The Carnelian Way

6.

The sun lowered, red as a winter fruit. The planting had ended when a Denese woman fell to the earth, her body jerking at the feet of an indifferent Ivan.

It happened every sewing. The falling. The fits. There would be more tomorrow, and even more the next. Earlier and earlier each day, Rina's people would fall, until the fields had been sewn and tiny green stalks reached for the heavens. Because the land knew their ancestors' crime. It remembered what Arkis had done to its cousins far across the seas, in a land now a barren desolation of parched earth and dry lake beds under a burning turquoise sky. This was their atonement.

Gulls screeched overhead. The sun chased the horizon, oblivious to the straggles of workers returning home. Even the Eurans slumped, their grey and brown homespun sagging from their frames. Almost obscured by the lengthening shadows.

But Rina couldn't rest. Ever since her encounter with Fin, her heart rate had increased. Now it raced, and energy streaked through her veins, forcing her limbs to move with brisk steps. Away from the red-roofed city that loomed above her. Away from the questions her aunt and uncle would ask.

She should be tired. Exhausted. Yet she felt like she could fly. Looking at the approaching cliff edge, she wondered if she could.

You're going mad. Of course, you can't.

The most powerful of the Magisterium levitated.

I'd drop like a filthy, Arkis-spawned Denese.

The air whooshed in and out of her lungs, and her mouth gasped like a bellow as she stood at the edge of the world, white cliffs and crashing waves below her, an enormous boat anchored out to sea. The wind howled. Flickers of light danced at the periphery of her vision.

She was hot. Too hot.

Her knitted sweater was gone before the thought entered her mind, left forgotten in the winter grass as she sprinted to the goats' track and scrambled down toward the shore. Once she got there, she'd run back up. That should wear her out enough to sleep.

Her ears roared. And so she didn't hear the pound of boots. Didn't realise she wasn't alone until a hand on her shoulder made her yelp. She shoved the figure away, palms pressed out before her.

Fin flew through the air and fell, landing in a patch of gorse. Moaning, he sat up with a wince, one hand to his lower back. Violet eyes pierced her. His other hand before him as if she were an unbroken mare.

"Easy! Easy there."

He pushed up, face scrunching, then let out a "Fucking hell!" and shook his hand.

Rina ran to him, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him up and onto the path. Head bent, she inspected his the skin of his palm, twisting it in the light until the thorn glinted. Tongue poking from the corner of her mouth, she used her fingernails to pluck it out.

"Why aren't you wearing your gloves?" she asked.

Fin's lips quirked. "Ah, well, it didn't seem fair, considering." His eyes flicked to her still-pink fingertips.

This struck Rina. Some Euran men were kind—in the way one was to a pet horse or dog. Olav treated her like she was human—but not an equal. This man, he was different.

She studied Fin. A slash ran across his high cheekbone, one ruby droplet budding.

Saliva pooled in her mouth at the view, and her stomach hollowed. Everything in her became hollow, aching to be filled. She leaned in and licked the drop away, realising a second later what she'd done and recoiling, even as her bones cried, More, more, more!