The shores of Tauris are just as he remembers them, and he is glad he cannot smell the overtone of rotting fish. As the ship pulls into port, Kelo takes this time to scout the beaches for his mother. Seagulls flock overhead, screaming. He hears General Tygoh breathe an “Oh, thank God” behind him as the others gather at the railing to watch the land approach.

  “How does it feel to be back home?” Anarah speaks beside him, scaring him out of his thoughts. She leans into the railing, wisps of her honey-blonde hair flying in the wind. Beautiful.

  “Odd,” he states, looking back at the approaching beach. “You should find everyone some proper coverings, though. Lark especially. She’ll burn quick with that pale skin.” He chuckles to himself.

  She stares at the busy docks. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose you’re right. Let us know what your mother looks like and we can help find her.” She lays a hand on his shoulder and departs for the gunroom, calling the younger castle guardswoman to her. He resists the urge to brush away the ghost of her touch.

  The ship pulls into the dock with a crashing spray of water. Crew mates hurry around him, shouting orders as they moor the vessel. Kelo turns to the sky, blinking into the brightness to find the sun just above them, glaring down over his peeling skin. He counts down a row of clay brick buildings to the seventh hovel, where he remembers his mother’s morning tea and the sound of shouting vendors in the streets. A deep breath spreads through his chest, bursting out the hole where his nose should be.

  The crew lowers the gangplank with a shuddering thunk. As the others gather their belongings, Kelo sidles down the railing, searching the beach. Women line the water, cleaning out fish at the many podiums set up along the dock. Each of them is blanketed in shrouds about their faces to block the sun and wind from their skin. Kelo hurries down the deck, slipping on the saltwater covering its surface, slimy under his feet. The water sits in low tide, exposing the gelled heads of the many fish sold at the market.

  A low hum comes from behind him. “Where are the alchemists?”

  Kelo jumps, turning to see Drair lingering in his shadow. Her coffee-colored skin is covered in light, blustery linens. He stutters. “It – it’s east of the house of the corpses, in the center of town. You, uh, can’t miss it.”

  The assassin nods, gazing down the beach before she takes off along the docks. As she disappears into the crowd, he hears the footsteps of his comrades plodding down the gangplank.

  “Do you see your mother?” Anarah calls.

  He shakes his head, still eyeing the sand. As the group catches up to him, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and for once, he does not jump.

  “Let’s find her, shall we?” Nathis smiles.

  Kelo watches as they move, all gowned in light hooded gowns, save for the older man, who is stripped of his usual armor, baring muscular shoulders to the sun. Kelo sighs deeply, then follows in their shadows.

  “What are we looking for?” Tygoh snaps, shading his eyes as he scans the walkways along the water. Kelo sees a sharp jab from Anarah’s elbow collide with the general’s ribs. A sharp intake of air follows.

  “My mother’s name is Wrena,” he mutters. “She lives near the-“

  “Going to have to speak up, kid.” Nathis wipes the sweat from his brow, stopping amidst the commotion of the streets.

  He swallows, mutters an apology, then sucks air into his lungs. “My mother’s name is Wrena. She lives near the center of town, in a small adobe house shared with the landlord. But she is almost always near the water, cleaning fish.” He looks up to the sun, seeing it begin to peak in the sky. “It’s almost lunch,” he muses. “She might be in the market talking to Judoc. Her hair is starting to gray, but she always wears a headwrap. She is taller than most women.”

  “How does it feel to be back?” Lark chimes in, gazing about. “This country is so foreign. And dry. And hot,” she grimaces. “No wonder you left.”

  Kelo hides a grin beneath a bony hand. “You get used to it.”

  “Perhaps if my skin were already dry as paper, like yours,” the girl jests.

  A protest from Anarah silences the girl, but Kelo is still smiling. “We should check the market,” he says.

  The others look toward him and he feels his breath catch in his throat.

  “Well, lead the way.” Nathis nods his graying head.

  Kelo returns the gesture and moves one leg in front of the other, feeling the eyes upon his back as he does. As he steps off the boardwalk onto the hard-packed sand, he regrets that he cannot feel the warmth on his bare feet as he once did. The sand shifts under his toes, and he is home again.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The market greets the foreigners with raucous activity. Each stand is adorned with colored linens, flapping in the same sandy wind that carries children running through the streets. Smoke from cook fires is whisked away to perfume the nostrils with scents of roasted meat and baked breads. Each vendor sells their wares by shouting promises of unbeatable prices and quality beyond measure, though some may be quick to argue this, judging by the state of the vendors themselves. Most were aging connoisseurs of their craft, gowned in grimy robes, their hair either removed from their heads or wisping about in the breeze.

  A soft clearing of the throat breaks the silence among the group. Tygoh, voice smaller than usual, brushes a sweaty strand of hair away from his eyes and tucks it behind his ear. Kelo notices that the general wears neither a scarf nor a cloak, and his tanned skin shines in the sun as if born from it. “I would appreciate a break for a meal,” he murmurs. “My stomach has settled since reaching land, and I believe it is quite upset with itself for vomiting up all sustenance earlier.”

  A barking laugh erupts from the young blacksmith at Kelo’s side.

  “Good thinking, son.” Nathis stares in the direction of a meat vendor. “Meet you all back here when the sun peaks, yes?” The older man carries himself off, rustling about in a pocket for coins.

  Kelo stands motionless, the breeze rustling his hood about his face as the others separate, watching for Drair. The woman had disappeared far before the rest of the guardsmen, though the others seemed unfazed by her withdrawal. A call from the edge of the market grabs his attention.

  “Kelo!”

  Anarah is waving from a nearby stand. He looks toward the vendor, seeing a decrepit older man with wisps of gray hair and a collapsing back. He is selling a hand pie to the dark-haired cavalry general, who is smiling from ear to ear.

  “This man says your mother was just here!” Anarah shouts.

  Kelo pads over, fiddling with his cloak. Judoc’s eyes light up as he approaches, and he stretches his crippled spine to see over the stand.

  “It is you,” the baker calls. “Wrena, have you seen her yet? She will be ecstatic. Come here, come here,” he waves. “Have a pie, boy. You look thin.” A toothless grin spreads across his great tanned chin.

  Kelo stifles a chuckle, letting the smile peek into his lips.

  “Is cactus fruit still your favorite?” Judoc hums. The old man pulls him into a swift handshake, making no qualm with the bony touch. He searches through the pile of what Kelo can only guess is cactus fruit filling and plucks a beautiful hand pie from the stack, handing it over.

  “Hi Judoc,” he whispers back. If the blood still ran through his skin, he would have blushed. “How are you?”

  When Kelo doesn’t immediately offer his hand, Judoc grabs it, pressing the pie into his fleshy palm. “Eat,” he grunts. “Your mother will want to see you.”

  Anarah picks out a fish pie, paying Judoc with coin. She shoots her comrade a look and Kelo shifts his eyes to the ground, avoiding the pressing expression he knows is in her eyes. Holding the pie in one hand, he mumbles under his breath, anticipating the questioning grunt that follows from the old man.

  “Do you know where my mother is?” he says.

  The old man grunts in question, raising his eyebrows.

  Kelo sighs. “Do you know where Wrena is?” he says louder.

  “Ah, yes. Of course. She came by this noon to pick up a hand pie for lunch. She went toward the center of town and I saw her walking back this way just a while ago. I’d think she’d gone back to work, no?”

  Judoc’s wispy hair flails in a gust of wind that knocks a hand pie from a stack to his right. He curses and looks about, leaning all around the stand. Kelo bends down and reaches under the stand, feeling in the dirt for an object. He bumps against the pie, curls his bony fingers around it, and pulls it from the earth. He brushes sand from the crust and hands it back to Judoc.

  “Thank you, my boy,” the old man chimes. He places the pie back in the pile.

  “Thanks, Judoc. I’ll find her. It was good to see you.” He turns away, hearing another muffled grunt come from the old man in reply. He can hear the others following him, their boots hissing through the sand.

  “Kelo,” Anarah says. “Are you not excited to see your mother?”

  He furrows what is left of his thin brows and shakes his head, staring at the hand pie in his palm. “The last time I saw her, she tried to bring me to the dome.”

  “The dome?” Tygoh says between a mouthful of pie.

  “Yes. In the center of town.”

  Kelo says nothing else, and the couple does not press. They meet back up with the others, and Kelo walks toward the shore again without a word. Lark, spotting the pie in his hand, snatches it from his fingers. The group chats amongst themselves as they walk, gazing about at the bustle of Izevel. Kelo makes his way to his mother’s house, knowing the way like he’d never left, and stops just outside the door, pursing his lips together, wringing his hands.

  “Is this where your mother lives? Is this where you lived?” Lark spouts, bounding up beside him. A soft red glow forms on her pale cheeks where the sun has battered her skin.

  “It was,” he whispers, reaching to knock on the mottled wooden door. His hand stops. The open windows are covered with dense linen sheets to keep out the wind and sand, but he can hear the soft slosh of water from the inside, a cold drink poured into a mug. He inhales deeply, then knocks quietly on the door. The group falls silent.

  A gentle “Hello?” calls from behind the door.

  “Mother.” He pauses. “It’s me.”

  The door bursts open with the force of the desert wind. His mother appears in the doorway, her headwrap falling from her graying hair. Her great brown eyes are wild and hopeful, unshielded in the sunlight, peering eagerly at the skeleton that stands waiting. Kelo wrings his hands and looks away. He feels the desperate grasp of his mother’s hands around his thin arms as she pulls him to her. She begins to sob, her sniffles muffled by the cloak about his shoulders. He is taller than her by a foot–her forehead comes to his shoulder–and as Kelo relinquishes, wrapping his arms around her, he can feel how thin she has become. She grasps his shoulders tight and pulls him away to gaze at his face, eyes red and shining. She smiles, though Kelo can see the sadness behind it.

  He speaks gently, feeling the buzz of anticipation in his stomach.

  “Mother, I need your help.”