by J. Levi
I’m in utter shock when Nymueh finishes her transformation and a demonic hound viciously snarls at me. It digs its talons into the earth, baring its teeth and its jaw snapping tightly. I search for the dagger which fell from Nymueh’s mouth when she morphed into a monster. It’s near the beast’s legs. The demon hound’s eyes are black and glossy. Even the light from my glow stone fails to refract from them.
The beast lunges forward, teeth and claw savagely raking against the chamber floor. I twist on the ground, rolling until the razor claws barely miss me. I don’t hesitate when I leap from the ground and sprint across the cavern room. I hear the beast behind me, scratching the stone floor. It roars boisterously behind me, my ears ringing from the concussive sound.
I drop to the floor, sliding against the earth on my thigh. The rough terrain rips the skirt of my handmaid uniform. I slide across the cavern and grab the dagger as I move past. The hound lands just behind me. I swing my legs around the floor, shoving off the earth into a handstand to land on my feet. I dodge with a somersault when the beast swipes and I plunge my dagger into its eye.
It thrashes wildly, its crescent claw knicks my leg and I scream in pain. I summon my magic out of frustration and panic. I command with all my willpower to mold around the demonic hound, encasing it in an illusion of darkness. This is a trick I’ve learned going against an opponent much stronger and overpowering. It renders them blind. The creature rampages in the chamber like a wild stallion bucking at its trainer.
I run along the edge of the chamber, kicking off the wall and vaulting over the monster. My dagger swipes across the monstrous face, destroying another eye. I drop the illusion now that the beast is truly blind. I round kick the back of my heel into the creature’s snout. It snarls and shakes its head until it thrashes blindly again. I drop to my knees and drive my dagger upward until the steel sinks into its throat. I flick my arm, dragging the dagger against its jugular, and trail it to the back of its neck. Blue ichor pools from its neck profusely.
My silk slippers slither against the ground, tainted by the putrefied blood. It takes a few attempts until I gain enough traction to flee the chamber of tunnels. With the glow stone still in hand, I find the shaft with the notch carved into it, running blindly and recklessly through the passage. I barrel through the veil of frigid darkness and into the empty dungeon hall. My lungs burn and my heart threatens to burst from my chest. I slam the iron door shut, reckless of the consequences from the thunderous sound that resonates from the force.
I slam my back to the cold metal and slide to the floor, my body desperate to curl into a ball. Tears welt my face. I tuck my knees into my chest and bury my face, trying to muffle the betraying sobs that unfairly cascade from my lips.
I berate myself internally. This isn’t the time to grieve. I need to move.
Now.
***
After I gain some semblance of composure, I weave my way through the underground labyrinth of dungeons. I don’t bother returning to the servant’s dorm. Instead, I hightail to the sewers and out through the hidden opening concealed by the sea cliffside. I don’t both being cautious as I sprint through the city streets. I run into a patrol of four soldiers. They startle when they notice me sprint toward them. One guard holds up an arm and shouts for me to halt. I ignore the command, digging the ball of my foot into his gut and the other on his shoulder until he loses balance and falls to the ground.
I throw myself backward, kicking another soldier in the jaw as I flip backward. I twist my body, so I land facing away from the soldiers, sweeping my leg low to the ground and knocking a third soldier’s feet out from under him. The fourth guard draws a sword, but I’m faster and pissed off. I slam my palm into his jugular, a loud crack as cartilage shatters. The soldier drops to his knees and grasps his throat as he tries to breathe.
I sprint from the soldiers turning a corner and casting an illusion to hide. I throw myself against the wall of the bricked alley. I watch as the wounded soldiers limp their way through the alley and out of sight, shouting after me.
I don’t encounter another squadron while venturing to the harbor. There’s a guard post near the docks but no guards. I smirk at the absence. The Order took care of the guards, I’m sure. The dock is filled with port ships, transport vessels, private skippers, and royal fleet ships.
Gail mentioned the guild and rebellion are fleeing the capital to Fondstadt, which means they’ll be boarding a cargo vessel. I veer down the docks on the western harbor side where the cargo ships are docked. I see a group of figures hastily load the ship deck of a dingy cargo vessel. Gail is among them.
I halt before her, bracing my hands on my knees, barely able to breathe. I sprinted across half a borough with little rest.
I get a glimpse at my feet. My silk slippers are barely solid anymore, so tattered and coated in my blood. I didn’t realize I was bleeding before. Gail crouches beside me, ducking her head so she can meet my eyes. I avert her gaze, allowing my hair to droop over my face. The blue tarry ichor is dried against my skin and disheveled uniform. My skin pulls taut as I pant and heave.
Gail brushes the hair from my face, concern swelling in her eyes. She doesn’t ask me what happened. She pulls a waterskin from her satchel slung over her shoulder. I chase the thirst I didn’t realize I have as I chug the entire thing. When I finish, I gasp for air, almost losing consciousness. Gail braces me by the shoulder and guides me to a crate set off to the side of the dock. The rebellion is busily working on loading their supplies, paying me no mind.
When I finally manage to calm my breathing and steady my nausea, Gail asks, “Did you find her?”
I nod but don’t say anything else.
Gail’s lips press firmly into a thin line. She calls for a guildmember to escort me onto the ship, but I yank my arm from her grasp.
“I’m not leaving,” I hiss. Gail doesn’t react. She studies me carefully, mulling over the words she plans to say.
“A night crow came not even an hour ago. Theor has commanded a full evacuation from the capital and regroup in Fondstadt,” she says, “including you.”
“Fuck Theor’s command,” I spit.
Gail’s calm demeanor slips, but only for a moment.
“He didn’t raise you to be insubordinate,” she says tersely.
“No, he didn’t raise me at all, apart from giving me food, clothes, and a place to sleep. I raised myself,” I snipe.
Gail gives me a look that makes me instantly regret the words I just said. It isn’t fair to say those things because the truth is that Theor did raise me. He took me in when I lost everything. He trained me and shaped me into the killer I am now. He gave me the power to exact revenge on those who delivered the blades to my parents. Theor was there every night when I awoke to screaming from nightmares.
“He is your family,” Gail says softly with a stern edge.
“In everything but blood,” I say. Theor has been family to me, in his own way.
I lower my head and sink my shoulders in defeat. Gail’s hand returns, softly rubbing my shoulder.
“I found them,” I say finally.
“The missing citizens?” She asks and I nod.
“I found tunnels burrowed from the dungeons, masked by magic. I found a cavern with cages and Nymueh—” I pause, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. “—Nymueh was there. I tried to take her out, but she…she changed.”
Gail doesn’t ask for elaboration, but I can tell she expects it.
“Runic spells were…carved into her body, every single part of her body. It changed her into something demonic. Something monstrous.”
Fresh tears are cascading down my cheeks and collecting at my chin. How do I still have tears left to shed?
“I ended your suffering,” I manage while wiping the tears away.
A figure approaches, whispering into Gail’s ear, she nods, and he walks away.
“We need to go. We’re taking off now before the city
guards catch on. Shift change is soon.”
“I already told you, I’m not leaving.”
Gail cinches her brow and rolls her eyes.
“The queen needs to be stopped,” I say curtly.
“Your orders are to regroup in Fondstadt,” she reiterates.
I stand from the crate, sway at first until I regain my balance. I hold my chin high, and my shoulders square when I say, “Go on, you’re going to miss your ship.”
I turn to leave when Gail grabs my elbow. I stop, but I don’t turn around.
“Theor is going to be furious,” she pleads. I know she’s right, but I can’t leave. Not yet.
“Let him,” I say. “Tell him that I’ll be taking care of it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What should have been done a long time ago. I’m going to fire an arrow straight at the wicked cunt’s face.”
“You’ll make her a martyr.”
“Don’t worry, I doubt it will kill her or have you forgotten our benevolent queen is fae?” I ask without expecting an answer. “Is the safehouse near garden square uncompromised?”
I look over my shoulder, waiting for an answer. When Gail nods, I offer her a smile.
I pull my arm from her grasp and travel through the docks and back into the city. Lady Vaneeda’s coronation is in a fortnight, which gives me plenty of time to prepare.
23
Nova
“…Perysene has brought us a godsend, a miracle. The ways of our god Banne, she teaches the arts of Arcana. We though the arts were only tools for the fae, but Perysene brings light to the darkened truth. We inscribed runes upon the harbor ships last week with the essence of the sea. I am please to write that those ships have returned from their trades with Ljosgard, unharmed. The protective wards staved the endless tyranny of sirens that plague the sea. We are building a temple in Perysene’s honor.”
– from the personal diary of Morchon of Andeil, the first sage of Perysene 189 B.M.
Imagine a pebble, round and smooth with imperfect facets and divets. Its hues are brazened like the ancient bark of the redwoods near Laenberg. The weight of the pebble is dense, heavier than expected. The stone is cool to the touch in the evening and torrid under the blistering sun. On the underside, it has an inlay of quartz fragments embedded into its surface, like fresh snow just starting to litter a barren desert floor. When water kisses the pebble, it weeps a musty and heady scent—the smell of gruff canyons and meek caverns. The taste is chalky. An aftertaste impregnates your senses with bitter earth.
Now imagine the pebble in my shoe. Imagine my shoe is securely fastened to my foot. Imagine the pebble is a proverbial representation for this gods damned caravans and its constituents of fucking carnies.
I look about at the morning hustle of the temporary encampment. Dawn slowly teeters into the day as the pigmentations of darkness blend with a bright pale blue. In the East, the sun emanates above the ash-filled horizon. It’s been several weeks since we passed the coverage of the soot sky—weeks of soaking the sun into our skins and wincing as the midday brightness fiercely offends our eyes. All in all, the taste of freedom is uplifting. The chores are menial but easy payment for the open air and free roam. If it weren’t for those gods damn fucking carnies, I might even tarry a bit.
Our lives have become a repetitive routine of waking up before a lick of light has even graced the sky, followed by hours of sparring with Lan. That doesn’t bother me so much. I feel good to be active, to move my body. The occasional parry and slip of wooden sword to flesh inspire a welcoming calm. The pain is nearly soothing, familiar. Reminiscent of my life before I became trapped in this gods forsaken barren land.
I continue my training with a greatsword, by Lan’s request. I’m accustomed to a one-handed blade such as a rapier or scimitar. Greatswords are broad, heavy, and too slow for my comfort in combat. I’ve always avoided confrontation, but I preferred it to be fast and painless in the event it was inevitable. Now I’ve grown fond of the brute force of a greatsword.
Cas tries both sword and greatsword. Cas fails horribly with both. It’s almost endearing, the adamance he shows each time I knock his weapon from his hands. Before long, Lan can’t stand the torturous show and spares Cas by giving him his bo staff. Lan’s been teaching him more passive combat techniques. Ways to control the fight and expend his opponent’s energy without getting too close. I’ll never admit it aloud, but Cas can be near frightening with that damn staff. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s managed to sweep my feet from beneath me. I crash into sand or dirt, staring up at the sky with a blank face, bewildered.
Lan also trains us in throwing daggers and dagger stars. Cas is obviously terrible and lacks any sense of hand-eye coordination. I’ve grown quite fond of the dagger stars. My aim isn’t shit, but there’s definitely room for improvement.
“Practice makes perfect,” Lan so annoyingly repeats. It’s a gift from the gods above that I haven’t aimed a dagger star at his smug face. More realistically, it may be that Cas steps in between us casually, blocking the view of my intended target. Has he really come to know me well enough?
After hours of sparring, we tediously rake after the muck left by horse and rhinoxen. Among the carnies are physicians and druid healers that use manure for fertilizing their herbs. Atop several of the wagons are gardens baring vined fruit and vegetables used by the cooks for supper. Most of our meals consist of stored grain and dried meats.
By midmorning, we tend to emptying the towed outhouses, digging holes into the cemented desert floor to bury the rancid stench. Lan claims it’s the job tasked for peons. His words exactly were, “Shit rolls downhill.” His pun is undoubtedly intended. By noon the camp is fully packed and ready to continue.
We travel through desert terrain until the early embrace of dusk when we make camp again, nestling into the night with tents, campfires, food, and wine. I’ve come to learn a valuable lesson traveling with these people. Carnies and wine are a horrible fucking mix. Most nights, the jolly tirades of chorus and laughter don’t die until the early hours of the morning.
Cas doesn’t share my sentiment. He’s adapted well into the carnie life. He’s managed to memorize names when he greets the random faces that scurry across the camp in the mornings. I find myself carrying him back to our tent many nights after he’s consumed too much wine while bantering with the folks around a campfire. He’s even gotten the fucking rhinoxen to eat straight from his palm. The lunkheaded beasts try to knock my teeth in every time I step near them.
It’s unsettling how well he’s mingled with these people. The pretentious spoiled brat of the Edonian kingdom, sharing wine and food with fucking carnies. Just the thought of the Capital press illustrating the illustrious endeavors of their crowned prince venturing in Orgard and diplomatically communing with carnival people is enough to make me smirk.
I find myself in a familiar place as I sit beside Cas and mull over my stew. He’s laughing with a girl over something I’m too distracted to pay attention to. I survey the people around us, studying their faces, their expressions, and postures. Calculating their intent, are they friend or foe? A lifelong habit developed as a child for survival. I was young. Cas may have grown to trust them, but I’m not as easily convinced. Truthfully, I’ll probably never be convinced to trust anyone apart from myself, except my friends Leluna and Ricon.
Do I trust Cas? I think I’m starting to. I’ve evolved from hating him to not disliking his company. That’s progress, I guess.
“Did you hear that, Nova?” Cas nudges me, a twinkle in his eyes. I shake my head and clear my thoughts. Damn, I really need to start learning how to pay attention to people when they’re talking.
“No, sorry—what was that?” I say, pretending to care.
“She was just telling me that we’ll be in Andeil by this time tomorrow,” Cas says while pointing to the human girl next to him.
“Oh, yeah. I think Lan mentioned
something this morning. That’s—great. It’ll be nice not having to pack and unpack every single day,” I say.
I’ve probably spoken more words in that single sentence than I have all day. The look on Cas’s face says he noticed this as well. His smile falters only slightly, but enough that guilt fosters in my gut. I lean over, pressing my shoulder against his, a playful nudge. His smile returns and my chest tightens. I’ve grown to like his smile over the coming weeks. Again, I’ll never be caught alive saying it aloud.
From across the campfire, a raucous laugh bellows. It’s surprising when I see a man missing his left arm from the shoulder down. I’ve seen him a few times around the caravan and each time I have to double-take, the resemblance to Ricon is almost uncanny with the black hair and beard. My stomach aches like a bottomless pit over the thought of my friend. I trust Adna to keep him alive, though that does nothing to ease my guilt. If I were quicker enough, I could have prevented it. I could have prevented a lot of things.
Beside him, a small languid fae boy with tanned skin and blonde hair sits with two mugs balanced on his knees. His pointed ears are less pronounced. Next to the boy is a girl, seemingly the same age, but obviously a vylorian. Her skin is dark against the amber light. Her hair is blacker than the desert night, though her eyes are blue and familiar. Her ears are long and pronounced, hidden beneath a shawl over her head but still noticeable, especially with the vylorian doe horns.
Something about her feels familiar, but I know I can’t know her.
I lean to Cas, placing my hand on his forearm and bringing my lips close to his ear. I whisper soft enough that no one overhears, “Do you recognize what kind of fae that boy is over there?” Cas shivers, his breath hitches, and the obvious signs of gooseflesh prickle Cas’s forearm beneath my fingertips. There’s a primal satisfaction that thrums within my gut every time I invoke this sort of reaction from Cas.