by Viviene Noel
Fàaran met her eyes, the little flame of anger awakening behind them. ‘There is nothing more to say.’
Emmerentia sighed. ‘Do you really need to push me out on this?’
He simply walked out of the cottage and into the night.
3
She didn’t know how long she’d been out—it could have been hours or days, weeks or months; time seemed to have vanished in oblivion.
But then a gentle breeze tickled her nose. Hues of yellow and white returned and the warmth of what felt like the sun brushed her skin. She roamed her hands over the parts of her body she remembered had been aching, feeling for broken bones, for bruises and sores.
The pain was gone.
Well, that was a good thing. At least if she had to run, her body might not fail her miserably.
The hammering in her head had ceased its construction, yet a lancing sensation persisted at the front of her head, in between her eyes. She held her breath, listening for any noises that would hint at the environment—cars, people, traffic—but utter silence greeted her.
Her heart pounded in her chest like heavy punches from inside her ribcage, resonating in her ears and covering any other potential sounds.
She knew she was not home. It was murky in her mind, the whys and hows and whats blurring together in a messy labyrinth. But she remembered the dream, the words of the woman of light. Her breath shortened as the images came back to her mind, as they anchored themselves into her present, bringing panic into her bones and—
Home. A whisper at the back of her head.
It was a low, determined voice with an underlying hiss to it. Female. Strong.
Home, home, home. An imperative tone that warmed and soothed her bubbling blood, seeping inside her near-exploding heart to bring it back to an almost normal beat.
She pushed herself up, first on her elbows, then sat up straight, feeling for the head of the bed.
Once she had composed herself, she opened her eyes at last.
She found herself in a small, rustic bedroom. Everything was wooden and clearly hand-built. A small-sized wardrobe stood in the left corner, with a coffer-bench covered with a couple of pillows next to it. A four-person table was tucked in the right corner, sprawled papers as decoration alongside a stack of books and something else that glinted in the sunlight falling from the window above. To her right, there was a nightstand with a couple of drawers and a glass jar filled with water. She drank the whole thing as she gathered her spirits, forcing herself to use logic despite her racing pulse.
‘Think,’ she murmured to herself, shutting out the fear. She was alive, untied, uninjured, and she was not under constant watch. On top of that, whoever this house belonged to had healed her wounds. If movies had taught her anything, these were all good signs.
Rubbing her temples with her thumbs, she vaguely remembered she had made the decision to come to this precise place. She didn’t remember why, or how, but that intense gut feeling had never deceived her.
Watch, the voice whispered to her, stay and learn.
Cracking her knuckles, she breathed in and out through her nose to calm herself. This was one of her crazy dreams anyway, wasn’t it? So it did not matter if she snooped a little. She pricked up her ears, listening for any sounds, any voices. When she deemed it quiet for long enough, she swung her legs out of the bed and stood up, willing her steps to be featherlight as she moved to the table.
There was a small map with markings on it. She leaned closer, tracing the names of the territories with her finger. Mealdan. Orabel and Prahan, a thick forest through both. Amestris. Machize, crossed out. Dartar, a line drawn in the middle. Valàander, crossed out. Hondora with a question mark. Einar. Sahra, going far south. Elgona, which seemed to be standing on an elevated island as opposed to land, scribbled out.
The little voice tugged almost imperceptibly.
She blinked and shook her head, then blinked again to lock the image up in her mind. The rivers, the forests, the names, the different topographic details. Anything that could be of use. Had she somehow landed in some Shepherd’s cottage in a developing country?
She moved to the sheet next to it, squinting at the uneven writing. A sigh of relief shuddered through her lips. English! It was written in English. At least there would not be a language barrier.
She looked at the pile of books—The Forgotten Kingdoms; The History of Duellists; Herbs and Plants; The Warrior Caged in Silk; Royal Lineages of Fanhalen.
Fanhalen? That was not on the map.
A variety of books that pointed to, maybe, an interest in history, medicine and—The Warrior Caged in Silk’s cover was a woman in a fine gown, holding a hunting knife—women in a society of men? She piled the books back in the same order.
Her eyes fell on the small knife lying next to it. The handle was hardwood, carved in the shape of a squirrel-like animal. Simple, but pretty. She didn’t dare touch it. She glanced at the coffer, then the wardrobe, adrenaline rushing through her.
Looking at a clear display of papers and objects was one thing, but opening drawers and boxes seemed too much of an intrusion towards someone who showed only kindness.
Crossing her fingers the doors would not squeak, she tentatively opened the wardrobe, inch-by-inch. No harm in checking out clothes, was there? There were loose shirts, pants, tunics, and...one dress.
Female, then.
Footsteps sounded in the distance. She closed the doors and almost threw herself onto the bed—somehow managing not to trip and fall face first onto the floor. The footsteps neared. She rolled to the side, clamping her eyelids shut and tucking her hands under the pillow to hide the shaking. She willed her body to mimic the slow and peaceful breathing of sleep.
The door to the bedroom opened quietly, letting in a fresh breeze. A female voice sounded behind her. ‘She should be awake by now.’
There was movement, the rustling of clothes. ‘Looks like she needs longer.’ The door closed just as quietly.
She lay awake on her back until the echoes of her racing heart stopped in her ears, until the knot in her stomach unclenched. After that voice at the back of her head almost yelled at her to pack it in, she had breathed out and stilled the panic. She wanted sleep to reclaim her, to return to the white oblivion and the woman of light for a little longer.
Instead, something within her had hissed at the cowardice, at the fear.
It was a dream anyway; she would wake from it soon enough. As she always did.
So she had reviewed the information on the desk, the names of the kingdoms, of the rivers, of the forests. What was this place?
Home, home, home. Gentle. Calling. Reassuring.
And what was this voice?
As hard as she dug into her memory, she could not pair it to a name. It came from within, deep beneath her heart, like it was twined around a vital chord in her body. But it was not hers. She could say that much. At least the presence brought her comfort, quieting her brain from acting out. It was like it was trained, focused, fearless. A warrior’s voice.
Exhaling deeply, she fought the seed of fear taking root.
She remembered what the woman of light had said in her oblivious unconscious. ‘You won’t remember, neither will they. Find your memories. Welcome home.’ The woman had repeated it continuously, her voice a warm summer breeze that had laced peace through her heart. She couldn’t explain it, it just felt right.
‘That’s it, you’ve turned bat-shit crazy,’ she murmured as she rubbed her eyes.
Then her stomach grumbled, and all of her thoughts faded away. She made her way out of the room and followed the smell of cooking food.
4
Mahena halted her steps before a slightly opened door, the earthy smell dragging a loud noise from her stomach. She cursed colourfully under her breath for her rising heartbeat. She had debated two approaches—
grateful and innocent or blunt, brave and potentially stupid. She wasn’t too sure her usual bluntness would do her any good in this situation, though.
She strained her ears for any noise as she reached the door the smell escaped from before discreetly peering through the open gap. There was a boy—a man, rather—sat at a wooden table. His dark hair brushed his shoulders in a slightly dishevelled, playful, ‘I just woke up’ style. His facial features had the severity of lost youth. She’d expected a woman. A family home?
He lifted blue eyes from beneath unearthly long lashes, meeting her stare before she could examine him further. Her heart hammered as she gulped and stepped into the room.
‘Emmerentia, she’s up,’ he shouted as he kept chopping the vegetables in front of him. He turned to her, the deep blue of his eyes indicating the chair across from him. ‘Sit.’
Charming.
‘It smells amazing,’ she said as she sat. ‘Can I help?’ His face was strained as she joined him. He could not have been much older than her, perhaps a couple of years.
He nodded and turned the plank he was using towards her, sliding two small spice jars across the table. ‘Coat them with both spices.’
Okay, well that welcome was a bit anticlimactic. Why would he be so cold when he had been nursing her back to health? Whilst coating and mixing the surprisingly soft root vegetables, she tried to take a peek: at him, at the kitchen behind, and the opened door beyond. He was not beautiful, not in a dazzling way. His dark hair accentuated the blue of his eyes, though that blue had darkened since she had sat down. There was an aura of brooding mystery almost swallowing him. As she opened her mouth to comment on it, she was stopped mid-action by the sound of footsteps in the distance. She turned to see who it was, silently praying for someone a bit more lively.
A young woman, who she presumed was Emmerentia, almost waltzed inside. Mahena realised within a second that these two were twins. The girl’s face was thinner, sharper, but they had the same nose, slightly out of proportion for their faces. The same deep blue eyes with a strange cunning glint. The only obvious difference was the red colour of her hair against his dark brown locks.
Emmerentia met her stare and her lips stretched into a smile. ‘Was about time.’ Shaking the contents of the glass bottle she carried, she added, ‘I brought milk.’ She poured the liquid into the two glasses on the table and filled another from the cupboard. ‘Here, your throat must be rather dry.’ The twin handed her the glass and sat next to the guy.
She blinked, the contrast between the two of them like something from a TV show. Was it meant to be a version of good cop, bad cop? Emmerentia’s nonchalance easily balanced her brother’s morose, unwelcoming glare. A weird tension within her loosened.
She looked at the white liquid. She hated milk. The only time she would willingly drink it was after eating something too spicy. Out of politeness, she downed it in a second and felt the outright surprise stretching her face. It tasted nothing like the milk she was used to having. Smooth, full of flavours, yet a little acidic. Was it this different when it came straight from the source as opposed to a supermarket shelf?
‘It’s delicious,’ she declared as she set the glass back down. ‘Thank you.’
‘Forgive him.’ Emmerentia nudged the guy with her elbow. ‘Fàaran is suspicious of everyone.’ She cocked her head to the side. ‘You look better.’
How did she even look? It hit her then that she must smell hideous too if she had not showered for days. She refrained from sniffing at her armpits.
‘No headache? I gave you a healing and sleeping tonic for four days, so it might be a side effect. You didn’t take any food in either, you must be starving!’ She shot up and walked to a cabinet above the kitchen stove, opening the wooden doors and reaching for an item. ‘It’s dried meat, not the tastiest, but until lunch is ready, it will calm your grumbling stomach.’ Turning to Fàaran, she said, ‘Will you take care of the rabbit? I’ll finish up with this.’ Fàaran nodded and left the room, brushing back his hair as he went. Emmerentia walked to the pot hanging over the fire. She threw some herbs in it and stirred for a few seconds.
‘Fàaran might be a bit stiff and intimidating, but I am nicer.’ The girl grinned. ‘Just a little.’
She pulled a face at the sarcastic tone.
Emmerentia burst out laughing. ‘Woman, your face! We healed you, so killing you is not our intention.’ She scooped the vegetables they’d cut up and dropped them in the pot. ‘Relax.’ She smiled as she added, ‘We don't receive many visitors nowadays. What’s your name?’
‘Mahena,’ she replied, her voice rasping from disuse. She didn’t feel the need to lie.
She wasn’t that unsettled. A little, maybe. But less than anyone waking up in a stranger’s house on another spacetime should be.
A breeze came in from the open door, swirling past them, and she inhaled the fresh air.
Home. Home. Home. The insistent inner voice echoed in her brain, in her body, a delicious shiver shaking through her veins.
‘What...what happened?’ she asked.
‘We found you a little outside our land on our way back from the market, unconscious and roughed up. We took you back and healed you the best we could. You were in and out of consciousness for four days, kept mumbling a lot in your sleep. You convulsed a few times in the first two days.’ Emmerentia gave a reassuring smile at the sight of her trembling hands. ‘You had a small gash on your head, too. What do you remember?’
Shit. Shit. Shit.
How could she potentially explain she had no clue what this place was, at all? Mahena anxiously squinted, and then filled her eyes with panic. ‘No... Nothing...’ She started shaking, like she was suddenly realising that her memory was blank of all past life.
Blatant lying it would be, then.
Emmerentia narrowed her eyes, but smiled. ‘We’ll help you figure it out. I’ll have a word with Fàaran, but we kind of need a hand on the farm anyway. You can stay here until your memories come back.’
Mahena sighed, genuine relief spreading across her face.
‘But there is one condition, we will need you to drink a truth tonic and answer some questions. You can’t be too careful during these times.’
These times? Mahena nodded at the woman with a constricted smile. ‘Do I need to worry about poison?’
‘Can you sniff it out?’ Emmerentia smirked.
Mahena laughed lightly despite herself. ‘I wish.’
The atmosphere lifted a little. The twin smiled back, curving her lips to the side.
The little voice, that something inside of her, hissed.
‘Do you not remember anything at all?’ Emmerentia pushed as she stirred the pot.
Mahena willed terror to her eyes once more. ‘I...’ She made an obvious show of stilling herself, calming her voice. ‘No...’ She brushed her hair back and winced at the texture. Gods it was filthy. She quickly added, ‘I think the tonic might help.’
A truth serum, really? How did that even work? Was it magic?
Emmerentia wondered out loud, ‘Maybe getting back into some sort of a routine will jog your memory.’
Mahena toyed with a strand of hair, pretending to be uneasy. Emmerentia stared at her for a few seconds, studying her movements with a half-smile. Mahena pretended to ignore it.
‘I’ll go check on Fàaran,’ Emmerentia offered. ‘Once lunch is ready, we can talk.’ She added, ‘Also, the restroom is the second door on the right. Can’t quite imagine the state of your bladder right now.’
5
Emmerentia walked out of the cottage with a strange feeling. She shook her head. An odd tingle had been borne in her blood since the moment she’d touched the woman.
No memories, was it? Interesting.
Emmerentia had carefully studied the young woman as she spoke, analysing the small details that usually escaped m
ost. Mahena fought the fear, shifting positions on her chair just a little too often—Emmerentia could almost smell it on the other girl’s skin. Who wouldn’t be startled in her situation? Yet her eyes were alert, scanning her environment, which meant she was far from stupid. She’d been surprised when she’d glanced through the window of the room where the girl had been lying unconscious for four days and had seen her knife still on the table, but Mahena out of the room. She would have taken it had it been her.
The girl was lying about something, but she put on a decent show. If Emmerentia had not been brought up in courtly games, she probably would have not noticed. Could she blame her, though? In her situation, she would have snatched the dagger and held it at the first throat she saw, demanding an explanation. Emmerentia had left it on the table on purpose, to taunt her, to see how she would play it.
The fact that she had decided to introduce herself unarmed earned her points.
‘How long do you intend on leaving her alone in our house?’ Fàaran asked as she came to find him in the stables. He was brushing Farak’s mane, the rabbits grilling a few paces away. She swore he’d pick the company of his stallion over humans any day. As if he heard, Farak nuzzled her leg with his head.
Emmerentia idly scratched it then leaned against the door. ‘She agreed to take the tonic without even questioning it.’
‘You cannot guarantee it will work. Not with magic gone.’
‘It is only slightly imbued with it, you know that. It’s mostly the combination of ingredients that gives its properties—hence why those ingredients are so bloody rare.’ Emmerentia sighed through her nose. They were both so stubborn, she knew the conversation would go nowhere. She added, ‘Are you going to dine with us, or would you rather share it with your horse?’
Farak neighed and Fàaran glanced over his shoulder. ‘Are we making her drink first?’