The Red Sea Read Free

to her."
    "That's the other thing, sir. She's fallen unconscious. I tried to heal her, but there's something stopping me."
    Dante scowled at the wall. He was far from drained of nether. If he left now, it would cost him hundreds of yards of work. Yet he needed the strength to help this woman. Not because it was the good thing to do.
    But to find out why she was trying to deceive him—and which of his enemies she might be working with.
    "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said into the loon. "Thank you for informing me."
    He turned and jogged down the tunnel, his pale light floating in front of him. He had to run close to three miles before reaching the nearest side tunnel out to the mountains overlooking the lakes. His horse awaited, tethered in the shade. He rode down the switchbacks, descending through terraced slopes thick with tea bushes. The outskirts of most cities tended to be slums, but Wending's upper slopes were fancy suburbs: the sprawling lawns, orchards, and manors of the city's wealthy traders. Swooping roofs capped three-story buildings. Outside many, a forty-foot pole jutted from the center of a ring of cleared dirt. Personal churches, harkening back to the days Galladese wagons would gather to barter under poles like these set along the roads. Outsiders often considered this blasphemous, but in Gallador, trade was god.
    He took the main boulevard through the city. Below, the massive blue lake glittered in the sun. He reached the docks, which smelled of fresh clams and not-so-fresh fish, stabled his horse, and found the ferryman waiting for his arrival. The man rowed him to the pocket-sized island where Lolligan made his home. A salt miner and tea vendor, Lolligan had been rich well before the wars. After the assistance he'd provided during the conflicts, he'd become one of the region's preeminent businessmen.
    This came with a cost, though: Dante now expected the man to put him up whenever he was in town.
    The ferryman docked at the island's private pier. Dante thanked him and hopped out. As he crossed the lawn toward the manor, Stedden emerged from the ground floor and dashed toward him in a flurry of black robes.
    "She's still alive," the monk announced. He was a bit chubby and had a habit of staring through you, like he couldn't wait to get back to monk-work. "Still unconscious, though. And I'm not sure she'll wake up without your help."
    "Show me to her."
    Stedden led him inside and down a hallway to the ground-floor guest rooms. There, a woman lay in bed, dressed in a heavy coat and patchwork trousers. The woman was a few years younger than Dante and her skin was a medium brown not often seen this far north. She didn't look sweaty or feverish, but there was a faint cast to her, like a reflection in a bubbly pane of glass. A cloying smell of burned cinnamon hung in the air.
    Yet for all that was strange about her, he was struck by an uncanny sense of familiarity. Like he'd met her before.
    Dante reached for her wrist. Rock dust clung to the hairs of his arm. Her pulse was fluttery, weak. Her breathing was shallow. Dante pushed up his left sleeve, drew an antler-handled knife, and nicked the back of his arm. The nether flocked to the dribbles of blood, feeding hungrily. He reached out to the nether inside the woman.
    And was stung as sharply as a bee. He took a step back, wincing and shaking his head. He turned on Stedden. "You idiot. She's netherburned."
    The man hunched his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I've never seen a nether burn before."
    "I know it's difficult to gather firsthand experiences of everything in the world. That's why they invented 'studying.' Aren't you a monk of Arawn?"
    "I'm sorry," the man repeated, more softly this time.
    Dante let out a long breath and leaned over the woman. "We can't heal her. Touching her with the nether will only make it worse. Give her water, if you can."
    "You're sure of this?"
    "Check in with Nak. He treated me for it once. But I'm afraid this is one of those