Текст книги "Bound to the battle god"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 40 страниц)

20

We walk across the dusty, crumbly hills of the Dirtlands. Or at least, Aron walks. I sort of stagger behind him, my entire body throbbing with pain. If he's hurting from his fall, he doesn't show it in the slightest. His form is as straight as ever, his clothing unblemished by what we’ve gone through. Meanwhile, my filmy dress is torn in several places, and the hem is covered in dirt. I'm sweaty and the fabric sticks to me in unpleasant places. Elegant, I'm not.

How I look doesn't matter, though. All that matters is getting away from the Citadel because it is most definitely under attack. Every so often, there's a sound like a crash of windchimes, and when I turn back to look, smoke pours up from one of the graceful, spindly towers of the floating city. I think of all the people there with horror, because where are they supposed to go? Sure, Tadekha’s ladies have wings, but they didn’t strike me as particularly warlike. I don't see anyone flying around the Citadel itself, so I'm guessing they're not much in the way of defenses. I think of the soldiers in the hall—they didn't have wings. Seems like an oversight to me. I stare up, shielding my eyes against the sunlight, wondering if they're all doomed.

A hand grabs mine and I yelp, even as a shock jolts up my arm.

"This is no time to stare," Aron tells me. "We are still too close."

"Sorry," I tell him, and grab a handful of my long, flowing skirts with my free hand, because he's not letting go of my other. I'm forced to trot behind him, no easy feat considering I have no shoes and the ground beneath our feet is crumbling and loose dirt, but we manage.

We continue like this for what feels like hours, Aron half dragging, half hauling me along behind him, and me stumbling after him. Without shade, the day gets hot, and there's no food or drink to be found. I want to cry at how overheated I am, but there's no point—it's not like there's a lemonade stand anywhere. I just need to suck it up and keep going. It's towards sunset that there's a terrible, roaring sound and the ground trembles beneath our feet. I tear my hand out of Aron's ruthless grasp and come to a halt, gasping and staring at the ground. "What…the fuck…was that? An earthquake?"

He frowns at me, probably for stopping, and then gazes over my shoulder, off into the horizon. "Tadekha's Citadel," he says after a moment. "It's gone."

Gone?

I whip around, staring at the area we've left behind. I don't see the Citadel itself anywhere on the horizon, which is shocking in itself. There's just a dark smear of smoke. "Where is it?"

"Gone," he repeats, clearly impatient. "Does 'gone' mean something else in the mortal tongue? It has been destroyed."

"Don't be a dick," I retort, putting a hand to my brow as if that'll help visibility. To be honest, visibility isn't the problem. Even from the distance of a few hours’ walk, I can see the red line of the Aventine troops, splashing like blood against the dirt. I can see the smoke pouring from the skies, and ahead of them…glitter on the ground.

Oh no. So much glitter. The Citadel's nothing but a bajillion broken shards. "Oh my god. What about all the people inside?" I turn and look at Aron in horror. "What about Tadekha?"

"Dead," he says flatly. "Her own fault."

I give him a shocked look. "How is this her fault?"

"She knows perfectly well what the Citadel was doing to the land. She did not care. Aventine has taken it back. Maybe someday something will grow here again." He shrugs. "Now the battle begins. I imagine it will not be much of one."

"If there's anyone fucking left!"

"If there is, they will capture any survivors and sacrifice them in my name as thanks for their victory. Or they will make them slaves." He shrugs.

"What? Is that why you don't give a shit?" I'm horrified. "It doesn't matter that all those people just died horribly because hey, fuck it, I'll get a few good prayers out of this?" I spread my arms wide. "Are you fucking serious, Aron?"

"I am a god of battle. Not sacrifices. I do not ask for such things, nor do I approve them. They do this of their own accord." He shrugs those big shoulders. "As for Tadekha, she has been warned many times over the years." He looks thoughtful. "I wonder what happens to your Aspect if you die. Has she already returned to the Aether?"

"Jealous much?" I say sarcastically.

"No," he replies. "Tadekha—if she lives—will be tortured for quite some time. It is not one to be envious of."

"This is not making me feel better, Aron!"

He gives me a stern look. "You feel sorry for her? When she would rather enslave her faithful into sexual play instead of protecting them? She cares nothing for their fates, because she is immortal. She cares nothing for this land." He spreads his arms wide, and I gaze around at the ruined, dirt-filled place that should be crops and trees and birds and is just awful nothingness. "She does not care about anything but herself, so do not feel sorry for her. She doesn't deserve it."

I can't disagree with him after hearing that, and I wonder if it makes me a bad person. I'm unhappy about the fates of the others—First, the goddess's anchor, and all of the other young, happy, devoted faces I saw there. So many people.

But Aron's right. They threw their lot in with her. If everyone knew this was going to happen…someone should have done something.

When he extends his hand out again, I swipe at my eyes (didn't even realize I’m crying) and take it once more, letting him lead me away.

When the sun goes down, Aron takes pity on my constant staggering and stumbling. There's a large boulder on one side of the road, and he leads us to it. "I suppose we must take shelter for the night. It's clear to me that despite the danger, you can't go on much further."

I'm not even mad about his arrogant words. I'm just too relieved that we're going to actually stop. My body throbs with pain like it's one big bruise, and my feet are blistered from walking barefoot all day. I haven't complained, though. At least I'm alive. I keep thinking of First and her beautiful, crystal wings—and the fact that she's probably been crushed under a hundred tons of falling Citadel. That puts things in perspective. No matter how big of a dick Aron is, he wants to keep us both safe and alive. He protected me when we fell, and I won't forget that. It had to hurt a lot.

Aron releases my hand when we reach the boulder, and I collapse gratefully at the base of it. I lie down, not even caring that the cobbled road is covered with a fine layer of grit and dirt. All that matters is that we've stopped. I close my eyes, wallowing in my pain for long moments.

I'm alive and that's all that matters.

"Thank you for stopping," I whisper through parched lips.

Aron only grunts acknowledgment of my words. There's no snideness, no pissy commentary. I open my eyes a slit and glance over at him. He's not sitting. He's staring off into the distance, his hands on his hips, his tunic plastered to his back. He must be sweaty. I find that strangely odd, because Aron seems unaffected by the elements. Even in the heat of the day, he was cool and unbothered while I panted and huffed and choked on mouthfuls of dust.

He glances down the road, in the direction we're heading, and for a terrifying moment, I think he's going to demand that I should get up, and we should keep going. But he doesn't. He merely looks thoughtful and I relax.

When I lay my head back down on the dirt, I realize that his back is glittering.

I frown, slowly sitting up, and as I do, the crystals flash and catch the fading light. "Aron, your back."

He glances over his shoulder at me. "What of it?"

"You've got crystals embedded in your skin." I get to my feet and hobble to his side. Sure enough, his tunic is sticking to him not because of sweat, but because it's pinned against his flesh by crystal shards. I think back and remember how the crystals rained down on top of us with the first trebuchet hit to the Citadel…and then I remember Aron landed on his back, with me on top of him. Oh dear. Guilt hits me. "Are you okay?"

"I am standing and whole. Of course I am fine." He scowls at me as if it's a stupid question to even ask.

I do notice he doesn't say his back is fine, though. I'm starting to read between the lines the longer I get to know Aron. He's full of bluster—piss and vinegar, as my mother would say—but he's not heartless. He just doesn't understand a lot of this world. I know how that feels.

"Come sit down by the boulder and I'll pick them out for you," I tell him, reaching out and taking his hand. There's a skittering shock as I touch him, but he doesn't protest and lets me lead him forward. I go back to my spot by the rocks at the edge of the path, sit down, and cross my aching legs, then pat the spot in front of me. "Here."

He sits, his back toward me. As he does, I realize again just how massively big this guy is. His shoulders spread wide, thick with muscle, and I think he's more than twice the size of me. I'm not exactly dainty, either. I'm a nice, solid, average girl, but Aron's sheer size makes me seem like a delicate Disney princess to his Conan the Barbarian. Of course, he is a god of battle. I don't expect him to be built like a scholar, but it's still good to know this guy's on my side.

Concentrate, dummy, I tell myself as he shifts, his shoulders bunching. I'm doing a crappy job of helping him by just staring at his back (no matter how appealing a wide set of shoulders is, they're still attached to him). I reach out and pluck the largest chunk of crystal shard from his back and set it down carefully on one of the cobblestones. It's the size of a needle and I feel terrible that I didn't notice it before. In my defense, though, he's run me to the point of exhaustion.

That's about the only defense I have, because now that I'm looking, he's got dozens of these terrible things pinning his tunic to his skin. As I stare, a spot of blood blooms where I've pulled the first shard. Great.

He remains silent as I get to work, plucking shards and unpinning fabric bit by excruciating bit. If it hurts, he doesn't indicate it. In fact, he barely moves. Me, I'm wincing with every tug, imagining just how painful it must be and how much he's hurt all day and I didn't pay attention. The blood dotting the back of his tunic isn't helping me feel better, either. As I pull out one particularly big chunk, I set it on top of the pile and decide to say something. "Aron?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you for saving me back there. I'm pretty sure I would have died if I'd landed flat on the ground."

"You would have," he agrees.

I frown absently at his back as I tug another piece out. My fingertips are bleeding and raw, because this crystal makes no friends, but that doesn't matter. "I'm grateful."

"You should be."

I bite back my irritation. This is just Aron. This is who he is. A big, arrogant douche. "Anyhow, thank you for saving my life."

He is silent for a long moment. Then he glances over his shoulder back at me. "Do not imagine yourself important. I need you. I save you because I am saving myself."

Dick. "Gee, thanks."

"Would you rather I coddle you with lies?"

"I would rather you be nice about it. I'm thanking you and you're kind of being an ass about it."

He merely snorts. "If I was being an ass, I would demand you show me your gratitude on your knees, as Tadekha would demand of her anchor. Instead, I am letting you rest and tend to me." He spreads his arms. "Am I not the most benevolent of gods?"

"No, you most definitely are not," I mutter under my breath as I pluck another crystal.

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21

The next day, I'm so hungry and thirsty I'm delirious. It takes everything I have to move one foot in front of the other, and even that I'm doing badly. Aron has to haul me along by one arm, dragging me beside him all morning. The sun gets high in the sky and then it's too much to do even that. I'm panting and not sweating despite the heat, which I know is a bad thing. I need water and shade and rest…and there just isn't any.

Eventually, Aron realizes that I'm not being lazy as much as being “collapse” and hauls me into his arms. He carries me as he walks down the road. "You are not allowed to die, Faith," he tells me sternly.

I give him a weak thumbs up. "I'll keep that in mind."

He frowns down at me. "Put your arms around my neck. You are sliding out of my grip."

"I really don't want to," I begin, but he gives me a hard jiggle and I have no choice but to do so. I'm burning up and touching him just makes everything hotter and more miserable. Sunstroke, I bet. There's no shade and I'd give anything for a drink. "You might have to get yourself a new anchor," I tell him woozily, the world tilting. I'm so tired.

"I will not." He gives me another hard jostle. "Wake up."

"Asshole. Let me sleep through this misery." He shakes me again, until my teeth are clenched with frustration and I have to knot my fingers against his collar to keep my grip there. "I hate you."

"You think I care? You are here to serve me, and yet here I am, carrying you because you are too lazy to walk." His words are dickish as fuck, but he says them in a quiet, calm manner, as if he doesn't truly mean them.

I don't know what to make of that. Or of him at all. Damn arrogant prick. I wish I'd been found by the god of cupcakes or kittens instead of the arrogant god of battle. And storms.

Wait.

"Aron," I gasp, clutching at him. Blackness fades in and out of my vision, and I'm so overheated it feels like I'm going to die. "Can you make it rain?"

"You wish a storm? Why?"

"I need a drink," I whimper at him. I know I'm whining, but I don't care. "Please. I'll do anything."

He sighs and holds me close against his chest. "I forget how fragile you mortals are." For a moment, I think his voice sounds curiously gentle, but that has to be the heatstroke talking. But then thunder crashes overhead and clouds roll in. The terrible sun that feels as if it's baking me like a potato disappears, and a moment later, a downpour drenches the skies.

The temperature changes immediately, so quickly that it sends a sharp pain through my head. I gasp as cold, wet rain pounds my skin and soaks me, washing away dirt and heat and all the terrible things of the day. Even so, it’s wet and refreshing and I don’t care how much it makes my head hurt. I moan and tilt my face back, catching the rain in my mouth.

"Better, little mortal?"

"Thank you," I gasp, and then drink more. I cup my hands to drink as much as I can, and then collapse back against his chest, exhausted.

The downside of rain is that after it fades away, the air is humid and sticky once more. My wispy gauze dress is soaked, and I suck on the moisture there for another drink later, and then fall back against Aron's shoulder, unconscious. I want to tell him that I'm not normally such a wimp. That I can usually handle myself and I'm a decent hiker, but I don't have the energy.

This is what it feels like to be dying, I think. Strange how it came on that fast. Shouldn't it take a few days for me to die of thirst? But I feel like I'm at my end as it is, and Aron seems to think so, too.

"Not much farther," he tells me as I fade in and out of consciousness.

I'm pretty sure he's lying to me. That's all right. It's a nice lie.

Distantly, I hear the sound of thunder, and I feel more rain patter against my skin, but I'm too far gone in sleep to pay much attention. I want to wake up and thank him, but it feels like a huge effort, a mountain that I'm sitting at the base of, and it's much too far to climb.

"Not much longer, my friend," Aron says, his voice a whisper against my hair.

Aw. He thinks we're friends now. It's a nice thing to hear right before I die. I struggle awake despite the mountain of effort and manage to open my eyes. The storm clouds roll overhead, highlighting Aron's unearthly beauty.

"Look," he tells me. "Shelter."

It takes everything I have to turn my head, but when I do, I see…grass, like a green carpet. In the distance, there are small bushes and neat rows of what looks like a tended field. Off atop a distant cliff there's a tiny building with a plume of smoke rising from the chimney.

Huh. We've reached the edge of the Dirtlands.

I must have drowsed off, because the next thing I know, I open my eyes and the house is right in front of us. Come to think of it, it looks less like a house and more like an old timey church, complete with long stone walls and straw roof. I don't care, though. As long as they have food and water, I'll sleep on a church floor.

Aron, being Aron, goes up to the heavy wooden door of the church and kicks it. "Open up," he calls out in that imperious voice of his. I want to tell him that's not exactly how you ask for a place to stay for the night, but I'm too tired. I just rest my head on his shoulder and try not to think about how dry my throat is. He looks down at me with alarm and gives me a rough jostle. "You are not allowed to die."

"Sure," I tell him faintly, even as the door opens.

It's a man, dressed in gray robes, his white hair parted down the middle and hanging in two long braids on either side of his face. Even though I'm struggling to stay conscious, there's no mistaking how pale the weathered face gets as he sees Aron. He immediately drops to his knees and bows his head. "My Lord of Storms. It is an honor."

"Good," Aron says curtly, pushing inside. "My anchor is dying. She needs help."

"Whatever I have is yours," the man stammers. "Is she injured?"

"Hungry," Aron says.

"Thirsty," I manage to croak out. I am hungry, but my throat hurts so much that I think I might die in the next minute if I don't get a drink.

"Of course. Just a moment." He scurries off, disappearing behind a shelf and I hear a clatter of pots and pans.

Aron glances around and gives a haughty sniff at our surroundings. "I suppose this will do for a day."

Like we're flooded with choices.

I fight my heavy eyelids and peer around, too. It's not a church after all, but a library. Books of all shapes and sizes line the walls, shelves groaning with the weight of them. There are books in stacks in the middle of the room, along the walls, and covering every surface imaginable. It's not dusty, just cluttered. The place is dark inside, lit only by a few small lanterns, and off to one side there's a large table with parchment, ink, and a book open in front of it. Whoever this guy is, it looks like he's the one writing the books.

Aron heads deeper into the place, moving past shelves and knocking over stacks of books as he goes. I bite back a protest, because it seems wrong to bother this solitary man…but on the other hand, I feel so awful that I'm not sure I care. At the back of the building, past another massive stack of books that topples as he moves through, there's a small cot, the bed neatly made. Aron lays me down on it even as the monk—because he has to be a monk—scurries in with a pitcher of water and a bit of bread and cheese.

"This is all you have?" Aron scowls as the monk moves to my side and scoops a simple clay cup into the pitcher, then offers it to me.

"I apologize, Lord, but I live simply," the monk says. He's not disturbed by Aron's words, his serene expression unruffled.

I take the cup from his hands, sucking the water down greedily. It's the best thing I've ever had, and it's gone far too soon. I drink it all and hold the cup out for more.

"You should drink it slowly," the monk begins, only to be interrupted by Aron again.

"Give her all that she wants," he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. "I cannot have her dying."

The monk sighs, dips another cup, and gives it to me. I hesitate, because Aron seems to be in a real mood, but I'm so thirsty I can't pass up the water. I gulp it down, and a third cup when he hands it to me. He offers me bread, but I skip it—too dry—in favor of the cheese, and gnaw on it for a moment. The taste is sharp and overwhelming, but I eat it anyhow.

Aron's just watching me carefully, not eating or drinking. He has to be hungry and thirsty, too. When the monk gives me another cup of water, I nod at Aron. "You should drink something," I tell him around a mouthful of cheese. I don't miss the way the monk's eyebrows go down, as if surprised by my offer. Maybe he expects me to be as big a dick as Aron is.

"Unnecessary," the god says, watching me closely. "You drink it."

My stomach's starting to cramp and I feel a sweat breaking out on my forehead. I put down the cheese and lift the cup to my lips. I don't feel so good. I want to drink, and I want to throw up, too. "Um," I say, and then my mouth floods with saliva. Oh. Oh no.

With a kind expression, the monk holds up the nearly empty pitcher, offering it to me. I snatch it from his hands and manage to tuck it under my chin just before I vomit up all the water I just drank.

Off to the side, Aron makes a sound of disgust. "Mortals."

The monk pats my knee as I puke a second round. "I thought that might happen if you drank too much. I will bring you something to clean off with, my dear, and some tea to settle your stomach."

I watch in surprise as he beams a serene smile at Aron and then heads off to what must be his kitchen once more.

Aron lifts his chin at me. "Stay there. Rest until you feel better."

No one has to tell me twice. I set down the pitcher, lie back on the blankets, and allow myself to pass the fuck out.

I wake up the next morning with a big hand stroking my hair, my face smushed against a hard chest, and my arm (and leg) flung over someone.

Er.

I look up groggily and it's Aron. I'm not surprised, but I am a little bewildered.

"Your hair needs a washing," is all he says.

"I'm sure I would have put it higher on the priority scale if I would have known you were going to climb into bed with me," I mutter, struggling to sit upright.

He snorts. "No, you wouldn't have."

"You're right, I wouldn't have." I scrub a hand over my face and sit on the edge of the cot, a little unnerved that he’s pressed up against me. "Why are you in bed with me?"

"It's clear to me that you get into trouble wherever you go, so I'm keeping a close eye on you. You're not leaving my sight again."

"Great," I say without enthusiasm. I squint at him because even as he gets out of the bed, his muscles are rippling and his hair perfect and yet he looks…off. Tired. "Did you sleep?"

"I need no sleep."

"Really? Because you look tired to me."

He gives me another imperious look. "I did not ask you."

All righty then. I yawn and push my hair off my head. He's not wrong. After the dump to the ground when we fled the Citadel, my hair's caked in all kinds of filth and sweat. I've probably still got crystals tangled into it. Still…he was petting it. As if he liked it, or me. For someone that professes to find me annoying, he let me sleep sprawled on top of him all night, all without sleeping on his own.

Aron puts his hands on his hips and frowns at his surroundings. "Where is the mortal that lives here?" He cups a hand to his mouth, all imperious god once again. "Mortal! We have need of you."

I cringe. "Aron, don't. That's rude. I'm sure we can find our way around…" I let my words trail off because the monk comes scurrying in, his long robes flapping around his legs, his weird braids bouncing on his shoulders. He's got a big tray of food—fruit, cheese, nuts, more bread—and a pitcher.

"Good morning," he says, beaming at us. "I've brought food for your anchor, Lord of Storms. Do you require anything from me?" He sets the tray down on a nearby stack of books and plucks a cup from the tray, filling it and then offering it to me. "Drink slowly this time, my dear. Your body needs time to recover."

I take the cup and sip it, even though I feel much better. Vaguely, I remember waking up in the middle of the night to have someone give me sips of water. I remember pale hands and a soothing voice offering encouragement, but when I look at the monk, his hands are brown and weathered. Hmmm.

"I need nothing," Aron says in a clipped voice. "Make sure my mortal gets her fill of food and drink and then she needs a bath." He stalks out from the shelves and his feet thud heavily against the creaking wooden floors. "I am going to scout the area to determine how safe it is. When I return, we will need clothing. Both of us."

"I have extra robes," the monk says in a cheery voice. "They are yours for the taking, as are my savings."

I cringe at that even as I sip the delicious, cold water. This guy sure is ready to give everything to Aron at a moment's notice. I worry we're going to ruin the poor guy's life just by dropping in and he's been so darn nice. I mean, we dropped in on Tadekha in a sense and look where she is now—at the bottom of a pile of rubble.

"Eat, eat," the monk tells me as he pushes a bread bowl into my hands. It's full of fruit wedges and nuts and cheese and all kinds of delicious things and I immediately tuck into it.

"Thank you," I tell him between mouthfuls as he putters around. Oh my god, I've never tasted anything better. I stuff my gob for a few minutes, and then I remember how awful it was to puke yesterday and force myself to slow down. I take small nibbles of food and wash them down with water as he bustles about in the room, straightening piles of books and putting things away while flicking excited glances in my direction. "What's your name?" I ask after a few minutes of this. "I'm Faith."

"You're what?" He turns and looks at me, eyes wide.

"Is that not a common name around here? It's pretty common where I'm from." I sound defensive even to my own ears. "It doesn't mean anything. It's just Faith."

"Fascinating," he tells me with a delighted smile. "And such a perfect name for an anchor to our esteemed Lord of Storms."

"I dunno," I say as I eat the world's biggest wedge of cheese and love every moment of it. "I'm pretty sure he thinks my name is 'mortal.'"

The monk just giggles at that. "You will have to forgive him. He is a god, after all, and not used to this plane or the ways of mortal people."

"Oh, I've been with the guy for a few days. Trust me when I say there's a lot of forgiving going on." I take another drink. "It's either that or murder him in his sleep."

The monk's eyes go wide as saucers. After a moment, he lets out another little giggle. "That is a joke, yes?"

"Yep."

He straightens a stack of big books across from the cot and then sits down on them like it's a stool, watching me with a fascinated expression. "My name is Omos. I am a humble monk who serves Magra, goddess of plenty.” He nods at us. “And now, it is an honor to serve you and Lord Aron, Faith. Whatever I have is yours."

"Hi, Omos. I have to admit I'm not from around here, so I'm a bit lost." I give him a faint smile. "It's nice to finally see a friendly face."

Compassion moves across the monk's features and he gives a heavy sigh, then nods. "It is a hard road you have chosen, to be an anchor."

"So you have met Aron," I joke. When he doesn't smile, I'm a little worried. He just looks troubled. "Can I admit something? I don't know what I signed up for. In fact, I don't know anything about any of this. It was either sign up to be Aron's anchor or die as a human sacrifice. I thought I'd take my chances with Aron, but the longer we're together, the more questions I have."

“Of course. I spoke with Lord Aron while you slept. I will do my best to help you both prepare for your journey.”

“Can you tell me how I get home?’

“I can try.” His lined face crinkles in a smile. "Where are you from? The coast? Glistentide?"

"Chicago?"

Omos's frown deepens and he gets to his feet. "I do not recognize the name." He moves to one of the shelves, his hand fluttering over it as I take another drink of water and eat. A moment later, he pulls out a rolled up parchment and spreads it on one end of the bed, and I realize it's a map. "Shago…Shago…"

I swallow hard and put a hand to my lips, murmuring around a mouthful of food. "You're not going to find it on that map. When I say I'm not from here, I mean I'm really, really not from here." I hesitate, watching his face. "I'm from another world entirely. I don't know how I got sucked here, but I went through a door in my world when I heard drums and I woke up on this side in a strange place." Omos watches me quietly, his eyes wide, and my heart sinks a little. "I know you don't believe me, or think I'm crazy—"

"No, not crazy, not at all." Omos jumps to his feet and races away, and I start to wonder if I'm the crazy one. He comes back a moment later with a heavy, thick book covered in red and gold, and sits down atop another stack of books. He pages through it, frowning to himself. "It's here somewhere."

"What is?"

He looks up at me. "Why, the tale of Queen Natasha. She came from another world and conquered the Fair Plains back before it became the kingdom of Yshrem. She ruled for thirty years…twenty? No, I'm pretty sure it's thirty." He frowns absently and flips through the book. "Maybe twenty-three…"

I put down the bit of fruit in my hand. "Natasha…she was from Earth?"

"Where?" He looks up at me, peering.

"Earth? That's where I'm from."

"I thought you said you were from Shago."

"No, no, I'm from the city of Chicago. State of Illinois. Country of the United States. Planet Earth."

"Oh. Goodness." He beams at me. "You'll have to tell me all that again later so I can record it. How very fascinating. This world is Aos, if you do not know. I have never heard of Earth.” He picks up the book and flips through it again. As for Natasha, it's not stated where she's from, just that she came from a place beyond all lands. She said it was another world, but there are varying theories on such things. From what I hear, she was a very good queen. Very learned. There are a few books about her, I think, but I don't have any in this library." He looks wistful. "They're probably all forgotten in some Yshremi library." He closes the book and smiles at me. "My point is that while it is unusual, it is not the first time I have heard of such a thing."