Deviants of Giftborn (The Etherya Series Book 1)

by Amarcya, Zuri

  Her mother, seated in her usual chair in a corner by the far wall, dropped the stones she was washing and rose to her feet, still waiting for an answer. “And why is your tunic ripped like that?”

  “Elcdan gathered a group of bay sellers…” Nemma sighed, emptying her supplies onto the large table in the middle of the room.

  “Oh, Nem,” her mother said, hurrying over and taking Nemma’s face into her hands. Are you… well?”

  Nemma winced and nodded, watching her mother’s blue eyes dart over her cuts and bruises, accompanied by her usual cooing and tutting. A warm calming unraveled the deep tension she always felt in her stomach while in the Ryim.

  “These wounds need washing, and you need new clothes,” her mother concluded. “Good thing I’m making you a new tunic. Come on.”

  She picked up a bubbling pot of water from the stove, arranged a bundle of cloths and led Nemma to the back of the room and through a small doorway. Inside was a tiny washroom holding only a pump and basin.

  “Where’s Father?” Nemma asked as her mother tended to her wounds.

  “Gone to fetch Aunt Gabby,” her mother said. “I told her not to go home until the weather was clear for two days, but you know what she’s like.”

  Nemma nodded, wincing as the cloth pressed against her ribs. Aunt Gabby must be the oldest person living in the Ryim, and the craziest. Her loud shouting and rambling had frightened Nemma as a child but she had grown used to it, and found Aunt Gabby’s chatter entertaining most of the time.

  “I know we need to survive, Nemma,” her mother was saying, “but I dislike you going out straight after a storm. You know what the sellers are like.”

  “Mother, we needed food and supplies. I’m the only one able to make enough for us to survive during the storms.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Mother scoffed, as she squeezed hot water over Nemma’s grazed knees. “Your father used to be out in that bay all day and all night before you were born, and until you were nine.”

  Nemma resisted rolling her eyes. Why couldn’t she see that the Ryim had changed? Comparing the bay to how it had been eighteen years ago was pointless. Only Father understood how the bay had become.

  “Did he ever make twelve lorel?” she asked, annoyance creeping into her voice.

  Her mother stilled. “You made twelve lorel today?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Although…” Nemma trailed off as she pulled one of Father’s half tunics over her head.

  “Although what?”

  “Well, Elcdan’s friend stole some, and I bought supplies…” Nemma said, her eyes cast downward and she trailed off, disappointment building.

  Her mother stared at her for a long moment before sighing and pulling her close. Nemma nestled into her arms, breathing in the mingling scent of cherry flower and dried spices that always seemed to surround her.

  “Nemma. I would rather you give away all of our earnings if it meant you were safe,” she said, stroking Nemma’s wet hair. “I would die if anything happened to you. Our welfare isn’t your responsibility—we’re the adults remember?”

  Nemma nodded into her mother’s neck, but she knew it wasn’t true. If she was not around to earn, they would not survive the Ryim.

  Two

  Clisantha had been standing at her mother’s grave when the second storm began. Protected by thick robes and the silk scarf covering her bowed head, she waited until the heavy cascade began pounding on her before returning her consciousness to her body.

  The usual dizziness took hold and her senses arrived in disorientated waves—roaring wind whipping in her ears and an icy sting biting her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She took a few deep breaths, steadying herself by widening her stance as she opened her eyes and raised her head to the sky, allowing the rain to freshen her face.

  Damn it. Recovering from mind traveling did not seem to be getting easier. After each journey she struggled to get control of her body and at least one of her senses became greatly heightened. This time every drop of rain boomed in her ears.

  She lowered her gaze. The Journey Grounds stretched out before her, punctuated with headstones, desolate and unwelcoming. The wind pulled the rain across its vast open space, changing direction and swirling into little spirals. The lumni headstone for her mother’s grave had been carved into the shape of Torak Tower, the insignia of the Realms and the building that housed the Sovereign. ‘Orna Saraethian’ was etched across the top with a simple inscription to ensure the safety of Orna’s soul. Out of respect, Clisantha had ensured the lumni was excellent quality, and true to the merchant’s promise its glow had not faded or dulled in nearly thirty days.

  Turning away, she strolled to the gate trying to mask the lingering discomfort of her lethargic body and acute hearing, heading back towards the core alone on the unfolding road. She could almost see the white wall closing off the Arc, the part of the city where the Sovereign and the Giftborn lived, separated from the rest of Torak and its citizens. She picked up speed as her legs strengthened, encircling her dark-green robes around her slim form and pulling the hood over the wet scarf clinging to her soaked hair.

  The rain intensified as she entered the center of Torak, pouring down the tall square silver and bronze buildings in crooked, glistening streams. The city’s center, the core, always impressed her. It had been patterned to follow the circular shape of Torak and offered the finest artistic displays and the best tasting popular hot drink, fenyac. All buildings faced inward towards it and were accessible by curved paths that created an intricate maze design of interlinking and broken circles. Clisantha’s road ended at a larger one that ran just off center of the core. Torak Road. Avoiding the carriages speeding past, she crossed straight over onto a pathway. Its cobbles spat droplets up around the calves of masses of citizens threading their way through the city, all with hoods or cowls shielding their grim faces. Although the core brimmed with activity, the air was quiet, filled only by the pulse and breath of the storm and the rhythm of hurrying feet. The bitter after-smell of fenyac lingered in the air even though no magiens attended the small fenyac stalls. Clisantha nodded at those she knew, glad she was not confined by the routine and structure that pulled them out into city under such weather.

  She arrived at the Glass Hearth and entered shaking rain from her robes. The tavern was almost empty, with only a couple seated at the back and a lone woman in the far corner, but it looked beautiful. Enormous gold-rimmed windows offered a glorious sky-high view of the green and brown plains of Hannaw under late evening skies, the silhouette of Torak city in the far distance. Purple glass-blown tables littered the main space, each accompanied by two or three matching chairs, reflecting shapes of light onto the taupe walls and on the face of a tall man with neat, combed hair and large brown eyes cleaning glasses behind the bar.

  “Greetings, Mss Saraethian. Been to visit your mother?”

  Clisantha nodded, removing her sodden robes and giving them to the doorman.

  “She’s a lucky woman,” he said. “She must be proud of your dedication and love, braving this weather, visiting every day…”

  Clisantha sat on a stool at the counter and wiped her face with a cloth, saying nothing. The barman had never known her mother well. He was a shameless gossip but, as a long serving barman in the most popular tavern in Torak, his behavior was openly ignored and secretly encouraged. Clisantha chose to give him little attention. He talked without needing stimulus and sometimes held useful gems of information.

  “…so very honorable, I tell you. Many don’t visit the journeyers enough, I say. Usual?” Without waiting for her reply, and beginning anew on a different topic, he began preparing her drink.

  She turned to the sunlit scenery beyond the windows. This was what drew people in. Each day the scenery in the windows changed. One day they may show the depths beneath the tremulous Hanwyan Ocean, while at another time the city itself from the angle of the prestigious Torak Tower. Since their installment the windows had only provid
ed displays of the ocean, Torak city and Hannaw, but Clisantha had heard that scenery of some of the other countries across the Sovereign’s Realms would soon be available to view. Rumor claimed the tavern owner paid a magien over thirty thousand lorel to install the Gifted windows, but they had been excellent for profit and reputation. The tavern had been full every night since.

  Squinting, Clisantha could make out a few buildings dotted in the open plains alongside tiny winding roads. She suppressed a smile as childhood memories of the serf houses she visited rose; the homes of those that lived outside the city in the various wards of Hannaw cultivating the country’s land and providing food and materials for their owners, Torak city and Realms. Her father had managed to arrange a way to get her out of the city as a child to visit the wards he had owned.

  “There, Mss Saraethian. Enjoy.”

  “Thank you,” Clisantha smiled. “How real are those windows, Faebal?”

  “As real as can be,” Faebal said, pushing out his chest. “Every scene is as close to the real thing as possible.”

  “Impressive,” Clisantha said, sipping her steamed cherry. “How do they work?”

  Faebal shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure. They’re obviously powered by Gift energy but no one knows how it works.”

  “But surely you could find out?”

  Faebal shrugged again, glancing around uncomfortably before busying himself wiping down the drinks counter.

  “Incredible,” murmured a voice nearby. “You don’t even greet me in public.”

  With a start Clisantha turned to the familiar voice. “Apologies, Betha,” she said, offering her cheek. “My mind was elsewhere.”

  Betha, a tall, older woman, brushed away her apology with a hand and pecked her cheek. “Yes, I know you have probably come from the Journey Grounds. How was it?”

  “Bleak,” Clisantha said, beckoning Faebal to pour a bronze vynth for Betha. “I don’t understand why the place where souls go through their most wondrous journey is so depressing.”

  Betha chuckled and gestured to Clisantha’s outfit. She wore a sky blue tunic-set, a half-tunic and a long matching skirt, decorated with gold stitching. “Well this is delightful. Tailor-made?”

  “Of course, my dearest mother would accept nothing less,” Clisantha said, raising a brow. “How are you? I hardly ever see you in here.”

  Betha sat on the stool next to Clisantha and scowled. She wore a slate trouser tunic-set with clear crystal droplets dangled from her ears and a matching dainty necklace. Her deep brown hair had been pulled back into a cascading ponytail with twisted coils snaking along her scalp. “My husband’s mother is with us until rest day and I wouldn’t be able to cope without coming to experience the latest view.” She gestured to the windows. “I keep telling my husband to find out how to purchase windows like these.”

  Clisantha’s interest peaked. The secrets of the windows would give her excellent information to trade with. “Is it that easy?”

  Betha poured the brown, green-flecked liquid into her mouth and gestured for Faebal to pour another. Clisantha noticed the tight smoothness under her eyes and over her forehead. She had undergone some kind of treatment recently, though she barely needed it. Yet.

  “You forget who my husband is,” Betha said. “He has contacts in the Arc. I told him he needs to find a way to get them installed at home if he wishes for me to stay sane.” She drained her glass again. “He’s meeting a magien later to discuss the arrangements.”

  Clisantha grinned, beckoning Faebal again for more drinks.

  Hours later, Clisantha bid the barman and Betha farewell, collecting her dried robes on her way out. The storm increased its violent tantrum on the city as she made her way into the second quarter in South Torak. The city had emptied considerably, with most citizens at their places of work.

  Turning onto her road, she tensed at the sight before her. A Thaide emerged from the house neighboring her own, dragging a screaming child towards a hovering hjuy in the road. Hjuys belonged only to the Priests, who ruled the four sects in the Arc, and the Thaide, who were the Realms’ enforcers and protectors. Hjuys were highly prized due to their Gifted properties. They needed no horse to pull them, no driver to steer them and no wheels to carry them. The owner need only apply energy to the walls and the hjuy would complete the journey without further input. The boy, who looked no more than nine, twisted and turned in the Thaide’s grasp, trying to grab onto his mother, who trailed behind them sobbing into her hands.

  As she neared, Clisantha heard the woman, Della, pleading.

  “Please… just a few moments… to speak to him, to say goodbye.”

  The Thaide glanced at her, his expression blank and impassive. “You know the rules, Mss Gallsrea. There’s no more I can do.”

  Clisantha clenched her jaw. She pushed aside her irritation and allowed herself into her home as the boy was bundled into the hjuy. She closed the door and leaned against it, staring unseeingly at her pale green and cream living area as his screams faded away. She squeezed her eyes shut at the sound of Della’s sobbing. She’d lived next to her since moving to Torak and he was the third child she had lost that way.

  Once identified as Giftborn between six and sixteen, children were relocated to the Arc to be trained so they could join magien society. It was considered an honor to have the Gift and serve under the Sovereign for all the people of the Realms and Clisantha never understood why Father had not wanted to declare her Gift, especially when he had been a Thaide himself. He made her promise not to tell anyone, even Orna, as he gave her secret lessons that were, at times, difficult and upsetting. At first she had resented him, resisting his strict instruction, but as she grew older she enjoyed the time she spent with him and cherished the training as their personal family time. He had shown her how to hide and control her Gift, assuring her it was in her best interest to break Sovereign Law.

  She moved from the window, blocking out Della’s sobs, and headed to her private rooms at the back of the house to change.

  The large living area, furnished with soft-seats and cushions, included a well-equipped kitchen that heightened the sophisticated style of the house. Everything was immaculate except one of the sleeping rooms, which held numerous boxes and an assorted mix of items layered in dust. Clisantha slept in the other—bright, neat and color coordinated in purples, reds, white and black.

  Returning to the living area, her eyes lingered on the portrait of her father that depicted him as a roguish youngster. It was not a true representation of his formidable stature, and yet she could not bring herself to get it amended.

  She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of fruit water and drank deeply. From where she sat she could see Della still outside. Rumor claimed a magien, or two or three, had fathered her children illegitimately, and over the last few years all of them had eventually been taken away to the Arc. Witnessing children ripped from the arms of their mother by men with no compassion disturbed her. Growing up alone, without the only parent they knew must be dreadful.

  Glancing at the sky, Clisantha rested her empty glass on the counter and settled down on a soft-seat in the living area to carry out the next task of the day. On her sixth vynth, Betha said her husband planned to meet a magien in the core at sun-arc to discuss the purchasing of the windows and Clisantha intended to witness that conversation. She clasped her hands in her lap, closed her eyes and relaxed her body.

  She accessed her Gift, smiling as the rippling vibrations ran over her. Turning her attention inward feeling the vibrations within her own senses, she identifying the elusive shimmer that fluttered within her. She pulled on a minute amount of air energy and entwined it with the shimmer, creating a repeating pattern that sealed into a circular shape. It skipped to the forefront of her mind, taking over her consciousness as it expanded. Releasing itself from her body, it drifted into the room.

  The sensation of a roaming consciousness had taken a while to get used to, particularly the ability to view all directions at
once. The connection with her body still existed but all physical feelings and senses had considerably dampened. The further away she moved from her physical body the more energy she had to use to retain the use of her senses, but being able to move undetected in various directions by mere thought suggestion was thrilling, and aided her beyond measure.

  Looking at herself, her body had fallen back onto the soft-seat. She drifted closer. Her face held her features well. The curve of her long lashes lay still under her closed gray eyes and the straight bridge of her nose gave her face a noble structure. She considered her mouth her best feature, full and petite, setting the finishing touch on her heart-shaped face. She glided away, noting how her ivory skin contrasted with her long wavy black hair.

  Penetrating the wall, Clisantha’s consciousness rose into the sky and soared back towards the city core. The howling storm could not touch her now, she simply passed through it. The cracking lightning warned her of the following bellows of thunder and she released energy to mute her sense of hearing. It would have been quicker to travel by jumping to her destination, but that took more energy and the city was beautiful from above. She never tired of it. The skyline of sharply shaped buildings exhibited strength and beauty, and more so during a storm when the clouds morphed between shades of silvery white and smoky black.

  She arrived at the core and saw Betha’s husband standing alone, as far away from Torak Road as possible, shifting his muscular build from foot to foot and causing his tan robes to swirl around him. As a movement performance artist who weaved threads and created masterpieces for live audiences, his top half was more muscular than the bottom, making him look as though he could topple over at any moment. His cowl was too small for his head and dark blond tufts of hair stuck to his wet forehead. He wore an anxious expression, glancing around every so often.