The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2)

by Carol Beth Anderson

  He wasn’t here, though. There was no guarantee he’d be here on the day of the fight either. Zeisha needed to practice battling alone. She dragged herself to the doorway. From there, she watched the fighting, half-impressed and half-horrified.

  There was a new level of fervor in the air today. A wooden knife flew toward Zeisha. She lifted a hand and shot out a short vine to bat the weapon away.

  I need to step out there.

  Her feet wouldn’t move. When she went outside, it would only be a matter of time before her instincts sent her vine to someone’s neck.

  Her gaze caught on five trogs at the edge of the street. They all held practice swords and heavy, metal shields. They moved as though they were one organism, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, shields out, forcing their way into the crowd. Then, at some signal Zeisha couldn’t see or hear from where she stood, they stepped apart and began fighting.

  Something about the scene tickled her mind, like there was an important idea she was supposed to grasp.

  Shields.

  That was it. Could she create a shield with her vines? Maybe, but it wouldn’t be very practical. She squinted and furrowed her brow. What was the significance of those shields?

  An idea hit her, a way of using her magic she’d never considered. Defense, not offense. The thought was so delightful, it made her laugh. She gripped the new concept with the claws of her imagination, turning it one way, then another, fleshing it out.

  I don’t have to become someone else’s idea of a warrior. I don’t ever have to choke someone with a vine again. I can help the trogs in a different way. Threads of tranquil confidence, full and bittersweet, wove through Zeisha’s weary mind.

  Nearby, Nora was shooting ice balls at a woman holding a sword. When the woman fell, Zeisha called, “Nora!”

  Nora ran over, her bright eyes scanning in every direction as she moved.

  “Come inside for a sec,” Zeisha said. When they were both safe in the warehouse, she took Nora’s hand. “I’m leaving the fight. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Leaving? Are you okay?”

  “Yes . . . yes, I’m good.” Oddly enough, it was true, despite her continued worries for Krey. “I just had an idea. I’ll update you later.”

  “Okay.” Nora’s bright smile further boosted Zeisha’s spirits. The princess ran outside.

  Zeisha rushed through the warehouse, looking for a back door. She hated this place and its memories, but excitement overcame her disgust. Soon, she found a rear exit. Less than half an hour later, she emerged onto the rooftop garden where Kebi, who wasn’t scheduled for today’s training, was working.

  “Zeisha!” Kebi rose and approached. “Did Krey arrive?”

  “No.” Zeisha’s shoulders drooped. “But . . . that’s not what I came to talk to you about.” She took Kebi’s hands. “When the army comes, I want to help your people. But I’m not a sword. I’m a shield.”

  Kebi’s mouth curved into a confused smile. “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll explain. And I’m going to need your help, because you know way more than I do about Deroga’s plants—and Deroga’s people.”

  The next morning, Zeisha and Kebi sat in the street in front of one of Deroga’s many overgrown, preday parks.

  Zeisha knew they should discuss their plans for the day, but her focus was elsewhere. She turned to Kebi, who was already watching her. “On my birthday, Krey brought me birthday bread. Do you think I could get some for tonight?”

  “I’m sure one of our bakers will make it for you. Who has a birthday today?”

  Zeisha swallowed. “Krey. I’d like to have it, in case . . .”

  “You want it for when he returns.” Kebi reached out an arm and pulled Zeisha close. “Perhaps he is simply tired, and it takes longer for him to fly here.”

  Zeisha pulled away. A tight hug would just make her cry. “No matter how tired he was, he should’ve been back by yesterday afternoon at the latest.” She blew out all her breath and drew in more, trying to keep her emotions in check. She fixed her gaze on the end of the street. “We’d better stand up. Someone’s coming.”

  Over the next half-hour or so, the street in front of Zeisha and Kebi filled with people. Zeisha shook her head in wonder. She’d never considered herself a leader, but she was about to direct a team of twenty vine eaters, including representatives from each of the six trog clans. In less than a day, Kebi, who was a member of both the Moon Clan and the Star Clan, had brought Deroga’s trogs together in a way even Eira rarely managed.

  Now all those trogs were watching Zeisha, like they thought she knew what she was doing. Let’s hope they’re right.

  She smiled, reached into a bucket, and grasped a thick, waxy leaf. When she tugged it, the leaf came free. She grasped the branch the leaf had been attached to, wincing when a small thorn pierced her thumb. “This is what we’re looking for in that old park,” she said, holding up the plant. “You all have knives and buckets; harvest as much as you can find.”

  “That is a Derogan thornbush,” a man said.

  “In the Hill Clan, we call it a waxen plant,” a woman said.

  A brief debate on terminology broke out. “Excuse me,” Zeisha called. Miracle of miracles, they listened. “Today, we’re calling this a thorn plant. We don’t have time to argue about it.”

  “And today,” Kebi said, “we are one clan of trogs, preparing to fight for our independence.”

  “What will we do with the thorn plants?” a teenage boy asked.

  Zeisha smiled. “We’re making shields.”

  About an hour later, Zeisha and half her team spread across a quiet street, from one building to another. The rest of the team did the same, several mets away.

  Each of the vine eaters held a cutting from a thorn plant. Their goal was to grow the cuttings into tall hedges that would connect to become fences.

  Once they proved the concept on this deserted street, they’d grow fences around the trogs’ residential streets. When the army attacked this time, thorny shields would protect the trogs’ homes.

  During the battle, soldiers might cut or burn the brambles. Zeisha’s team would travel through the Extrain tunnels, emerging to check their shields and repair any damaged ones. Kebi had maps of the tunnels and had already started studying them.

  Excitement fluttered in Zeisha’s chest. She squatted in the center of her line of vine eaters. Together, they’d make a huge, interconnected, impassable hedge.

  “You ready?” Zeisha called.

  “Yes!” twenty vine eaters shouted.

  “Great! Press your branch to the dirt. Create roots first, then work on the fence.”

  Zeisha extended her power through the prickly branch and into the earth. She sensed the roots growing deep into the dirt. When she was confident the plant was well rooted, she encouraged it to grow above the ground.

  Sprouts burst from the cutting she held, quickly thickening into branches with sharp thorns and smooth leaves. Zeisha cast a glance around and saw that others were finding success too.

  “Tangle them!” she shouted. She let her instincts take over—instincts honed during her forgotten months of slavery. She encouraged the branches she was growing to twist, not only with each other, but with the ones growing on either side of her. The plants grew into a glorious, knotted web.

  Anxiety over Krey’s absence still ate at Zeisha’s gut. Despite that, the joy of cultivation brought a broad smile to her lips. Her eyes remained fixed on the section she was growing. If I were standing, it would be as tall as my hips, she marveled. No—my waist!

  She felt her magic waning. Apparently she wasn’t quite ready to make a fence taller than a soldier, but for her first try, this was pretty great. She burned up the last bit of her fuel, pouring magic into the strong, forbidding shield.

  Letting go of the branch she’d been holding, she stood. “That was—” She was about to say amazing, but once her eyes took in the rest of the thorn-shield, her mouth faltered. Only
two of her ten team members had grown their portions of the fence more than knee-high. And those two were shorter than Zeisha’s. Her eyes found the other line of vine eaters. They hadn’t done any better.

  She fought an uncharacteristic urge to scream. We’ve only got a week to figure this out! Instead, she adopted a cheerful tone. “I guess we all need to refuel! Remember, we’re more efficient when we relax. We’ve got time. Have fun with it!”

  None of them looked like they were having fun as they stared at their “shield”—which any soldier could easily step over.

  If Krey were here, he’d help Zeisha see the humor in the situation. Right now, all she could do was grit her teeth and try to keep believing her idea was a good one.

  A hand found her shoulder and squeezed. Zeisha looked over. It was Kebi. Her empathetic eyes did more good than she knew.

  “Let’s try again,” Zeisha called, her voice steadier than before.

  31

  A Derogan company claims they’ve created the smoothest-tasting beer yet. I asked my mother to let me try it. I think she was afraid I’d love it and start drinking every weekend, but she finally agreed I could have a little—for journalism’s sake, of course.

  I put my lips on the mug, sipped a bit of the amber liquid . . . and promptly spat it out. I don’t know if it was smooth or not; I only know it tasted rank.

  Is it possible all beer drinkers suffer from mass psychosis? It’s the only logical explanation.

  -“Sickeningly Smooth” by Genta Ril

  The Derogan Chronicle, dated Cyon 24, 6293

  Krey woke and immediately moaned.

  The impossibly bright sun shoved bright daggers of pure pain into his brain. It must be mere simmets from his face.

  He shut his eyes. The pain remained. He flipped onto his side. “My head!” he moaned, bringing his hands up. His fingers found dried blood on the back of his skull.

  He stopped protesting out loud, only because the sound hurt his head too much. He lay there, trying to think of something besides the pain. The effort was akin to reaching into a burning fire to find a stone. Just thinking was agonizing.

  He forced himself to do it anyway.

  I’m on the grass. I was flying to New Therro. I fell.

  When?

  When . . . when . . . oh, God, it hurts! Help me, it hurts!

  Stop. Think.

  It was morning. But then I woke up. Yes—a few times. It was light . . . then dark . . . then light again.

  I’ve been here over a day.

  A curse flew from his mouth, the word searing his parched throat. He needed water, but that wasn’t his most urgent craving. No, his mind brimmed with desire for the indigo flesh of Anyarian brain matter; for those beautiful, soft layers and that terrible, sweet flavor.

  “No!” he cried, pushing himself into a seated position. Pain, shocking and cruel, exploded in his head. “I need food! And water!” His scream was hoarse, not nearly loud enough to drown out his darker craving.

  Hands pressed to his pounding head, he looked around. Every movement of his neck made him want to vomit. He forced himself to take in his surroundings. He was on a hill. Based on the sun’s position, it was early afternoon. New Therro, he knew, was somewhere beyond the hilltop.

  “Oh, God, I want fuel!” Saying it out loud seemed to break loose a logical thought: yes, he craved brains, but he needed feathers. He had to get past the sentries and into New Therro. If he stayed out here in the wild, he’d soon be looking for animals to kill.

  He wanted that, desperately, but he also hated himself for the desire. No, he told himself, letting go of his head. No. Feathers.

  When he’d fallen, he’d dropped his bag. He didn’t see it anywhere nearby. Maybe an animal had picked it up to eat the food inside. The only feathers he had were the ones in the pouch in his sleeve. He pulled out a handful.

  Nausea and a terribly dry throat made eating torturous. He shoved the fuel into his mouth. Forced himself to chew and swallow. Over and over and over.

  Just one brain. A tiny one. One bite, one taste—

  “No!” he cried, lifting into the air.

  The sudden movement was a bad idea. Pain ravaged Krey’s entire body. He lost his magic a few mets up and dropped, barely recovering in time to prevent another collision with the ground. He slowed both his speed and his ascent. But even gentle movement was torturous. He vomited, every coughing heave causing fresh agony. The feathers he’d just eaten were now scattered over the ground below.

  Krey landed. As he sat in the grass, eating more feathers, he realized he still had no idea how far away the city was. He hadn’t even looked behind the hill on his short flight. His mind was too fixated on his pain and forbidden cravings. Krey tried to think of something else—the feel of dampness seeping through his clothes, the warmth of the sun, the slightly bitter taste of feathers.

  It worked, somewhat. When he returned to the air, he was ready to survey the area. To his relief, the city wasn’t too far away. It would be a short flight. Painful, but short.

  There were no sentries between him and the city. Odd. He rose higher and realized why. To the south of the city, the entire plain where the army had camped was empty.

  Krey screamed a curse, the volume of his own voice almost causing him to throw up again. He shut his mouth, gritting his teeth against the persistent nausea and cravings. Eyes fixed on the city of New Therro, he flew.

  It turned out the army leaders had left a few sentries behind. Krey spotted them from above. He chose a path into the city that appeared unguarded, then flew low to the ground. When he got close to the city, he started walking. New Therro had few magic eaters; he didn’t want to catch anyone’s attention.

  Walking was more painful than flying, which had in itself been torturous. Every step sent solid, sharp agony into Krey’s head.

  As he’d surveyed the city from high above, Krey had gotten his bearings. He’d found a large hotel Alit had told him was near the pub Hatlin frequented. If he travelled on minor streets, maybe he’d be less likely to encounter soldiers.

  Krey had only walked a couple of blocks through New Therro’s outer streets when he realized two things: his bloody head was catching too much attention, and he’d never make it to the pub without collapsing from pain and weariness. I have to get help.

  Not two minutes later, he saw a kind-looking woman gardening in her front yard. Krey approached but didn’t get too close.

  “I know this is weird,” he said, “but I need to get to the Green Brick Pub. Do you have any sort of . . . transportation?”

  He must have looked even worse than he thought he did, because her brows drew together in pity. A pang squeezed Krey’s heart. Her expression was the same one Aunt Evie wore when she encountered anyone—friend or stranger—who was hurt.

  Krey was soon sitting in the woman’s kitchen drinking water that tasted better than anything he could imagine—except brain matter. He still craved that with terrifying ferocity. The woman cleaned his wounds. That introduced a new type of torture to his aching head. When she was done, she gave him bread and sausage. Then she walked him to a small carriage and drove him to the Green Brick Pub.

  They talked very little. She didn’t even introduce herself. Krey didn’t blame her. When your city’s been invaded, it must be hard to trust strangers. She was kind, however, and that meant more to Krey than it ever had before.

  “Thank you,” he said as he descended from the cart, every step feeling like a hammer in his skull.

  “Stay safe,” she replied.

  Krey tried to smile, though it felt more like a pained grimace. The woman responded with an empathetic expression that again reminded him of Aunt Evie. She set off down the street.

  Krey took a minute to evaluate himself before walking in. His craving for brain matter had settled down somewhat, now that he’d eaten. He was still weak and in terrible pain, however. Can’t do anything about that now. He entered the pub.

  It was empty. Too early fo
r the dinner crowd. Krey sat on a stool at the bar.

  A woman emerged from the rear. Her eyes flicked to the cloth wrapped around his head. “Bad day?”

  “Yep.”

  “You visiting New Therro?”

  “Yeah.” Krey’s head wasn’t feeling any better. Stringing polite words together seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

  “Where from?”

  He took a deep breath, forcing words past his pain. “From the city. Sort of. I need to see Hatlin, please.”

  “I used to know a man named Hatlin. Haven’t seen him in years.”

  By the sky, Hatlin’s friends were good at lying. “Tell him it’s Krey.” He leaned in close, though they were alone. “Tell him Alit sent me.”

  When the woman heard the name of the pub owner, the corner of her mouth rose. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ll get him.”

  “Is it safe for him to come here?”

  She laughed. “He stays upstairs. Come on, you can meet him in the back room.”

  Krey followed her, trying to ignore his increasing nausea. Maybe he shouldn’t have had so much food at that house.

  The woman sat him at a small table, then left the room. Within a minute, the heavy tread of boots on stairs reverberated through the pub.

  Hatlin entered. He shook his head when he saw Krey and released a big sigh as he sat. Turning to the woman who’d fetched him, he said, “Can we get two beers? Think we’re gonna need them.” He returned his attention to Krey. “Oh, I forgot, you never drink. Want some juice?”

  In that moment, something occurred to Krey. He let out a short laugh that hurt like hell.

  “What?” Hatlin asked.

  “It’s my birthday. I’m eighteen. I just remembered.”

  Hatlin chuckled. “You’re legal, huh?” He turned to the woman. “One for each of us.”

  The drinking age in Cellerin wasn’t always enforced, and Krey could’ve gotten drunk every night he’d lived in Cellerin City if he’d wanted to. However, he hadn’t touched alcohol since he was fifteen and got into his aunts’ bollaberry wine. His sickness afterward had taken away his desire to indulge.