The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2)

by Carol Beth Anderson

  Nora poured the juice into two cups and handed one to Zeisha. “To the next year of your life.”

  They clinked their glasses together and sipped.

  Zeisha coughed. “Is this wine?”

  Nora’s eyes were wide. A giggle burst from her chest. “I think so. I asked Eira for juice, and this is what she gave me. It tastes weak though. I don’t think it’ll affect us much. Besides, you’re an adult, and I’m”—she took another sip and grinned—“thirsty.”

  There was a bowl on the table full of pepperins—small, spicy cookies the trogs had introduced them to. Zeisha snagged a few and popped one in her mouth. They walked back to the table and sat again.

  “So . . .” Nora said, “about you fighting . . .”

  Zeisha ate another pepperin. Her shoulders were tight with all the emotions she’d been holding in for weeks. She closed her eyes for a moment. Talk. Whatever comes out, comes out. “Krey didn’t pressure me. I could see how hard he was trying not to pressure me. But I know he wants me to fight with him. He wants me to use my talent to help the trogs.”

  Nora put down the wine, which she’d been sipping. “I’m sure he does. But more than that, he wants what’s best for you. I believe that.”

  “I do too. But he thinks I’m strong. Full of potential. He . . . well . . . the way he sees me? That’s the person I want to be.”

  “Forget potential, Zeisha. You’re strong already. Those food deliveries you make? You’re building trust between us and the trogs. Your strength is the gentle sort, which might be more important than the fighting sort. Are you trying to change who you are?”

  It wasn’t like Nora had yelled at her or said something mean. But the question, spoken in a soft voice, slammed into Zeisha like a bullet crafted of words. There was no stopping the tears this time. They poured down her cheeks. She shuddered with sobs. Curls bounced into her eyes. In seconds, Nora came around the table and pulled her into her arms. Zeisha held onto her new friend and cried into her shoulder like she’d done as a little girl with her mother.

  Nora whispered kindnesses in Zeisha’s ear, assuring her it was okay to cry. After several long minutes, Zeisha’s tears slowed. She pulled away, wiping her eyes and nose. Nora went to the drink table, returning with a cotton napkin and another cup of wine, though Zeisha’s first cup was still mostly full.

  Her body relaxing in relief and weariness, Zeisha wiped her cheeks and nose. She drank several large gulps of the tangy wine.

  Nora again settled herself in the chair across from Zeisha. “We all need a good cry sometimes.” She reached out and squeezed Zeisha’s hand. “What brought that on?”

  Zeisha pulled in a breath and blew it out, shaking her head to settle her thoughts. “You asked if I’m trying to change who I am.”

  Nora nodded but didn’t speak.

  “The thing is—” Zeisha’s voice thickened with emotion again. “Back in Tirra, I knew who I was. I was a pretty talented magic eater. I loved my family. I loved Krey. I loved the outdoors. I used to tend our family’s garden or hike on Cellerin Mountain, and during those times, I’d feel so close to God. Things weren’t perfect there, but they were good. Then—” Tears tried to form in the corners of her eyes, but she denied their attempts, opening her mouth and letting the words rush out like the white flow of a waterfall. “Then someone stole me. My mind and my body. You and the others freed me. But I—I don’t feel free. I remember doing terrible things. Things I can’t take back. I know I killed people. Their faces are written in my dreams, Nora.”

  Chin trembling, Nora nodded. “I understand.”

  And Zeisha knew the princess did understand, at least in this one way. They’d both killed people. They couldn’t recapture their innocence.

  She swallowed and continued, “When I woke up and Krey found me—that moment was magical. I really believed everything would be okay. But over the next few days, I realized something. Krey—he’s changed as much as I have. Except somehow he’s more himself, not less. He was always strong and brave and passionate, but now . . . he’s a fighter. All his life, he’s wanted to fight for what’s right, and finally, he has the chance. He . . . he’s so alive out here.”

  “None of us have come through this unchanged,” Nora murmured.

  “I know. But Krey knows who he is, and I don’t. I have no idea who I’m supposed to be now! So when I stopped that spy and Krey told me how strong I was, I thought . . . well, maybe that’s who I am now. Or who I need to be. Or . . . I don’t know.”

  “Zeisha . . .” Nora’s eyes traveled to some point on the other side of the room. She licked her lips, opened her mouth, closed it. At last, she fixed her gaze on Zeisha. “Krey is strong enough to take it when someone disagrees with him.”

  Zeisha sat up straighter. “But—” She halted. Krey never had a problem disagreeing with people. She loved that about him. So why did she want to argue the point?

  Because I don’t know if I’m strong enough to disagree with him.

  The thought carved into her with its harsh truth. She grasped one of her cups and nearly dropped it bringing it up to her mouth. The wine threatened to come back up when she swallowed it. Why did I tell Krey I’d fight? Is it because I’m strong? Or because I’m weak?

  “Zeisha Dennivan!” The booming voice belonged to Krey, though it was pitched lower than usual, like he was announcing a singer at a concert.

  Zeisha turned. Krey and Ovrun approached, each carrying a plate covered in a napkin.

  Krey was grinning. “I present to you . . . trog birthday bread!” He and Ovrun pulled the napkins off their plates. Underneath were round loaves of bread. Smaller pieces of dough had been used to form eyes, noses, and mouths. Steam rose from the golden faces.

  “Trog birthday bread?” Nora asked.

  Krey grinned. “Apparently it’s tradition. Let’s put these on the drink table.”

  As soon as the guys passed them, Nora took Zeisha’s hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Zeisha tried to smile. “I know.”

  But she didn’t. Not really.

  The Seer: 5

  This is the reason I never spend time with people my age.

  In the middle of the night, Sarza had followed her urges to a particular building. When she’d entered the first-floor lobby, she’d found a bunch of tables and benches, plus a kitchen with a wood stove. She’d hidden behind a stack of furniture in a corner of the main room.

  Peeking through a gap between a chair and a couch, she’d watched as people came in to cook, then as more arrived to eat. She recognized them as young magic eaters she’d watched during the recent training. Who are these people? she’d asked herself. But with so many conversations happening at once, she hadn’t been able to pick up much information.

  After breakfast, a small group had stuck around to celebrate a birthday. Now, only two remained—the birthday girl and the intriguing dragon rider. They were sitting halfway across the room from Sarza’s hiding spot, talking and playing a game.

  Sarza couldn’t hear much of their conversation, but the parts she did hear seemed to be all about guys. She rolled her eyes so many times, her irises were dizzy. Through the years, Sarza had sat on the outskirts of countless conversations like this. When she was twelve or thirteen, she’d tried to participate in a few. But she hadn’t known what to say. Sarza had no interest in romance. She’d always figured she’d grow into such feelings, but she never did. Love, at least of the gushy, toe-curling variety, held no appeal to her.

  Oh, by the sky—now one of the girls was crying. Loudly. This was the other reason Sarza didn’t hang out with other teenagers. Their emotions were incredibly annoying. Come on! she wanted to shout. It’s your birthday, for the sky’s sake! Do something crazy. Eat some cake, if they have such luxuries in this awful city. Go find whatever guy it is you couldn’t stop talking about. Whatever you do, dry your stupid tears.

  Why in the world was she here? Her urges had been strong and specific, leading her to this build
ing. She always wondered if a deity of some sort was in charge of her visions. If so, was the nameless god playing a sadistic trick on her? That must be the case, because damn it, the girl was still crying.

  At last, the sobbing stopped. The two girls moved closer to Sarza to pour some drinks. A few moments later, Sarza had to stifle a groan. The girls had just discovered they were drinking wine. Here I am, parched after sitting here for hours. And those infuriating girls are drinking their troubles away.

  The girls returned to the other table. There was more quiet talking on their part, more eye rolling on Sarza’s. The two guys came back. The four teenagers stayed in the room a couple of hours longer, talking and laughing. Sarza almost fell asleep.

  Finally, the birthday girl left, along with one of the guys. Probably the one she’d been crying over. The dragon rider stuck around with a big guy whose muscles seemed to have a life of their own. They walked to the wine table, where Sarza would actually be able to hear their conversation.

  Except the dragon rider and her friend didn’t seem interested in talking. After they refilled their wine, they started making out. Sarza closed her eyes, but she couldn’t block out the smacking, slobbering sounds. Her legs twitched with the urge to stand and walk away. That was how she always responded to public displays of affection—just get away. Don’t look; don’t think about it. This time, though, she was stuck. Her stomach tightened, and she realized she was clenching both fists and curling her toes. Just end this. Please.

  Finally, they stopped. Sarza released her fists. Both her hands stung where her nails had pressed into her skin. She pressed her palms together.

  In a low voice, the guy spoke one word: “Princess.”

  Sarza grimaced. Of all the terms of endearment in the world, princess was surely the worst.

  “I like it when you call me that,” the girl said with a little laugh.

  Then there were more kissing noises, lasting even longer than before. Sarza’s hands clenched again. She pictured a map of Cellerin, naming as many cities and towns as she could—anything to get her mind off the sounds traveling mercilessly to her ears.

  When the couple halted at last, the girl spoke, her voice breathy. “Ovrun.”

  “Nora,” he replied.

  Sarza stopped breathing. Nora wasn’t a common name. In fact, the only person she’d ever heard of with that name was Princess Ulminora, whose nickname was Nora. Sometimes there were drawings of her in the newspaper. She was a pretty girl with big eyes and chin-length, straight, dark hair. Sarza stared at the girl a couple of mets away, who was laughing and sipping her wine. Her hair was a little ragged, but with a trim, it would match the drawings exactly. Her eyes were large and animated.

  Princess Nora Abrios is living with the trogs.

  In an effort to calm her pounding heart, Sarza started breathing again. Now, this—this was information the army would actually want to know.

  Maybe there really is a deity in charge of all these visions and urges. And maybe, by some crazy miracle, I’m on its good side.

  16

  Over the last few hundred years, Therroan society stabilized and substance abuse became less common. Then, fifty years ago, the percentage leveled off. Addiction rates have been low, but level, since.

  It’s 6293. We’re an advanced society. Addiction is just a problem; shouldn’t we be able to find a solution?

  -“Can’t We Beat Addiction?” by Genta Ril

  The Derogan Chronicle, dated Quari 26, 6293

  “I’ll take you in five days.”

  That’s what Krey had told Nora. “I’ll try everything I can to convince you not to go,” he’d said. “You have to actually listen to me. If I can’t change your mind, I’ll take you.”

  She’d agreed.

  He hadn’t really needed five days though. He’d needed four. Now that Zeisha’s birthday had passed, he was ready to implement his own plan—which involved going to the palace alone. He knew the king might capture him. He might never see his friends again. Before I leave, I have to give the girl I love a good birthday, he’d told himself.

  The morbid side of his mind had argued that if he died, he’d be ruining all of Zeisha’s future birthdays. God, keep me alive, he’d prayed countless times.

  It hadn’t been a fun four days.

  Now here he was, standing in a dark, dusty street. He’d fueled up with feathers. But he couldn’t move as he considered one final question: should he tell Zeisha goodbye?

  She didn’t know he was leaving. In fact, she hadn’t asked about his plans. That concerned him. In her position, he’d try to stop her. Just like he was stopping Nora. But Zeisha trusted him—a gift he didn’t deserve. She honestly believed he’d do the right thing.

  And I’m paying her back by doing this?

  He took a good two dozen steps toward the building where she was sleeping. He’d tell her he was leaving. She deserved that.

  He halted.

  The little metal piece he’d used to break into a house in Cellerin City was in his pocket. Getting in wouldn’t be a problem. But what if he accidentally woke Nora?

  Zeisha trusts me. But Nora’s not blind to my lesser qualities.

  Krey pivoted and walked in a different direction. He’d left a note for Zeisha among his clothes. Someone would find it if he didn’t return. That would have to be enough.

  Decision made, he moved toward the one destination he needed to visit before he went to the palace. With every step, his feet got heavier, sodden by guilt and disgust and terrible memories. He kept walking anyway. It didn’t take long to reach the Star Clan’s butcher shop.

  He’d avoided this place completely ever since coming here. Nora and Ovrun had teased him about his unwillingness to be around the dead animals they killed. What would they think of him when they knew why he’d really stayed away?

  First, I’ll check the ice storage. It would be nice to have access to all my talents. He walked to a side door and found it locked with a thick padlock. Okay, no frost eating tonight. With no other tasks to distract him from his real goal, Krey kept moving.

  He had good reason to believe this quest would be successful. Ovrun and Nora had come to dinner flush with victory, having brought in twenty shimshims. It almost seemed like God wanted him to do this, Krey had mused. Then he’d tried to take the thought back, because he certainly shouldn’t pin his own terrible ideas on God.

  The moon was a tiny sliver in the sky, and the stars provided scant illumination. Krey lit a candle and examined the cleaning station behind the shop’s rear wall. On the left was a tap, connected to an elevated water tank on the roof. Next to that was a sturdy table. The odor of Anyarian blood—sweet and harsh, like something fermented—hung in the air. But everything was clean and tidy. Too clean.

  What was I thinking? Of course they’d clean up every day. How am I supposed to get what I need? I’m not a hunter—

  There. Something he hadn’t noticed, under the table. A chest. Krey opened it. The scent of blood and waste wafted up. This was it.

  Trogs used most parts of shimshims. Pelts were dried into leather and traded or used to make clothing. They ate the meat, even some organs. Bones, once boiled, were used to make glue. But they couldn’t use everything, and apparently this chest was where they put the extra animal parts before they buried or burned them.

  Krey spotted the round, sac-like organs that stored shimshim waste. There was a heart, wrinkled and elongated, nothing like the human heart. His flame glimmered off a few round, faceted eyes. No use for those.

  And there—looking dull in the dim candlelight—was a shimshim brain. It was small, about the diameter of a quid coin. Roughly spherical, it was composed of thin, overlapping layers. Almost like a head of lettuce. Krey knew it was a deep indigo color, though with the poor lighting, it looked black.

  His heart went wild, its beat not just fast but frenzied. His mouth watered. Glee, disgust, and dread warred in his mind, building up with such pressure, he almost cried out.
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  Oh, God, no.

  Oh, God, yes.

  Oh, God, forgive me.

  He picked up the damp, slick brain and put it in his backpack. Hand shaking, he rummaged through the chest and found two . . . three . . . five more. Nothing like the twenty-plus he’d feared and hoped for. Someone must’ve emptied the chest when most of the day’s game had already been cleaned.

  Six was enough. He hoped. They all went into the front pocket of his pack. He wiped his hand on his pants. Firmly fastened the buckle on the pocket.

  The little brains, smooth and tempting, reached out to him, begging to be picked up. Devoured. Converted into the darkest talent of all.

  The thrill of anticipation lit up his mind. He yearned to control someone, anyone. He tried to tamp down the urge, but it was frighteningly strong.

  The intense craving brought him back to his childhood. Back then, it wasn’t shimshim brains he desired; the little animals weren’t common in Tirra. He’d eaten the brains of other creatures. They all had the same texture, though. The same smell. It had grossed him out the first time he’d held one. He almost hadn’t taken a bite.

  The first taste had changed everything. It was still disgusting; it always would be. But it was also divine. And as Krey’s mind fixated with frightening intensity on the contents of his pack, he faced the fact that for the rest of his life, he’d crave Anyarian brain matter. If his desire hadn’t fled after nine years, it never would. Staying far away from dead animals kept the urge under control, but it had been there all along, ready to spring up and bite him.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this again.

  His hand reached toward the pocket of his pack. Just one taste . . .

  He clenched his fingers so hard they ached, then grabbed the straps of his pack and swung it on his back. This wasn’t about indulging his sick craving. It was about using a terrible talent to fight a terrible man. He’d wait to eat the fuel until he needed it. He’d be strong. He had to be.