you in any way, though. And I hope you gone when I wake.”

[Nemaisare]

Coarse grain pressed itself into his skin as Curdle held his pose in the long silence. Whether it was truly any longer than a breath or two, he could not have said, but it felt as though time had ceased its flow. There was no measuring how long she held him captive to her mercy, waiting for whatever release she felt him worth.

He could feel that sand leaving imprints in his palms and forehead. Imprints as fickle and diverse as the chance that had brought them together. How many other cloth merchants might have been in that market? How many passed through Renna’s gates? How varied were the options of how that day might have turned out differently? It was no accident that fate was entwined in the sands of time. One single grain’s displacement and how many paths suddenly shifted and changed and never again followed what almost had been?

The old jinni was caught feeling his own weight in how heavily he pressed those sand grains between himself and the market’s stone. Caught hearing nothing but the faint roar of blood in his ears and feeling only the warm brush of his breath across his cheeks where it was trapped against the ground.

When she finally spoke, he was dizzy with relief, and did not immediately understand the words. It was enough that she released him from the wait, good or bad, her voice offered its own solace. Cold though it remained. The tension in his hunched spine gave out as though his body had collapsed, elbows and shoulders drooping, breath escaping him in a heady rush.

Her decision was made.

She turned it into a matter of convenience. The caravan went to Sherahd, and so would she. Even her abrupt dismissal of what was, to Curdle, a hard-won freedom found no purchase when she threw out her barbs. Dumping Fiira anywhere was not and had never been his intention, but that Miria had considered it even slightly was strong hint that she did not think to simply abandon the urn, ashes and all, where he would never find it, and circumstance might never knock loose the lid. The Lady would not be trapped in the dark by his thoughtlessness. For that alone, she had his eternal gratitude.

That she was willing to go further in offering her aid, he was stunned into disbelief by how easily the words tripped from her tongue. So impersonal…

He had not regained his presence of mind or his tongue before she’d turned away, and it was almost all he could manage to lift his head then. But he did, that and more. Slowly, hand shaking, he brought dusty fingers to his lips and reached across to the ground as near her feet as he could. Letting them rest there a moment before he could find the strength to lift himself from his genuflection.

The gesture was not meant to be seen, or even acknowledged. How could it be? There was no possible response. But it was all he could think of to give her in return. She had agreed to help him regain the honour he’d given up too easily. His sense of worth had been lost with it, and was, perhaps, the more significant loss, but it would be far harder to find again. Still, in helping him on the road to one, she set him towards both, if he could take it, though he realized nothing of this beyond his overwhelmed understanding that Fiira would not suffer for his weakness.

For that, and nothing else, he strove to do as she seemed to want. Unfortunate, that he did not know how to leave, or he would have that very instant. All he could give her was his silence. Speaking no more words on the subject, though he surely couldn’t manage any, just then, so it was hardly an effort. He remained on his knees, as small a presence as he knew how to be, and did not look up to see what she might be doing or thinking now. He did not even raise his hands to brush the sand from his forehead or fingers. He would be as nothing, if she asked it, that he might intrude no more in a private place where no one else belonged.

He had no plans to ignore her. In fact, he was very carefully doing the opposite, though he did not wish to give that away. Heedful of her every action, he was listening attentively, watching her feet at the edge of his sight in case she suddenly desired something of him. His gaze, however, would not leave the cloth still where he’d left it. Near to his knee, but not quite touching. Its colours twisted in his vision and the longer he stared, the less its details remained intact.

He was tired, he realised slowly. And he could feel a new weight on his shoulders, in his chest. His body was heavy. It wasn’t here. But it needed the sleep this dreaming didn’t offer. Or why else would he be tired in a dream?

Already, though he was not aware of it, his shape and form were becoming looser. More insubstantial as his chin began drooping towards his chest. Young and old, sometimes weightless above the ground, sometimes, somehow, beneath it, sinking. Flickering fitfully like a dying fire burning out the last of its heat and life. Though, in his case, it was only his control and magic slipping as his mind began to doze.

Though it took a long few moments, the end, when it came, was sudden. One instant, he was there, the next, as his chin finally struck his chest, he was gone. No fanfare, no puff of smoke or flash of light, merely empty space.

In Renna, stretched out on the floor, head tilted by the weight of his horns, an old man had begun to snore.

[Alfbie]

Miria felt Curdle’s absence almost immediately; vibrant color drained into a dull pallet and vivid noises of the marketplace around her blended into indiscernible noise. She glanced behind her, meaning to catch sight of Curdle but seeing sand where he once knelt, fading humanoid shapes drifting over the area as though he had never been a part of this dream. It surprised her to feel a slight pang in her heart; she had expected that he would at least follow for a little while.

Her last words echoed in her mind, a reflection of the possible thoughtlessness in them. She did say she wanted him out of her head by morning, and that feeling still rang true. So, why did it bother her that Curdle had left to immediately? She didn’t understand it and decided that it was best not to. He was just an old jinni who needed her to help him pay respects to the remains of someone he loved.

She sighed, turned back around, and continued walking, each step erasing her consciousness of what had transpired like unraveling a ball of thread with each forward step. Soon, she was lost in her dream, as obscure as the shifting shapes around her.

But she did not forget, the memory touching upon her recollection, sightless and intangible, but present as the light of the morning sun over the surrounding sand dunes. Miria awoke, fed and groomed Raha, and prepared for the long journey with the rest of the caravan, her movements automatic to allow her mind to be elsewhere.

Was what happened even real? Miria checked her cart for the carefully-stowed urn, finding it tucked safely away, the sight of it summoning Curdle’s tears and his words of weary relief. Where she had gone wrong with Tamal, Fiira had gone right with Curdle. Where Miria believed she had attempted the impossible and been punished for it, Fiira and Curdle had dared to love each other, in whatever way that love signified, and had managed to survive the gauntlet of prejudice and cruel expectations. How common was a bond like theirs? How common was a tragedy like Miria’s?

The jinni that served Miria breakfast did not respond to his master beyond what he was ordered to do, his gaze empty as he ladled leftover stew into jer small bowl. A cluster of young jinn animal tamers who had been whispering to each other scattered when humans walked by, knowing that conversing with each other without permission was forbidden, but the humans seemed too busy with their own morning chores to care and the young jinn exchanged mirthful glances at each other. The sand jinni that lead the caravan, who was the key reason they did not all sink into the sand and die beneath the sun, ate her breakfast with her master. They spoke quietly, animatedly, the jinni relaxed, her master bemused, like two good friends engaged in conversation. Yet Miria could see the thick callouses beneath the heavy iron ring around her neck where the metal had chaffed painfully against her skin for years, and she could see glimpses of scars peaking over the collar of her tunic.

How well did society truly accept this human/jinn balance? Was there even a balance at all, or were the scales tipping below the surface, straining against what was natural, threatening change?

Miria pondered this as she finished her preparations, as the caravan moved once more, as they pushed through a long, hard day through the desert. Why had her compassion towards a jinni make her a tragic victim? Or did she simply have the misfortune of falling in love with a creature that never saw her or the world they shared the way Curdle did? How had Curdle not fallen into hatred like Tamal did?

When they finally stopped for the night, at the call of the sinking sun and the darkening sky, Miria sifted through her wares for the small bit of cloth she presented Curdle in their dream meeting. She held the fabric in her hands, the last evidence of her compassion she had held towards someone she didn’t understand, and spread it over the urn.

That evening, she weaved until her fingers ached and it was a struggle just to stay awake, and she slept. Curdle did not touch her dreams, and she greeted the morning with a mild sense of disappointment. The day toiled on, Miria’s focus occupied entirely on fighting with the rest of the caravan against a minor sand storm—weak enough for there to be no need to stop, strong enough to be a nuisance. The sleep she fell into that night was driven by exhaustion, leaving her no capacity to dream. Regret greeted her that following morning; she wanted to talk to Curdle again, if only to learn how his path differed from Tamal’s. She wanted validation for being weak and foolish enough to help a jinni instead of refuse him, of accepting his presence instead of loathing him.

By the time the caravan reached Hudris, days later, Miria had all but dropped her expectation for meeting the jinni, suspecting that if he did show again, it would be at Sherahd. She fell into routine that evening, prepping her wares for sale the next morning, settling Raha in the stall they’d both be sharing for a week, and making sure she would be presentable to the public. She fell asleep that night like any other, too worried and excited about the uncertainty of the next day to afford a thought to her jinni acquaintance.

~~~

Miria stepped through a spacious house, none she ever recognized, its clay walls and mish-mash of stone and wooden floors decorated in a humble Mediterranean style of dark and earthy tones, indicating sophisticated coziness and thoughtful class. Each room, Miria noticed, had so many windows, every one overlooking a cluster of palm trees or the rooftops of neighboring houses down a sloping hill or the spread of sand dunes in the distance. She felt strangely at home here, relaxed, even as she explored every room for the first time, and she wondered idly who this home belonged to.

It did not cross her mind how crisp and vivid every detail of the house was, how rich the colors, how vibrant the sounds of birds chirping outside, her thoughts instead choosing to settle into this content feeling. How long had she felt so at ease?

[Nemaisare]

Morning found an old man still sleeping, though he woke to hands at his shoulders, hauling him upright as another crouched in front of him. He winced dazedly as the first caught bruises under his fingers, and drowsily tried to recognize both their faces and his surroundings. He could not remember where he was, nor how he’d gotten here, or why they-Ah, yes.

Not the market then. And Fiira… Fiira was gone.

These hands, holding him stiffly, pressing a cup of tepid water to his lips, they were a stranger’s hands, with a stranger’s understanding. They did not know.

“I am sorry. Most sorry. I did no-”

“Save your breath, old man. It’s done. Regrets win you nothing.” The one who cut him off, sharp and angry, had a toad’s gold mottled eyes and wide, horizontal pupils, but it was the claws pressing through the fabric of his tunic that made him stop. They were jinn, whose lives he had brought trouble into by believing for even a moment that he could do what she’d asked of him. And now he was dreaming of second chances when he should instead be accepting his fate. Dreaming of mourning cloth and dangerous promises and miss-missing her who had given him purpose.

“Yes. She is gone. I was… dreaming…” His tears spilled over again, and his hitched breath made the first hesitate for a moment, but the pair feeding him breakfast did not question him, and kept their expressions closed against whatever pity or anger they might have felt. But though he knew those same detached methods, he could not stop. Curdle mourned the friend he’d made and never known as fingers pressed dry bread to his lips and merely brought the cup back without arguing when he turned away. He could not eat. He would have refused the water as well, but in that, they insisted.

He was still crying when they gathered the food and moved away. He did not turn to watch them leave, and they said nothing more before closing the door. They should not have said even as little as they had: prisoners were not meant for conversation. In Sherahd, it would have placed them under suspicion. He did not expect to see either again.

He should have known better. But the memory of being in the market was so vivid, he’d forgotten himself when reality swallowed dreams whole. Of course, it could not have been real. No dream ever was, but the memory stayed strong in his mind, refusing to leave, so that hope and resignation remained at war within him, well into the afternoon. He could not convince himself that wishful thinking would never be. A dream, no matter how real it seemed or what hope it offered, was still nothing more than a dream.

Even if it was more, when would he have had the chance to hold that cloth, let alone hang it beneath the sky? He’d told that woman he would come to her if she would keep the urn. It had been a promise made out of desperation, but impossible, he thought, to realise. It was a fool who still believed in the impossible, at his age. And twice, now, he’d done it for the sake of a woman who might well have been insulted by his attempts.

No, he’d failed Fiira, and himself, and, if the dream was real, he had failed the weaver, Miria messi. Why add to the weight he already carried?

Curdle had given it up, only just, only barely convincing himself, when, with his eyes shut and his back supported by the nearest wall, he realised the exhaustion he’d felt upon waking was diminished rather than grown. There was an itch at the base of his skull that he recognized, but did not immediately understand. He might have explained the exhaustion as an old man sleeping poorly on a rough floor. But he’d been so deeply asleep when they stirred him awake that there was no other indication of it being poor. And the itch, irritating though it could grow to become, was too much coincidence to ignore. Combined, they indicated a loss of magic through heavy use. The trouble then, was that he could not remember doing any such working.

His attempt to shift into a bird had failed. Miserably. A half day and full night’s sleep would have easily allowed him to regain his energy. So… Where had it gone?

The answer, foolishly, annoyingly after so much effort to deny it, drifted back to the impossible. Dreaming, but… not. Had he truly ridden the winds to slip into that weaver’s dreams? Could it not simply be an ache brought on by his restraints?

Rationally, he should have accepted that as the most logical. The least likely to bring disappointment in the end. But he could not deny the hope a second time. With a chance at possible, it would not be silenced.

He spent the rest of that day with wet cheeks, though the tears were from disbelief then. And when the jinn returned in the evening, he managed a few bites of the bread, dry though it had grown during the day. He did not try to refuse the water again. That time, he took his meal in silence. The cat clawed man had another partner, and he understood the subtle warning, whether or not it was meant. Words were an unnecessary luxury.

That evening, he fell asleep hopeful, and woke halfway through the night, disappointed. Cursing himself for a fool as he shivered through the lifting shadows and tried to remember what he’d done that first time. It was confusing to hope for something he did not know how to believe in. Magic he did not know was not impossible, there were many things he did not know, but how could he use it if he didn’t know it? And how could he make that memory leave him alone if it was only a dream? He did not know.

He did not understand it, either.

Could not explain it even to his own mind, which had witnessed the entire thing. It had been a long time since a young, horn-nubbed child grinned up at his parents and, without prompting, reached out to the fire to have it curl against his fingers as he might a stray cat.

The condition that had allowed his tired mind to escape its bonds, however, had never changed, and there came a short moment nearer the morning when he found himself drifting again outside his body, unfeeling arms turned to wings or wind or simply lightening the load. His own yearning doing the rest. That time, he did not think it a dream though, and his sudden fear that he’d truly lost his arms, or might never come back to earth, connected him very solidly to his body, dragging him down. Curdle spent the rest of the night shaken by the experience, knowing he had been awake both before and after it started. Aware of his surroundings, seeing how his perception of them shifted as his mind drifted sideways into a light like magic when everything should have been in shadows his eyes could not pierce.

For a short, disconcerting second, he had seen himself leaning limp against the wall as he plummeted into his body. He had been… outside himself. That, he could say with certainty, had never happened before. And he could not remember ever hearing of anyone else to whom it had happened either. It was a frightening, exciting, dangerous thing he felt, as his breath quickened with the realisation that he had discovered a magic he did not know existed. Perhaps no one else knew it either, though the desert was a large area to cover in complete ignorance. Maybe it was only unknown in the northeast.

Suddenly, Curdle found himself sitting upright, struggling to stand, needing to move as he processed this strange notion. Light was creeping in through the windows, a pale flush against the opposite wall as he grunted in annoyance and tried to brace himself on an arm that wasn’t-…It wasn’t there! Neither was the other! Panic forced the issue, helping him surge to his feet despite the stiffness of ill-used joints. That had only been a dream! Surely! He could still feel them at his back, the weight, at least, pulling at his shoulders, but he could not feel anything beyond that, and as they were tied behind his back, he could not see much more. His horns did not help matters.

With so much strangeness already invading his world, and a night of little sleep besides, it was perhaps forgivable that when the jinn arrived that morning, he could not help but break the silence, begging them to tell him if his arms had been lost. It was even less surprising when they only managed to stare at him in confusion, the one holding his breakfast, and the other a blindfold in preparation of a visit, likely, from their superiors. They recovered quickly, the first shaking his head with a frown, the other turning him to check the knots binding his hands. Whether they thought he was trying to escape or not, the sharp hiss of breath released in surprise had him expecting the worst. The rough rasp of metal on leather left him stiff with tension, but the only repercussion of the drawn blade was an unexpected weight swinging forward and an ache stretching across his shoulders, settling deep in the bones as he stared at the revealed hands.

If they were his, and they must be, for they were attached to the arms now hanging at his sides and as unresponsive as they’d been before, then they were ghastly. Swollen and dark from the wrist down. He couldn’t move them. And when he looked up, the little room was ringed with guards, all waiting for him to take the opportunity an unthinking kindness had given him. They thought he would run. He should have. But all Curdle could think of just then was how heavy he felt. Without fully comprehending the danger to himself, he simply dropped his gaze again, staring first at one hand and then the other, willing the fingers to move, close, lift, anything, even a small twitch would do.

Then he stopped thinking as sensation crept through nerves awakening around muscles and joints too quickly freed from their unnatural position. Even a younger man would have found two days and nights with their arms bent back difficult to recover from. Unable to set a hand against the hurt, as both were currently useless, Curdle could only curl in on himself, immediately covered in sweat and sinking slowly towards the ground. Two guards, not the men who’d freed him, they were currently restrained on the floor amidst the remains of his breakfast, stepped forward to support him, and, realising the situation, helped work his joints while he hissed at the ants trailing bites down his arms and under his skin. One set to work on his hands, a waste of magic, but he was not going to ask him to stop.

They took the opportunity to cover his eyes. And then a calm voice set to demanding answers, demanding the Lady Gerun’s whereabouts, of herself or her body. They wanted confirmation of her death, of her disappearance. Wanted to know what he had done, where he had put her. How he had done it. No one bothered to ask why. Or if. He had run, that was all the proof they needed. Motive was assumed obvious. Jinn were dangerous, jealous creatures.

Swaying where he stood, Curdle could only shake his head to every question, closing his eyes against the pain, the guilt, and his involuntary blindness. He had not killed her, but he was certain they would not take the cremation of a noble lightly. It did not matter what he told them, and words could not be pushed past the constriction of his throat anyway. He couldn’t concentrate. From a night of quiet stillness to everything at once, it was too much to handle. So, he simply didn’t. For every question, their only answer was the same slow, consistent shake of his head.

Eventually, the voice went away and he wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there shaking his head and whimpering through the rejuvenation of his limbs without questions to refute. Perhaps it had only been half a second before they caught his head to still it and untied the blindfold. Perhaps it had been an hour. All he knew was the relief of seeing his cell empty again. Well, mostly. This time, when he looked down, his hands, though they remained numb to his efforts to move them, had regained a more healthy pallor, the swelling having lessened. They were closer, as well, having been bound together in front and attached to a cord he’d not even noticed being tied around his neck. Whoever had tied the knots this time had done so with far greater kindness. They did not cut off his circulation anymore, and there was enough slack that he could roll his shoulders and straighten his elbows a little. Still uncomfortable, and now he could see the hair twined in with the cord, but it removed the risk of damaging him further, as he was not their property, even if he was accused of murder.

After giving him some water, the pair who had remained to work his joints left him alone, and Curdle was caught in the quiet and lingering ache that filled more than his bones now. Caught with too much on his mind. Too much to face.

Between realizing it was no dream, that promise and second chance, and the painful interrogation, the tears had returned. The hurt not solely physical. He had lost her. Lost hope. Lost himself. Only to find it all again in a dream. It would not make the Lady Gerun live again, but if he told them now where she was, on a cart bound for Sherahd, it would betray Miria, and break another promise. If she would keep it… if she would hold Fiira’s ashes for him, he could not break that promise. He could not break.

Leaning against the wall, just barely supporting himself against it, the old jinni let his head droop, eyes falling again to the swollen fingers he could feel now, burning like coals but motionless, and slowly, inexorably, felt his strength fading as he slid towards the floor. His hands, he knew they would fix, as well as they were able. But though he was sure they’d not meant the damage, Curdle had been on the other side of where he was now enough to know the methods they would use. Now that someone of authority was there to oversee each interrogation, there would be no more small kindnesses.

And he could only laugh. The sound emerging raspy and breathless. If they had only come a day sooner, they might have won some small piece from him, with nothing to lose, when he knew nothing. But now… Now he did know what they wanted, and he could not say, because Miria messi had given her word that they would see this through. They would keep the Lady Fiira out of the dark.

For a time, he stayed like that, gasping out a sickly laugh while tears retraced worn paths into his beard. Eventually, however, he fell asleep, and found peace, though it couldn’t last. They came again with his dinner, releasing his arms and blindfolding him again, and that same voice began repeating itself as he continued his own, tight-lipped ritual of shaking his head. Over, and over, and over until it was done. That night, they left his eyes covered, left him lying on the floor, arms rebound. But though they’d exhausted him, and the pain had, thankfully, lessened with further exercise and healing, sleep did not return for a long while.

He spent the night dozing, half dreaming of the days before Lady Gerun had fallen sick, when she could still speak, slow and soft, when she sometimes reached for his hands as he fed her, skin paper soft and cool, bones frail as a bird’s, but the weight heavy when she lost the strength to hold them up on her own. The weaver had never met this woman. She knew only ashes in an urn. Even had they crossed paths when Fiira lived, it would have been of small consequence, one a potential patron. Nothing more. The lady had not interacted often with those beneath her station, so, even then, she might have been nothing more than a hand reaching from behind a curtain, and a voice… A voice like the one that asked him how to find her. Was she lost?

Curdle let his mind drift as the days passed. The time divided between waking, sleeping, and questions he would not answer, though once his arms recovered, he was not spared the beatings he’d expected. It did not matter, he had found an escape in remembering, thinking about what he might tell Miria about the woman she had never known, if she asked. And, when he was feeling up to it, searching for that lost, sideways sensation he could only barely remember to take him back outside himself.

Needless to say, the week went by both quickly and slowly, time blurring into a dizzying amalgamation of not quite there moments as he learned the trick of displacing his mind. Knowledge, however, lent him a caution that kept him grounded far too long, until a storm much like the one that had earlier beset Miria dragged him from the earth with its own headstrong bluster and flung him far afield. He lost an entire day then, but learned a great deal more about what he was doing. Enough, at least, to feel confident when next he managed to separate himself from his body. Confident enough to search out the weaver again. To at least know she was real.

He did not plan to bother her again. Falling into her dreams unknowingly was one thing, but stepping into them with purpose and intent… He had no wish to further invade her privacy. He did not want to be reminded of her memories, and all the reason she had to turn against him. He had thought only to see her, to know where she was, that she was safe. That the urn, the ashes were safe. He would find some other way of communicating, he told himself, though he was not sure it was possible. It was safer than risking her ire should she find him in her dreams again.

But he had not learned his lesson well enough the first time, or did not understand the connection they’d forged. He found her readily enough, searching for the presence of the deer jinni who was guiding the caravan and then following an instinct he was not aware of, a spider silk thread bond pulling him in where she was sleeping. Quiet and still and stretched out in the straw beside her donkey. Safe. And the urn was still in her cart. Draped, now, with a familiar cloth. Until that moment, there had remained some small doubt within him, guard against disappointment, but that sight alone left him limp and liberated, drifting on relief and unaware of his surroundings, unaware of their proximity.

Not touching. But too close to stay apart. She drew him in with another breath, her warmth holding him fast as he fell away from the world, brushing through the strange tumultuous rush of Miria messi. Perhaps it was because he’d already done this once, or because he fought harder to keep hold of his own Self, or simply that he understood immediately that he was dreaming, but when walls rose up around him in a smooth mesh of Sherahd’s decorative style and Renna’s more open, practical architecture, he was no one but his own self. Her mind had not superseded his own, but her dreaming drew out memories he’d been holding close beneath the surface, teasing free the details until every doorway framed a precious moment. Until the hallways settled into the map of a house he’d known for almost sixty years.

Each turn revealed further subtle indications of wealth, from the smooth wooden floors and heavy, dark roof beams in a land where few trees grew, to the saturation of colours in wall hangings and furniture and tastefully placed décor. Even the plants, minimal though they were, evinced a more delicate, thirsty nature than the usual hardy flora of the desert. The inner courtyard was a miniature oasis all its own. But one small alcove did not match the rest.

It was a more gaudy affair, the house where they’d first met: though it was a threadbare ostentation, where the richly dyed curtains were never drawn across the windows for fear of revealing the holes, and the expensive marble facades were often cracked, the mosaics crumbling. But there was still evidence of past successes, and of the noble blood that lived there.

Throughout the halls, cool night air and hot noon sun mixed with children’s laughter, shouts and casual conversation, and deep quiet of emptiness and loss. As with each memory filled room, they followed no particular chronology, no strict timeline, to keep track of. The memories belonged to their rooms, and the rooms had their place in the house, and that was all that mattered. The long hall where guests were celebrated, and only the best was displayed saw merrymaking and feasts with a small, bright woman, dark haired and dark eyed in the centre of it all. The house’s master looking on and laughing with a serving girl on his knee. Beside it was the inner courtyard, open to the elements but closed to the public eye, where three children crowded around their mother as she bent her head to the task of proving that reading was an exciting adventure, and well worth the effort of learning.

From behind ornately carved closed doors came the creaking of a bed.

There was the nursery, where children played and mothers counted their losses. A wide loom, sitting in lonely estate, where a tired old lady created colourful stories to wrap around distant shoulders. Another small room where the tiercel was jessed and tied to its perch, restlessly mewling and fanning sharp, grey wings. The gate, where they rode in laughing together, husband and wife, friends to each other, loving but no longer lovers. The small, but elaborately festooned front entrance where bride met groom for the first time…

The eyes that saw each image were invisible, Curdle’s presence impossible to include within his own remembering, but he had been there for almost every moment, from her tenth year on, and he might have filled each crevice and nook and window with reminiscing. As it was, Miria would find the house’s foundations unusually unstable, rearranging around her as the jinni’s focus shifted. But Curdle himself remained just outside her bedroom door, staring in at the last memory of the woman he’d served.

Her body was lying on the bed, sallow skin, wrinkles, frail bones and hair too thin to do anything with, presented in the finest robe she’d owned. The falcon that was her family’s symbol embroidered in fine silver thread across the rich green hue covering her chest. Head propped up enough that her dead eyes could stare back at him, to take him with her when she finally escaped. There was a sense of repose about the scene. An old woman almost sleeping, finally gone to her final rest. Loneliness, in the light shining across an empty floor. And Curdle’s hands were fists at his sides, a tremor running through him, as he faced the moment he’d stepped beyond the point of turning back.

He still did not know if he had made the right choice.