To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  This stairwell twists deep into the ground, the way lit with torches held by rusty metallic sconces. The flames look like dancing blooms, and the further I descend, the more they hiss; the thicker the air becomes with steam that curls the loose veil of my hair.

  Reaching the bottom step, the stairwell yawns into a vast cavern ...

  I could wash in my room, but I much prefer it down here in Puddles—the communal bathing chambers.

  Sconces cast the wet stone in a gilded glow and illuminate mineral fangs that hang from the ceiling, reaching for a dozen steaming springs, some with no more than a thin vein of rock casting them apart from their neighboring pool.

  Each is filled almost to the rim with water that looks like black ink in the low light, a rich contrast to the haze that whorls off them in ghostly wisps.

  The springs are big enough to house over ten people, but are always empty at this time, a luxury that allows me to strip.

  My pants and panties go first, then my muddy, paint-stained blouse, before I get to work unbinding my breasts. Every untwist of the stretchy bandage allows me to breathe a little deeper, but even as I let the material flutter to the ground, my skin still feels too tight.

  Always.

  Stretching my arms this way and that, I tiptoe toward my favorite spring at the far end—the one pressed against the wall. I edge down toothy steps, letting the water scald my bristling skin. After a few seconds, the burn yields to a restful numb, and I dip further ... further ... until the floor gives way to the endless deep.

  I’m not sure how far it goes, or if it even has a bottom. But the deeper you dive, the hotter the water, as if it spawns from the belly of the earth.

  Hair dragging behind me, I tread toward the far side.

  This spring doesn’t have the most comfortable sitting spots, but this spring ...

  It’s my guilty pleasure.

  Reaching the wall, I ply my fingers between a crack and grip hold, peering down to where years of erosion have worn a hole through the rock. A hole that allows the faintest flow of water to push and pull from whatever’s on the other side, like it’s sharing breath with a separate spring not caught inside the chamber of Puddles.

  I dove deep and explored the breach once—felt its jagged edges, as if someone kicked it into existence. I tried to see what’s on the other side, but it’s dark down there. Gloomy.

  Still gripping the rock, I rest my forehead against the wall and close my eyes.

  A rich, leathery musk perfumes the air, making me moan. I empty my lungs before drawing them full, holding onto the ambrosial breath as if it alone could sustain me for eternity.

  Feed my hungry heart.

  The reason I love this spring so much—the reason I bathe here rather than relying on the convenience of the tub in my tower—is because sometimes ...

  Sometimes the water smells like him.

  The ocean here is ice cold and always still, as though the wind is afraid to ruffle its surface.

  Dead End. That’s what I’ve heard some topsiders call this part of The Shoaling Seas. But to me, it’s not a dead stillness.

  It’s a waiting stillness.

  I skirt around the edges of a turquoise iceberg so big it’s hard to see where it starts. Where it ends.

  Bodies are trapped within, locked in a catatonic eternity—creatures who did not get the chance to decompose before the ice caught them.

  Hundreds of these bobbing graveyards litter this part of the ocean, immortalizing a great deal of things I’d rather forget.

  I push on, hands speared at my sides, churning my tail in a slow, rhythmic dance.

  I’m not here to dwell on the past. I’m here because my hoarding drako decided there’s a corner of our trove that could do with a little extra sparkle.

  ‘Almost there. Set Zykanth free.’

  He’s pushing at my skin from within, making it itch, threatening to shred it apart. My jaw aches, as if it’s about to pop from its hinges—

  ‘Stop it. You’re too big. She’ll see.’

  ‘Big ... but fast. Tail bigger than yours.’

  I roll my eyes and power on, gritting my teeth. There is no reasoning with him when we’re close to everything we both treasure.

  The ocean bed drops away in a sudden cliff that always reminds me of my own insignificance. Here, the water is deep and black like a starless night, and feels just as empty.

  No fish pock the water, and the sharks are far too cunning. The dolphins and the whales journey well out of their way to migrate around the trench.

  Only the truly desperate brave this part of the ocean.

  The desperate and the stupid.

  Every cautious swish of my tail makes my chest tighten as I plot a path between the bergs, flinching each time two collide and mimic the crack of lightning. I pause periodically to ensure I’m not being followed.

  That something isn’t reaching from below to snatch me.

  I dart skyward, slow when I near the glassy surface, and gently break through. The breath I release from the gills scored behind my ears is steady.

  Controlled.

  Which is a lot more than I can say about him.

  ‘Get the rock. Get the rock!’

  ‘Calm. Down.’

  My eyes feast on the masterpiece before me—the small island caught in a shard of morning sunlight cutting through the clouds. All the colors of the rainbow ricochet off magnificent crystal spires that pierce the sky, bathing the island in a glimmering halo of light.

  How nature birthed such a wonder has always been beyond me.

  A geyser protruding from the center leaks a river the color of blood that cuts a skewed path into the sea, painting some of the water pink and tainting the air with the smell of sulfur.

  I’m hit with a dose of serenity, remembering how I used to bathe in that warm, nutrient-rich water. It always made my scales gleam—

  ‘Get the rock!’

  I sigh.

  ‘You’re a pain in the ass sometimes.’

  My regard darts to the waveless beach and the jagged band of shore littered with smaller pieces of crystal ... along with the bones of creatures she decided to spit out closer to the surface after she’d finished gnawing on them.

  I survey the crystals from afar, studying their shape and the way they catch on the sun, trying to decide which one shines the brightest. Though my eyesight is good, it doesn’t beat the ability to touch the marvelous, the fragile, the unique ...

  The treasured.

  It doesn’t allow me to hold those gems to the sun and twist them this way and that to see their facets come to life.

  ‘Nearer.’

  ‘Okay. Just ... keep your shit together.’

  I slide through the water slower than a setting moon, then pause, gaze flicking, senses sharpening.

  ‘Don’t stop.’

  ‘Choke on a clam,’ I growl, and Zykanth finally shuts up.

  I resume my advance in peace, though he continues to bounce around, whipping against the walls of my insides.

  The closer I get to the scintillating shoreline, the more his excitement infects me.

  Orlaith likes round rocks, but the ocean isn’t wild enough in this part of the world to polish anything smooth. However ... I think she might appreciate a crystal that catches the sun and spits it out in all the colors of the rainbow.

  What she painted for me was truly special. She managed to capture the essence of this island without sighting it or understanding its significance. Or its heartbreaking history.

  Though the baby conch was nice, it didn’t show her my full gratitude.

  Resolve hardens my features.

  One for our trove, another for her.

  Zykanth hums his agreement, and I inch forward. My hands bunch, release, bunch, release. Every frill tests the water for the slightest shift in flow. I draw a breath, my hand stretched out as though I’m much closer than I really am ...

  A chill slithers down my spine, stilling the swish of my tail an
d the blood in my veins, blasting apart my impulse.

  ‘She’s watching.’

  ‘Get it!’

  ‘No.’ I begin a slow, steady retreat. ‘Today is not the day.’

  My skin itches, scales threatening to pierce through. He tries to shove me forward from within, rattling the cage of my ribs, and my entire body shudders from the impact.

  I snarl. ‘You want to end up dead on that beach?’

  He doesn’t have to answer for me to know he thinks it’s worth the risk.

  I spin and bolt through the open ocean so fast I barely have a chance to draw another breath before I’m retracing my path through the icebergs, his chaotic roars pulsing through the water.

  It’s not until I’m free from the trench that I no longer feel as though I’m being followed. Still, I don’t dare loosen my hold on my thrashing beast. Probably won’t until I can find something else to distract him with.

  It never used to be like this.

  These waters were once safe and peaceful.

  Teeming.

  Now, they have a mind of their own, and they’re angry, vicious ...

  Deadly.

  Standing guard over the ruins of a once-thriving relic—a job that used to belong to us.

  I should be used to the taste of failure by now.

  I’m not.

  A blade of sun strikes my face, rousing me, and I unleash a raspy groan. Though I shield my eyes with a limp hand, I steal a moment to bathe in the soothing luster before rolling in the direction of my bedside table.

  Something hard thuds to the ground, and I frown, cracking an eye open as I peer over the edge.

  My wooden sword lies nestled amongst bits of discarded clothing.

  “Shit.”

  I’m late.

  Groaning, I tumble out of bed in an ungraceful heap, my tender brain bouncing around inside my skull.

  My stomach twists, bile threatening to erupt up my throat.

  Eyes slitted, I peel the rug, shift the stone with trembling hands, and dig into my hidden compartment. I twist the lid off the first jar my fingers collide with, retrieving three nodes and jamming two under my chalky tongue before flopping backward.

  The cool stone eases my sins while I gather the will to move again.

  Crawling to my refreshment table, I pull myself up and pour a glass of water, tossing it back before gripping the vanity and braving the mirror for the first time in a very long while.

  Another groan cracks out of me.

  I pinch my pallid cheeks, lick my chapped lips. My braid is matted, eyes flat and gray rather than the usual lilac that sometimes lures me strange looks, the skin beneath them dark ...

  Hell. I look like hell. Probably because I dosed up before I went to bed, then twice again when I woke throughout the night, hoping to avoid another nightmare.

  Stupid, considering I’m on the last of my caspun, but I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. I was too preoccupied with my determination to escape for a bit.

  I stuff the third node beneath my tongue for good, counteractive measure. I’ve never taken three before, but if I go to training looking like this? Well. Baze will make me eat stone.

  I’m dressed, watered, and lugging my sword behind me like an anchor when the drugs kick in. By the time I’m pushing open the doors of the large, circular hall with a glass roof and absolutely no purpose other than my daily torture sessions, my heart feels like it’s shooting little bolts of lightning all through my veins.

  I sway into the room, a cocksure grin splitting my face. Spotting Baze standing by the window, I fling my sword into the air and swipe it up. “Watch out, Baze. I’m feeling it. You won’t be riding my ass today ... it’ll be the other way around.”

  I toss the weapon again just as Baze turns.

  That’s not Baze ...

  The sword clatters to the ground, making me flinch.

  “Is that so?” Rhordyn snips, stalking forward, his own wooden sword swinging from his hand.

  “Fuck.”

  I slide back a step, trying to swallow my heart that somehow managed to worm its way up my throat, and take a second to peer around the room.

  We’re alone.

  Double fuck.

  “Where’s Baze?” I squeeze out, crouching to retrieve my sword while Rhordyn circles me with long, prowling strides.

  “Probably using the spare time to ride someone else’s ass,” he burrs, and I leer at the roof. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Orlaith.”

  He sure knows how to set a tone.

  I peek at the door, contemplating a quick dash to freedom. I’m more jacked than I’ve ever been. If I flap my arms fast enough, I could probably flutter out of here like a mail sprite.

  I draw a deep breath, trying to calm the erratic sledge of my heart ...

  Our gazes collide like rocks smashing together, and his nostrils flare, eyes narrowing. “You’d make it halfway to the door if you’re lucky. But by all means,” he says, gesturing toward the exit with a wave of his hand, “give it a shot.”

  My head kicks back as if I’ve been slapped.

  Am I that transparent?

  “Yes.”

  The word punches down my throat and lands a weight in my stomach. Apparently my opiate-smeared brain didn’t realize I asked that question aloud.

  “How long have you known?”

  “About your ... training camp?”

  There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

  Balancing on it feels dangerous. Deadly even.

  “Yes.” I pivot slowly, sword perched at the ready. “And just so you know, Baze said you wouldn’t like me learning to fight. I was the one who begged him to let me do it.”

  Rhordyn’s eyebrow pops up, but I keep talking. Keep attempting to climb out of this deep, gloomy hole I dug for Baze and me.

  “He was just following my orders. I swear.”

  Ish. I swear-ish. There was certainly no begging involved, but the last thing I want is to drag Baze under. Only one of us needs to take the fall, and I’d rather it be me.

  “Interesting tactic ...” Rhordyn muses. “Though not nearly as interesting as the fact that it worked.”

  What?

  My overstimulated mind churns, trying to unscramble his riddled words. “I ... I don’t get it. You’re not angry?”

  “I am, but not for the reasons you might expect. And you can save the martyr bullshit.” He crosses through a slice of light, the morning sun glinting off his eyes as if they’re hard, polished surfaces. “The training was never your idea. It was mine.”

  My mouth pops open.

  Baze, the bastard, is going to die.

  Rhordyn launches, his wooden blade flaying the air so fast it sings.

  I block his strike with the swift twist of my upper body and a delicate flick of my wrist, but the hit is hard—clanging through the air.

  Through me.

  Somehow, I resist the urge to clamp my hands over my ears and scream.

  Perhaps the Petrified Pine is finally growing on me.

  Face to face, weapons locked, we hold our ground. From my vantage point, I can see beneath the weave of Rhordyn’s hair to brows kicked high on his forehead.

  “Sharp refle—”

  I shift, ducking and wheeling around until my chest is flush with his back, the sharp part of my sword kissing his throat with dispassionate vigor. “Apparently I’m a natural,” I spit, not wanting to hand him credit for something he barely lifted a finger for.

  “You’re cocky,” he answers in a razor voice that makes me picture an arrow being notched. “And high functioning.”

  What?

  He spins out of my hold like smoke on the wind.

  I’m still swallowing my shock, blinking at the feline smile pretending to soften his features, when he unloads.

  In three swift strikes, he has me disarmed and stretched on the ground, wrists pinned to the stone with one powerful hand, my sword lying discarded somewhere behind me.


  I gasp as the sharp edge of his weapon comes to rest across my throat.

  Though his eyes are half-hidden behind the flop of his hair, I still feel the chill of his invasive gaze, his breath a frost on my face.

  “What the fu—”

  “Pathetic,” he growls, sword digging in. “Perhaps I finally understand.”

  My heart flips a beat.

  “Understand what?”

  “Why you cower from the world like it has you beat.” He dips down until his lips are brushing my ear, then whispers, “Perhaps you did die that day, after all.”

  How dare he.

  “Get off,” I hiss, thrusting my hips.

  His own pull back, and he makes this low, vexing sound.

  A disgusted sound.

  “Or,” he spits, tightening his grip on my wrists, head canting to the side while he guts me with his narrowed eyes, “perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps you’re fighting like a corpse because you’re high as a fucking kite right now.”

  Never has a sentence landed such a pulse-scattering blow.

  I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. So instead, I slam my knee toward his junk.

  If he’s focused on the fact that his balls feel like they’re going to explode, perhaps his brain will empty.

  He buckles the moment I make impact, something between a groan and a laugh grating out of him. “Cheap”—he tips heavily to the side—”shot.”

  I kick off the ground and slide backward, snatching my sword before I leap up. “It was.”

  It was also an impulsive shot. One I blame on the fact that I am, well ... high as a fucking kite.

  “Need a hand up?” I ask, watching him unravel in slow, ungraceful increments.

  “No,” he grinds out, pushing to a crouch, drawing a few deep breaths before he rocks onto his heels and stands. He clears his throat and advances, hobbling only half as much as I’d expected him to, the wide breadth of his shoulders swaying with his advance. “But I do require you to hand over your stash.”

  My heart stills. The blood in my fucking veins stills.

  He can’t possibly know about that.

  Somehow, I keep my features smooth, voice steady. “I have no stash.”