by Liv Savell
Etienne squeezed Meirin’s hand and let her pull him after the group of young people through narrow, seemingly unplanned city streets that careened past buildings of every description. There was something chaotic about Gwynhafan that he had never felt in the ordered grid of Dailion. Something a little wild.
Something that reminded him of Meirin.
She was wide-eyed and grinning when they swept through the last of the tight streets and into a wide, open market lit by paper lanterns in every hue. The smells of pastry and spices were stronger here, their sources easily discernible in the bright signs of taverns—doorways clustered with old men sucking on pipes, others bending over games of chance set up on small tables beneath tavern windows. In the center of the square, two musicians played between stalls of food vendors, one plucking a long-necked lute, the other drumming a cheerful rhythm.
The group Meirin had followed was disappearing into a tavern, its sign boasting a pair of people dancing, and all around them, more throngs of people gathered, as brightly colored as wildflowers. Nearby, a man stood behind a cart, dipping ruby apples in a thick, dark liquid that dripped and stretched from the fruit.
“What do you want to see first?” Etienne asked, a little breathless.
“Do you have any money?” Etienne didn’t have much, not after all the supplies he had bought since leaving Dailion, but it didn’t seem to matter. Meirin only hesitated a moment before digging into her pockets. “Here.” She dropped a few copper pieces into his hand, and smiled broadly. “I’ll go buy one of those, and you find something, and we’ll share.”
Before Etienne could agree or disagree with her plan, Meirin cut through the passersby and began talking with the apple seller. He smiled as the pretty warrior approached, and she had him laughing in a matter of seconds.
Etienne stood stunned for a moment, watching Meirin throw her head back, her braids ribboning out behind her. Then he shook himself and set off to find the source of the spices he was smelling. His nose took him halfway across the square before he found the right place.
The woman working the stall eyed the thin, pale stranger at first but warmed considerably when he showed her his coins. For one of them, she gave him two of the thick pastries she was making, each filled with a mixture of nuts and dates and rich spices. Just the aroma was enough to bring a big, goofy grin to his ordinarily serious countenance, and he went racing off back across the square to find Meirin so that he might share his newfound treasure with her.
“Hey, look what I found,” he said when he reached her, cutting off the stranger she was talking to more out of enthusiasm than any real rudeness and dropping a hot pastry into her hands.
Meirin looked a bit chagrined as she caught the pastry, her mouth full of the dipped apple. She hadn’t waited for him to share at all!
Still, she handed over the half-eaten treat and sniffed the warm pastry Etienne had brought. As she spoke, her voice was muffled by sweets. “The man—says the apple— is covered in—caramel. It’s chewy—but I like it.” The vendor, standing right beside them, nodded in agreement, his wrinkled face creased with pleasure. Clearly, he took pride in people enjoying his wares.
She finally swallowed her first bite and dove into the nut-filled pastry. “Oh!” A bit of the treat sprayed from her lips. Meirin laughed, which made more pieces of food speckle Etienne’s travel-worn tunic and brushed away the crumbs with a not-so-apologetic wince.
Etienne put the mouthful of caramel-dipped apple onto his tongue and closed his eyes, sighing with pleasure. The stuff was so rich that it made his jaw ache as he tried to chew it, gobs clinging to his teeth.
Meirin’s unbashful brushing only made him laugh, the sound coming out past caramel and teeth in great gasps until he managed to swallow it. She was a bit of a mess herself, with her hands full of crumbs and a smear of caramel against her cheek. Tentatively, he reached up a hand to wipe it off before pulling away a little too quickly.
“I like it too,” he said, talking about the apple. “It's so sweet!”
Behind them, a woman’s voice called out a sound in a tongue Etienne did not know, cheerful and lively and mingling with the different tunes of the street musicians, though not unpleasantly. Her song had the rhythm of a dance, and it had even the awkward mage tapping a foot. “What do you think’s in there?” he asked, pointing to the doorway the sound originated from.
“Music,” Meirin stated helpfully. But she laughed and stuffed the rest of her pastry in her mouth before grabbing Etienne’s hand and heading towards the sound. The tavern was crowded, but people moved out of their way. Meirin was shorter than most of the patrons, so she found an empty table and stepped onto one of the chairs using Etienne’s shoulder as a brace. He was tall enough to see over the heads of onlookers to a small stage, musicians, and the floor filled with dancers. “We mostly use drums in Mynydd Gwyllt. Drums and flutes.” The musicians gathered had cymbals, a stringed instrument with a hollowed-out center, and something that was much like a flute but made of metal and producing loud tinny sounds. “This is incredible.”
Meirin wasn’t cowed by the press of bodies or the novelty of the scene. She was swaying to the rhythm as she watched the dancers. Their formation implied these dances were less chaotic and free-flowing than the dance he had learned with Enyo but less rigid than the dances of Dailion. Partners clung to one another and swung about in a quick pattern in beats of three, their hands wrapped about each other's waists or necks. Many had tankards of ale or wine, and people were laughing and talking over the music.
The mage swallowed. Meirin looked as though she dearly wanted to join the dancers…
“Would you like to dance?” Etienne could feel his ears reddening. He could see a pattern in the movements, but he had little experience in the art.
“Absolutely—I don’t know the steps, but it can’t be that difficult!” Meirin didn’t seem concerned in the least about not knowing the dance or looking silly. She hopped down from her perch and took Etienne’s hand to weave to the front of the crowds. When an opening appeared in the reeling bodies, she jumped in, hauling him in behind her.
Meirin dropped Etienne’s hands on her waist and reached up, clasping her hands on either shoulder (he was too tall for her to lace her fingers behind his neck as some of the pairs did), and they started off. The steps were simple enough, but the music’s fast pace made it easy to fall offbeat.
No matter how many times they lost the pattern or Etienne stepped on her feet, or Meirin bonked her head against his chest, she only laughed and pressed on. “Again!” her command. They stayed on the dance floor for three more songs, each different than the last.
By the time they were done, Meirin was sweating, and her war-paint smeared. Etienne wasn’t in much better shape, his fair cheeks flushed with exertion.
“Get us drinks.” She pressed more coins into his hand and then turned towards the stage, clearly intent on putting money in the upside-down tambourine for the musicians.
Once Etienne had gotten them each a mug of something cold and frothy, Meirin had returned. Casually she looped her arm about his waist and sucked on the cider as she scanned the rest of the tavern. At a table nearby, a group of people played cards.
“Do you know how to play?” she asked Etienne, grinning as she took another massive swallow. At this rate, Meirin would empty her glass in a few minutes.
“No,” Etienne said, laughing. He did not know how to play any card games, and still, he couldn’t be happier. He was full of Meirin’s good spirits, giddy with them. She was like Ingolan wine, fine and sparking and no less heady for its sweetness.
He was still sweating from the dancing, color high in his sharp, pale cheekbones, his cheeks aching from his grin. They must have gone too long without any real use. In the life and thrum of the tavern, all thoughts of wards and winged warriors were far from his mind, too taken up by Meirin and her arm around him. He slipped an arm around her waist as well, tying them like two links in a chain.
&nbs
p; “Let’s see if we can join a game anyway,” he said, and off she went again, tugging him after her.
As it turned out, it didn’t matter if she or Etienne had never played, because of course, Meirin was invited over. The people of Gwynhafan were an amiable lot, or so it seemed. There was only one seat, but that didn’t stop Meirin—she just pushed Etienne down into the rickety chair and then settled herself in his lap. The chair protested and seemed like it would break, but no one ended up on the floor.
She would study their shared cards astutely and whisper loudly to Etienne what she thought they should do. Others often folded whenever Meirin revealed they had a good hand, but more often than not, that wasn’t the case. By the end of the game, they had easily won back what they had spent that night, and Meirin was in high spirits when they left the crowded building.
The street air seemed fresh in comparison to the overly packed tavern, and she sighed. Aimlessly Meirin and Etienne wandered until they came to a large fountain. In its center, a woman was carved out of stone. She was striking, with her thickly braided hair piled on top of her head in an elaborate crown and her slender body framed by bushels of wheat and apples. Baskets piled up about her feet were filled with other foods, and water poured from the vase she held in her hands.
Meirin paused to examine the masterpiece. “Mynydd Gwyllt seems so barren in comparison.” She sounded neither jealous nor forlorn. Only factual.
Etienne swallowed hard, chest-thumping with sudden nervousness. In the thick of the crowd, he had felt so easy, so confident. Now his palms were slick as he wiped them over his pants. “How could it have been, with you there?” he asked, only the words came out awkwardly and quiet—not for any lack of meaning, but rather an over-abundance of nerves.
The mage couldn’t really remember ever liking someone quite as much as he did the little warrior—certainly not at school. His few bedfellows had not been anything more. And now that he did, really, truly like someone, he was not quite certain how to act.
Meirin looked away from the fountain and smiled broadly up at Etienne, her eyes crinkling with mirth. “Oh? You think so?” She laughed at the compliment and looked back at the fountain. “Truthfully though, could you imagine making something like that? All the stonework and I can’t even imagine how they get the water up and out. And then, of course, it’s beautiful. All I make are bruises and bread. Simple things, really.”
She stepped closer, her arm brushing against Etienne’s, and though he wasn’t sure if she had done it on purpose or not, he didn’t move away. “I guess I took it for granted. The streets of Dailion have many such fountains, each of which represent the same time and care.”
He, like many Ingolans, had thought nothing of the statues, just so much background in the bustle of school worries. Now, he saw them again in a new light. Just like he did so many things when Meirin was nearby.
⫸
“I suppose I am guilty of the same thing. I took for granted that the rest of Thloegr was much the same as Mynydd Gwyllt. Of course, I knew Ingola was different, but here… Even in my homeland, there are cities and towers and fountains of such magnitude and complexity… My life seems small.” Meirin looked up at Etienne and nodded towards the path they had taken to find the fountain. It was time they started returning to their camp and Delyth. “What about Dirigian Islands? Or the far north? What other treasures does Illygad hold that are waiting to be uncovered?” And while it seemed that Meirin was making an example, she was also asking Etienne. Because he had gone to school. Because he would know such things.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Moxous did not hold any records of the far north, and the Dirigian Islands were largely dismissed as the barren strongholds of pirates. That’s not to say that there aren’t treasures there, though... Your life is not so small anymore. You’ve gotten caught up in big things. Fought Gods. Traveled through your homeland.”
That was true. Meirin had done those things, and her eyes were opened now. She knew how much grander the world was than what she had been led to believe. True, Mynydd Gwyllt was a stronghold and filled with mighty warriors. Proud and strong.
But it was not the metropolis she thought it to be, and their way of life was not the best, the only way to be.
People here were existing just fine. Happy. Drinking and dancing and playing cards. Living.
Thriving.
Were her own people able to claim that? She wasn’t so certain anymore.
“I find myself envious of you, Etienne. It’s strange since you’re so dreadful at hand to hand and fighting, and you’re hardly a blood mage yet, but you’ve learned so much. You know so many things. When we met, I first thought you were frail and that your intelligence was merely a means to compensate for it. That Ingola had done you a disservice by not teaching you arms and tracking and hunting.”
Dark eyes traced his face thoughtfully as she realized what a different light she saw him in now.
“Maybe my people are the ones who are wrong.”
✶
Etienne looked down into her wide, brown eyes, his breath catching in his throat. “You once asked if it were better to be a fool or a coward,” he said, reaching out to brush her cheek. “I still think it's better not to be wholly one thing or another, but to learn as much as possible. Of all sides.”
They had nearly reached the city gates without his notice, so occupied was he in their conversation. Now that their evening was so clearly drawing to a close, he was filled with sudden urgency. Meirin, beside him, was beautiful in the dim light, the flicker of lanterns reflecting warmly in her skin and against the dark coils of her braided hair. He needed to tell her, to let her know somehow just how lovely she was, how she made him feel…
“Meirin, wait, I—” he started, heart hammering in his chest. He was so caught up in the words he needed, in deciding on a way to tell her that he almost didn’t feel the snap in the back of his mind, the twinge of something breaking. His jaw slackened in horror; all warmth leached from him by fear. In the thicket in which they had camped, still a half hour’s walk away, his ward had been broken by something immensely powerful.
“Delyth,” he gasped, all color gone from his cheeks. “Come on! We have to hurry!”
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
Delyth woke to the press of fingers around her throat.
She gasped, grasping at air that had suddenly moved out of reach. Alphonse was above her, face contorted in the mask Delyth knew as Enyo, eyes burning coals rather than soft amber. For a moment, the warrior didn’t act, thick with sleep and shock.
Then she wrapped her hands around Enyo’s wrist and pulled, trying to pry her fingers away from the rapidly bruising skin at Delyth’s throat. There was a lightening of pressure, a small give…
And then Enyo’s fingers clamped more tightly around her neck, stronger than any mere mortal even in her delicate, human shell.
Desperately, Delyth bucked her hips, shoved at Enyo’s chest, at her face. Spots were dancing before her eyes, her lungs spasming for air.
She had so little time…
Enyo growled and bore down all the harder, and Delyth flung out her arms, desperate to score any blow, any attack that might ward off the Goddess. One of her hands met something hard with the rough, skin-biting texture of stone—Enyo’s arm? The Goddess released the warrior at once with a hiss of pain, reeling back to bring her injured hand up. It was grey-black with diseased lines crawling up towards her shoulder. There was no time to find an opening, though. Enyo launched forward, and as Delyth threw her arm up to protect herself, Enyo latched her teeth onto the warrior’s forearm.
The Goddess tasted blood and groaned. It didn’t seem to matter when Delyth landed a blow to her face or kicked at Enyo’s belly, trying to pry her off. It was another jolt to her arm that made Enyo open her jaws and haul back.
They stared at one another from across the tent, Delyth panting, Enyo licking her lips. The Goddess’s face contorted, some conflicting emotion twi
sting her features. She licked bloody lips and arched her brows. “Have you missed our nights together, Ba’oto?”
“I spent no nights with you,” Delyth growled, clamping a hand over her bleeding arm. Did she have time to draw a rune trap? There was plenty of blood for it. And when would she get another opportunity with Enyo so alone?
She needed to distract the Goddess, some way to get her attention long enough to sketch the rune into the floor of her tent…
“What happened to your arm, Enyo? Can’t you heal what your kid did?” she asked, slowly moving her bloodied fingers to the ground hidden behind her thigh. The wound was troubling… Did Alphonse feel the pain? Would she recover once they freed her from Enyo? She must—she had to.
And why, for that matter, hadn’t Enyo healed it? She had stolen Alphonse’s abilities before…
❂
“He’s an impressive bastard, I’ll give him that. I’d be proud if I weren’t so furious.” Enyo muttered, looking at her ruined arm before leaning forward.
It was strange, but with her hair wild and her wings half spread, Enyo thought Delyth looked lovely. They hadn’t been this near without interruption in so very long.
Her anger mixed with lust and something else… Soft and delicate and… Enyo scooted closer to Delyth. Just an inch. Maybe two.
To kill her, of course.
“But, being in this pathetic human body, even with my powers mostly restored, I cannot undo what Mascen has done. Not to this body, not to Rhosan. He is a God, after all.” And despite everything, Enyo was still some mixture of mortal and Goddess.
Her eyes were wide, and her breaths falling quickly. “I wish I could snap your neck, Ba’oto. You’re as traitorous and beastly as my son. Yet you have something that I need. Where is Aryus’s artifact? Tell me where it is, and I’ll leave this body.”