mouth.
Qhora frowned sternly, struggling not to give in to the misery and horror the old ghost was projecting at her. “What about Lorenzo?”
“His soul was taken, dragged away, drawn into the aetherium sword.” The nun made the sign of the triquetra and bowed her head. “And I could hear them. So many souls, other souls, older souls, all trapped in that sword with him. I can’t imagine what it must be like. I’ve been alone in this medallion for two years. Two years of quiet, of watching over you and Lorenzo, and little Javier. Alone. But Lorenzo is bound up with so many others. I’ve done nothing but pray for him since that moment.” Sister Ariel buried her shadow face in her shadow hands.
A cold needle of fear and revelation pierced Qhora’s heart as she leaned forward on the edge of the creaking chair. “What are you saying? That my Enzo’s soul is in that sword now? That he’s in some prison, trapped for all time? In the hands of that death-worshipping filth?”
The nun nodded. “Yes, I believe so. It’s such a terrible weapon. I’d never imagined such a thing. It kills the flesh, steals the soul, and makes itself and its owner even more deadly in the process.”
Qhora wanted to leap up and shake the dead woman. “But Enzo! He’s in there? If I get that sword back, will I be able to see him and hear him, just like I can see you right now?”
Sister Ariel nodded meekly. “I suppose so. Yes. Of course.”
Qhora balled her hands into fists on her knees to stop them from trembling. Her wild eyes darted around the dark warehouse, her mouth half-open and making silent little words as her mind raced.
I can get him back. I can get him back!
She leapt out of the chair and ran straight through the shadowy image of the old nun and out the door. Outside, she dashed to Mirari’s side with her eagle weighing heavier and heavier on her arm and said, “We have to find the Aegyptian. I need his sword!”
“Of course, my lady.” The masked woman bowed her head.
“What for?” Salvator asked. “A trophy?”
Qhora fixed him with an iron stare. “I’m getting my Enzo back.”
The Italian nodded slightly. “You want his soul, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Salvator adjusted his cuffs. “You know, I don’t have a great deal of experience with aetherium swords and such, but I was raised in Italia and I know a thing or two about ghosts and souls. There is a reason we ignore them back home, even those of our own ancestors, our own friends and lovers. And that reason is that everyone who has ever devoted their time to commerce with the dead commits suicide. Everyone. They lose their grasp on the entire purpose of being alive. They become fixated on the romance of being dead, of being an immortal shade and wandering the world forever, meeting the souls of those who have gone before.”
“I have no intention of killing myself to be with my husband,” Qhora said.
“No. I’m sure you don’t. Now.” Salvator shrugged. “Just keep in mind that ghosts can only roam freely where the aether lies thick, and that is only in the coldest and darkest corners of the world. And even then, only the most holy or most miserable of souls bother to walk the earth. Everyone else stays in the ground, asleep, awaiting the end.”
“The end of what?”
Salvator smiled sadly. “The world.”
Qhora shook her head. “I don’t care about any of that. My Enzo is dead, but his soul is out there, imprisoned in some killer’s sword and if I can’t have my husband alive in my arms, then I will have him dead by my side, but not enslaved by some ugly trash. Never that.”
The Italian nodded. “Very well. In the morning, we will begin our search anew.”
“We’ll begin now.” Qhora spun and strode down the street away from the dock, leaving the soft rolling sounds of the water and the sharp salt smells of the sea behind as she clacked and stomped along the ancient stone road.
Salvator quickened his step to come alongside her. “Do you have a plan? Perhaps your new feathered friend here can sniff out the killer’s scent?”
“Don’t be stupid. Eagles have no sense of smell.”
“Oh. Then I fail to see what use he’ll be to us here. You should have kept your daggers.”
“I traded two stupid daggers for six smart ones.” She indicated the harpy’s talons.
“And does this set of intelligent knives have a name yet?”
Qhora frowned. “Turi. His name is Turi.”
Brother. My little brother, taken from his home and lost in this eastern world, just like me. But free now, like me.
“I assume he’s trained to attack on command?”
She smiled briefly. She’d passed the long hours on the flight from Carthage by whispering the old Quechua commands to the eagle, trying to teach him to seek and to strike using gestures. They were the same commands she used with Atoq, and saying them out loud had been a comfort, if only for the familiarity of it. “I believe he’ll listen to me. He’s a fast learner.”
They crossed an intersection, and then another. The warehouses fell away, leaving small shops and offices in pale clay and stone on every side. Fat candles burned in the occasional streetlamp on the corners, and lumps of dry dung sat in the middle of the road. Locusts creaked and droned in the distance. There were also voices and lights in the distance, but they echoed with laughter and snapped like firecrackers.
Not a market then. Not at this hour of the night.
Qhora paused in the middle of the street. There were a few lights in the windows here, and a few men walking swiftly along beside them. The men of Alexandria did glance at the foreigners, but only for the briefest moments.
“Where to now?” Salvator asked. “I recall a few lovely little hotels back this way near a popular cafe. They serve coffee there…”
“A market. No, a smith. A sword smith. Someone here must know about aetherium swords.” Qhora nodded to herself. “We’ll start with the sword makers.”
Salvator sighed. “As you wish.”
For the next hour, they strode down one shadowed street after another, asking the rare passerby for directions to a smith, or an armory, or an antiques dealer. But every shop they found was closed for the night. Foot-weary from walking and arm-weary from carrying the huge Turi, Qhora was about to suggest that they retire for the evening when Salvator quickened his step and closed in upon a small cafe on a quiet street corner. Qhora glanced through the door at the four half-sleeping patrons inside and decided to remain outside with Mirari. The Italian went in.
Qhora let her tired eyes admire Turi’s gray and white feathers, his long black talons, and his wide golden eyes. He was healthy and strong, and the silhouette of his head reminded her of Wayra, towering Wayra striding across the Espani countryside with Qhora asaddle on her shoulders.
Wayra. Home.
“My lady.” Mirari touched her arm.
Qhora looked up and saw three men across the street staring back at her. Staring. Not looking away. “These must be some of the less educated gentlemen Taziri warned us about. Come Turi, give us a scream. Sing your blood song for these men.” She held her gloved hand and the harpy eagle lifted his wide wings, flapped once, twice, and screamed. The cry reverberated down the street like a trumpet blast and a cymbal crash, like shattering glass and twisting steel. The men across the street winced and looked away. But one of them looked back at the women again.
Mirari stepped forward and let her hatchet slip down into view in her gloved hand.
The man looked away and the group moved on, muttering in low voices.
Qhora sighed. “You see? A woman doesn’t need to fear anything in the world as long as she has a weapon, a friend, and her wits.”
“Yes, my lady.”
A few minutes later, Salvator emerged from the cafe with a weary smile. “I have a name. But it will have to wait for morning. May we retire now, Dona?”
Qhora yawned. “Yes. Now, we can retire.”
