by Cara Witter
Boots creaked in the kitchen above them, followed by offended shouts from the locals and his sister. If his mother didn’t get in there fast, soon they’d be at the stairs. One glance down, and he and Saara would be seen, for certain.
But if this girl was Tirostaari, she’d be unlikely to turn him in to the Sevairnese soldiers. “Come on,” he said, reaching into the basement corner and hooking his fingers behind the paneling. He loosened the catch on the other side, and the section of wall slid aside. “You can hide in here until they give up looking for you. They can tear the place apart, but they won’t find this. None of the soldiers have.”
The room wasn’t more than two feet wide by four feet long, and one of those feet was taken up by a plank along the back wall that stretched the width of the room. They didn’t dare block off any more room than this, lest the soldiers realize there was a space behind the wall and force it open. At the center of the plank was his mother’s prize possession, a clay statue of Mirilina that would have stood to knee-height if it rested on the floor. The goddess’s long hair fell around her feet, curling upward in voluminous waves, striped now by the dim slices of light from the floorboards above. Around the statue, his family had placed offerings from the sea—shells, a bit of dried seaweed, a sponge that had washed up intact from the reef. It had always struck Nikaenor as odd that they offered things to Mirilina that came from her originally, but he wasn’t going to argue with the preferences of a goddess.
Saara surveyed the room with sharp eyes, letting her hood fall back around her shoulders, revealing hair as black as midnight. She stepped into the shallow room and Nikaenor followed, moving the panel back into place behind them. He stood close enough to Saara to go lightheaded.
“You hide your worship,” Saara said quietly. “Is that the will of your god?”
Nikaenor sighed and shook his head. “It’s the Sevairnese soldiers. It’s illegal even to talk about her now, let alone worship her.” The statue to Mirilina used to have a prominent place by the door to the inn, watching over them. Nikaenor still remembered the Banishment pageants they used to perform in the town square in the years before the takeover. There was always some beautiful girl from town chosen to play Mirilina, and the play emphasized her part in locking Maldorath away. Nikaenor’s older brother Ronan had been in one of the children’s pageants, playing the part of one of Mirilina’s coachmen—a shellfish of some kind that required him to wear a pot on his head.
But that was all in the past. His family counted themselves lucky they’d been able to save the statue, that they had a basement to hide her away in. When the soldiers first came, the streets had been littered with broken fragments of their god—though none of the icons had been as large or as beautiful as his mother’s.
Even though they lived on the high side of town, Mirilina’s closet still flooded during the rainy season, such that they couldn’t leave anything that wasn’t bottled below waist height.
“Why’d you stow away?” he asked.
Saara scowled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Something bad must have happened to her. He looked into her eyes, dark as the ocean during a storm. He was aware that he was staring, but he couldn’t seem to get himself to stop. His face drew nearer; his lips parted.
Then the girl tilted her wrist, revealing a shining blade in her hand. Nikaenor took a surprised step back, his still-wet backside thumping against the false wall. He cringed, hoping the sailors weren’t at that moment coming down the stairs. He heard nothing. Perhaps Aralie and his mother had gotten rid of them.
“Back off,” Saara said.
Nikaenor’s face turned red, and he took another backward step, more carefully this time, wedging himself fully into the corner with the door catch. “S-sorry,” he said. He wasn’t sure exactly what had come over him, only knew that it felt right to be close to her.
Saara gave him a hard look, but she lowered her hand, sheathing her blade.
He probably should have been scared out of his wits, locked in the shrine with a girl who threatened him with a knife. Nikaenor had never had much of a disposition for fighting, had never so much as blackened someone’s eye.
But his skin still felt charged just being near her, and Nikaenor found he didn’t want to walk away. He’d heard of premonitions like this one before—a sick feeling that threatened to toss one off one’s feet. He supposed he’d never imagined it happening to him, or at least, not until he was older.
Yet here he was, a strange prickling spreading over his entire body, his stomach turning as if he’d eaten bad fish.
And that’s when Nikaenor knew.
Despite his awkwardness, despite her threats, despite the curse—someday he was going to marry this girl.
Twelve
It took an uncomfortably long time before Aralie came down the stairs and knocked softly on the false wall behind which Nikaenor and Saara were hiding, each pressed into opposite corners. His mother thumped down the stairs not a moment later, whisking Saara off with questions about the intent of the sailors and offering her a room for the night, whether or not she was able to pay.
That night, Nikaenor slept facing the direction of the room where Saara was staying. By the next morning, all his mother had been able to glean from Saara was that she was, as Nikaenor had guessed, from Tirostaar. The sailors seemed to have given up the hunt for her—or had at least moved their search elsewhere—but his mother still offered Saara breakfast in the kitchen, out of sight of the front door, at the table where the family ate together.
Nikaenor eyed her warily across the table. She’d shed her thick cloak and wore a loose pale yellow tunic that had clearly seen better days—days not spent in the cargo hold of a ship, he guessed. Her knife was out of sight, probably tucked into her belt, but he maintained a safe distance. He might know that they were going to be married, but she obviously didn’t. Or, if she did, it drove her to hold him at knife point, which didn’t bode well for either of them.
Now, with the pink light of dawn shining through the windows, Saara looked ready to turn her blade on Nikaenor’s little sisters if they came any closer with their sauce-sticky fingers.
“What was it like riding in a boat across the whole ocean?” Esta asked, tugging on her pale blond braid excitedly as she babbled. “Did you see any sea monsters? Our uncle caught a chalaar eel once, and—”
“Does Tirostaar have inns like ours?” Emaline interrupted. “Or does everyone get their own palace? I’ve heard there is gold on the streets and even the horse’s shoes are gold and the women all wear big jewels, and—” Emaline fell silent as Esta cut in again.
“Gold horse shoes and streets! I wish we had so much gold here that I could wear a dress made of all gold and sleep on a gold pillow!”
“Sounds comfortable,” Ronan, their older brother, muttered around a mouthful of cherry-soaked biscuits. His eyes were firmly fixed on Saara with a look of awe and hunger that made Nikaenor feel distinctly uncomfortable.
Gods. What if Ronan decided he was going to marry her?
“Girls, let the poor child have a moment to think,” Noreen chided, putting an arm around Saara’s narrow shoulders. Nikaenor noticed the girl stiffen at the touch. “Now, dear, do you need any more eggs? What am I asking? Look at you, skin and bones. Of course you need more, I’ll just—”
“No,” Saara said abruptly. Then, softer, “Thank you, but no. I can eat nothing more.”
“All right, then.” Noreen looked briefly uncomfortable, as if she wasn’t sure what to make of someone who didn’t want seconds. She sat back down beside the girl. “Now, child, I don’t mean to pry—my own mum always said a person’s business was none but their own, and I always try to follow that wise advice—”
Ronan snorted at this, earning him a glare from Noreen before she plunged on. “Truly, girl, what in Mirilina’s sands would you be doing hiding in the cargo hold
of that ship? There are all kinds of men on those ships, and it is certainly no place for an innocent girl like yourself.”
Saara raised an eyebrow, probably at the suggestion that she was helpless. “I had to leave in a hurry,” she said. “I grabbed the first ship, without regard to where it was going. Can you tell me where I am? Somewhere on the mainland, but—”
His mother, rarely speechless, looked aghast that Saara didn’t even know what country she’d landed in.
“Foroclae,” Nikaenor supplied. “Town of Ithale.”
Saara looked at him at last, her face hardening, and Nikaenor felt his cheeks redden.
She hadn’t really answered the question about why she’d left Tirostaar, either. She was hiding something. Maybe lots of things. And yet . . . he still felt like he had known her before and somehow forgotten, like if he concentrated hard enough, he could remember.
Is that what love always felt like?
“Well, we can give you a room until you get on your feet,” his mother said. “You can do some dishes in trade.”
Saara looked over at the wash bin and seemed, if possible, even more appalled at the idea of sinking her hands in it than Nikaenor was.
He couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she was also cursed.
He shook his head at himself. The girl was from Tirostaar. Of course she wouldn’t have been cursed by Mirilina, and a curse from Nerendal would be more likely to light her on fire, which he imagined would be far more painful.
“Thank you,” Saara said, though she didn’t sound very thankful. “But I think I need to be moving toward the nearest large city. Perhaps in Mortiche? Or maybe Berlaith. That’s the largest in Foroclae, correct?”
Again, Noreen looked horrified. “Oh, dear girl. You’d be safer here with us. There’s rumors of soldiers gathering down south along the coast, likely sailing soon for Mortiche—Diamis’ next conquest, you know?” She clucked her tongue. “No, you probably don’t. But it won’t be safe there for long. And Berlaith is so far.”
As soon as his mother said it, though, Nikaenor knew. The girl had to go to Berlaith—or at least toward it, to the southwest. And though he’d known all his life it was his fate to stay in Ithale and inherit the inn with his brother—to die as he was born, on this bar of land between the sea and the swamp—he also found himself desperately jealous of the things she would see out there.
Not that he wanted to come face to face with a Northbeast, but the tales he’d heard of crowded cities and bustling markets and food so strange and wonderful that the descriptions made his mouth water—
“She’s right, though,” Nikaenor said. “She won’t be safe here. The soldiers have probably been alerted to the stowaway, and with her being a foreigner—”
“Nonsense,” his mother said, giving him a sharp glare. “They don’t know how many children we have. She could pass for one of us, and we have work a-plenty.”
Nikaenor wasn’t sure that even a blind man would be fooled by her attempting to pose as part of their family—all of them blond and pale as they were, and her speaking with such a thick accent—but before he could think of how best to phrase that, his baby brother Tam bounded in and started begging for some bread. Nikaenor handed him a biscuit. He regretted it moments later as he felt cherry sauce plop heavily onto his knee.
A deep voice spoke behind him, and Nikaenor turned to see his broad-shouldered, bearded father following after Tam. “Noreen,” Feldan said. “Are you trying to adopt another one?”
His mother turned to him, putting a hand on her hip. “The girl needs protecting. How else do you propose we do it?”
Nikaenor’s father shook his head. “The troops gathering to hit Mortiche are the real danger. And they’re a good many days from here. So if she wants to head toward Berlaith and doesn’t make trouble—” Feldan gave Saara a stern glance, like she was one of his own, “—she’ll probably make it all right.”
Noreen raised an eyebrow. “But why take the risk? Better to stay here where things have settled.”
“Where we’ve given up, you mean,” Ronan said darkly.
“Ronan—”
“Maybe she should try for Mortiche. At least there she can be free for some time, not have to worry about Diamis’ soldiers breathing down her neck, taking away anything important—”
Nikaenor couldn’t help but think that perhaps Saara should have some say in where she went—though, impossibly, he was still certain that southwest was right. He was about to open his mouth to say one or the other, but his first utterance was trampled over by his mother.
“Ronan!” Noreen’s voice was sharp, but there was fear there, too. The main room was empty just now, but if the still-sleeping merchants upstairs heard, or, gods forbid, a soldier . . . few things earned one a quicker execution than open talk against Lord Diamis. It had only taken one public example made of a young man a few years older than Ronan for the people of Ithale to learn that particular lesson. They were fortunate, really. Nikaenor had heard that other towns had witnessed many heads rolling before learning to keep their mouths collectively shut.
Saara lowered her eyes again, chewing her lip contemplatively. Nikaenor could feel a sort of strange tension emanating from the girl, like a cord between them stretched so tight it vibrated. Even with Tam trying to flip himself over Nikaenor’s leg, embedding cherry sauce further into Nikaenor’s pants, Nikaenor couldn’t tear his attention away from her. She seemed so bright that the rest of the room, the rest of his family, appeared somehow dim in comparison.
“I will stay here for a time then, at least,” she conceded finally. Esta and Emaline cheered, and Tam clapped. “Though I don’t want to intrude on your hospitality more than I must.”
“Nonsense, child!” Noreen cried, throwing her arms around Saara yet again. “You’ll be part of the family for as long as you like. Which means that we need to put a little more meat on you, starting this very day.” Noreen scooped a spoonful of eggs onto her plate and dropped a biscuit on top, ladling on a large dollop of sauce.
Saara looked at it like it was a mountain to climb, but she took a small bite.
The rest of the family continued talking, and only Nikaenor seemed to notice the way Saara’s eyes drifted continually to the door.
Nikaenor watched Saara throughout the day as his sisters dragged her around through their chores, peppering her with questions and trying to teach her the various tasks that kept the inn clean and well stocked. Saara kept up admirably, though the sour look never left her face, and she was obviously unused to the tasks. Nikaenor wondered what her life had been like in Tirostaar, but he didn’t dare ask, lest she think he was trying to woo her.
A task he hadn’t the first clue how to begin.
As the day wore on, however, Nikaenor noticed Saara gazing to the southwest, as if she, too, somehow knew that’s where she should go. And while she nodded her agreement to his sisters’ proclamations of what they were all going to do tomorrow, Nikaenor could tell by the look on her face:
Saara wasn’t going to be here in the morning.
So when she excused herself early to bed, Nikaenor slipped out the back door, pulled a log off the wood pile and sat down on it. Waiting.
The night was warm and muggy, and as always, Nikaenor was grateful that the ever-present moisture in the air didn’t trigger his curse. There were few things about his curse to be thankful for, but that bit, at least—along with the ability to drink without his insides turning fishy, even if he did have to be careful with his lips—made life bearable. Staying unscaled, however, didn’t help with the growing swarm of gnats that buzzed by his ear and bit at his arms.
As he waited, he looked up at the house, the place where he was born, and the place where he expected he would one day—hopefully years and years from now—die.
This was the thing, he told himself. Ithale would always be here. So would the res
t of the world, he supposed, and while he knew he would miss his family even if he was only gone a short time, this also might be his only chance to get out and see something of the world, even if it was only the road between here and Berlaith.
The gods knew his family would never deem it safe enough to travel, not while the soldiers still occupied Foroclae, and that would likely last the rest of Nikeanor’s days.
He was shaken from his musing when a small shadow detached itself from the back door of the inn, stepping carefully through the patches of weeds just outside the chicken coop.
Nikaenor sucked in a deep breath and stood. “I hope you at least left a note,” he said quietly. “Mum and Dad can read, and Aralie, too, somewhat. Enough to keep the books, at least.”
Saara froze. There was just enough light filtering from the kitchen window of the inn that he could see the outline of her face, the tight line of her lips. She had one of the horses’ feed bags slung over her arm, and from the way it bulged, he guessed there was a good deal of food she’d swiped from the kitchen inside it.
Nikaenor heard his heart thumping, even above the noise of voices from the inn and the loud whicker from Surefoot, the family’s aging cart horse.
“You shouldn’t go alone, you know,” he said. He couldn’t leave a note of his own, having never learned to write, but he supposed he should leave his family some sort of a sign.
She gave him a long, considering look, which was more than he’d expected of her. “It’s not your family’s concern,” she said.
“I know. But it is mine, because I’m coming with you.”
Nikaenor waited for her to object, or to laugh at him, or threaten him again. But she just sighed. “I know you are,” she said. “I know it the same way I knew that my god was trying to kill me.”
Nikaenor’s heart picked up pace. She knew? He wanted to stop to thank Mirilina for the blessing, but his brain stuttered on that last part. “Trying to kill you? Are you cursed as well?”