by Jenn Polish
I lose track of time, focusing only on the axes Leece burns in front of me and melting them just enough for me to magick impurities into them. They will not work in battle, but they’ll look and feel just fine.
I wonder which of the king’s soldiers, his Hands, will use these weapons. Will they be killed when their swords inexplicably crack, when their arrows snap and collapse? If yes, are we different than the nons who kill us? Than the nons who planned the dragon massacres?
Am I a killer now too?
Sweat drops from my forehead into the fire and sizzles.
I yank at the Energies to pour impurities into the axes so hard that Leece stops rotating them to stare at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter. I want to ask him about Dreaming. I don’t.
Without warning, my mom gasps, her breath rattled and forced.
“Mama!”
Then I feel it too, and from the way Leece doubles over and almost singes his eyebrows on the magicked fire, I can tell it’s having the same effect on him. The unwinding of the Energies is beginning.
Lerian and Osley look at the three of us, concern and confusion written all over their centaur and rabbit features. “I think the freeze spell is wearing off. We have to hurry,” I tell them, and Mama tilts her head in a Sampian nod.
In a flurry of limbs and muttered apologies, we get the swords and axes back onto their racks and the arrows into their quivers. The buffalo-skin flap of a door bursts forward just as we’re finishing, and a flurry of orange wings and pale sand skin tangles around Leece’s body. His normal stance—his body hanging horizontally under his wings, facing the ground—is pushed upright as Mara yanks him into a deep embrace.
“Come on, you two,” Mom’s voice comes from behind them. Her Sampian accent is so perfect it reminds me how important it must have been to her to learn the language Mama grew up speaking. “You’ll have plenty of time for this when we get you out of here.”
She tugs them out of the wagon, looking askance at the enclosure’s perimeter to make sure the soldiers guarding it aren’t slipping out of the freeze yet.
“We’re not going with you,” Mara tells Mom, her face still pressed into Leece’s bony shoulder.
“What?” Four voices ring out at once in as many languages.
Osley hops forward, slamming quer feet into the snow. “We agreed that we would sabotage the weapons with you and then set you free. We agreed, and we will, we must. We can get you passage out of the Grove, we can—”
Leece untangles himself from Mara’s arms and hovers down low to the ground so he can run his hands over Osley’s quivering fur.
“We have to stay, don’t you get it? You have to lock us back up. If we escape, they’ll know their weapons are compromised. We’re so close to the Forest, they’ll blame you and the Underlanders.” He gestures up at Lerian. “They wanted guides to lead them to the Samp. We’re going to lead them through our murkiest parts. Slow them down as much we can.”
“But you—”
“Sadie.” Leece flies up to my level now, which isn’t that high since I’m grounded, my wings still hidden under my cloak. My left foot throbs beneath me, and my throat swells. “You can too, can’t you?” He doesn’t say it, but I know. We both do.
Dream.
I blink, my heart slamming hard. Is it that obvious?
“I saw the way you were looking at me when I woke. Like you knew. So you understand, don’t you? Why we have to stay?”
Lerian steps forward, and I hold out a hand to stop her without breaking eye contact with Leece. Since I told her about my Dreaming in the aftermath of the attack that killed Jax’s joiner, she’s guarded the secret fiercely. But now’s not the time.
I grind my teeth and glare up at Leece. He’s right—of course I know. I’ve Dreamed the consequences of people being caught by the palace for lesser crimes than fleeing captivity. So has Leece. I nod and turn away.
The snowflakes floating statically in front of my foggy eyes move again. The guards will be waking soon.
I don’t watch as Mom and Mama move forward to help Leece and Mara back into their chains. Mama whispers that she’s magicked the chains so they won’t hurt as much; Mom embraces Mara and cries. Even Lerian turns away at the sound of Mara and Leece kissing one more time before their wing clamps force them to face away from each other.
I can’t take it. I can’t.
He’s like me, and he’s locked up for it. He’s like me, and he’s probably going to get caught, to die. I start running.
“Sadie!” Lerian whisper-shouts, but she doesn’t gallop after me.
Mama restrains her. “Let her run it off. She’ll be safe enough with her wings tucked away.”
I’m grateful for them letting me alone, and I relish the sprint up the Tread, toward the Lunavic River. The snowfall burns my exposed face like small, cold needle pricks. Even the burning in my foot is starting to feel good. Anything to get away from Leece and Mara letting themselves be locked back up so we don’t get found out.
Anything to get away from a fellow Dreamer, in chains and in love.
I’m grateful for the space, for the air, for the pain.
Until the scream rents a hole into my chest and threatens to snap my bones into pieces. Until the scream that will change everything.
Chapter Two
I DON’T THINK. I just run faster. I don’t even stop to ask permission from the creatures my feet are treading on. I try to step lightly. I don’t know if I’m succeeding.
The screaming—which was one high-pitched cry at first but now is bleeding out into panicked uprisings of the throat—is coming from just off the Tread, on the side of the river where faeries aren’t allowed to go unless we’re in chains. I tear under branches and feel my way through the understory, pounding across a rickety old bridge until I find the source of the screams.
A non woman, draped in the snow-white uniform of a palace soldier is curled up on the ground, rocking herself around her bloodied forearm. The skin and muscles are ripped jaggedly, deeply. Bone is showing, whiter than the snow around her, which is rapidly reddening with her blood. A metal animal trap that Hands must have laid for hunting is tangled in her dangling flesh.
Trying my best not to vomit, I twist the Energies as hard as I can to try to hold what’s left of this non soldier’s arm together. Her screaming stops when she sees me and realizes what I’m trying to do, but she’s still whimpering. Her breathing is still jagged.
My hands, freezing all night even with our magicked fires, are now warm. They’re slippery now, slick with human blood. Since the attack, I’ve only seen this much blood in Dreams and at the Kinzemna massacre. I look wildly around for any other faerie, hopefully one who’s better at healing than me, to help. But of course, there isn’t anyone on this side of the rushing river. And if there were, they’d probably think I’m a non myself.
Suddenly, I’m not so grateful that they let me run off on my own.
My fingers brush the dead-tree club that all the king’s Hands keep under their cloaks. I can just imagine what Lerian would say, seeing me helping a Hand or any non for that matter, like this. But then the Hand gasps as I take a particularly big pull on the Energies, her thin eyes wide with fear. I screw up my face and try to focus on what my mom would do, on how she talked to that scorched soldier that night all those harvests ago.
“Hey, you’re okay, I’ve got you. What’s your name, anyway?” I ask in Highlander non, the language I had to speak as a young one feeling foreign but also strangely comforting on my tongue.
“Ie…Iema,” she chokes out, and I cock an eyebrow. Sounds like an Izlanian faeric name, even though she looks like she could be from around here. They never used to let Izlanians serve as Hands. Certainly not ones with faeric names. I wonder vaguely if she’s hiding wings under her cloak too.
“All right, Iema, you’re gonna be fine.” I’m lying through my teeth—I’m not nearly the healer that Mom is, but I’m doing the best I can.
T
here’s yelling in the distance, getting closer. Someone must have heard all that screaming.
“Have to…protect…” she mutters through gritted teeth.
“Uh-huh,” I hum absently. She must be getting delirious from losing so much blood.
“I promised… lost track… need to find her,” she coughs, which makes her whimper harder.
“Just try to stay still, yeah?” I’m sweating wildly now, and I don’t know how to take the trap’s teeth out of her muscles without hurting her more. Mom and Jax would know, but I can’t take her to them. And I can’t risk moving her anyway.
The footfalls in the snow are getting closer. I pull my wings as deeply as possible into the wing sleeves in my lower back. I try to wipe the sweat from my eyes with the back of my arm and only succeed in getting Iema’s blood all over my face.
Thin green tendrils sweep out of my fingers and try to hold the remains of her flesh together. It worked better when I stitched the tender flesh of Zaylam’s underbelly together during the Kinzemna massacre at the Flowing; but then, Zaylam’s my hatchling dragon, so my magic, my Energies, are closely tugged to hers. This woman I’ve never met? She might die from this trap, and it might be in my arms.
Unless whoever’s coming for her sees through my disguise. Then we both might die.
So much blood. And bone. Is that what my insides look like too? Lerian’s? My little sibling, Aon’s? I know it is—I watched quer tiny skull get cut open during quer Slicing, just a few sunups after que was born, the same night que lost all hope of ever having a hatchling dragon, since que hadn’t Dreamed one before quer Slicing.
I’m dizzy again and my stomach heaves.
A pair of beady eyes watches us from the underbrush near the Tread. It’s Osley. Que must have followed me here; quer gaze makes me feel safer somehow. I yank harder at the Energies as the shouting gets closer. More green tendrils emerge from my fingertips. The bleeding starts to slow. I let out a shaky breath. The Forest seems much quieter, and I realize it’s because I’m no longer gasping for breath.
The shouts and approaching boot stomps are getting still louder. Whoever it is must be able to see us by now. Osley shrinks away farther into the underbrush. My breathing gets shakier again and my hands tremble so hard it’s all I can do to keep the green waves of Energy flowing into Iema’s wound to keep her from bleeding to death. Even if she is a Lunara-forsaken Hand.
And then Iema screams roughly. A low thwock accompanies a sudden, intense crunching to my face, and I’m a few flutters away, sprawled all akimbo in the snow. My jaw stings something wild and the world is spinning. I fumble for my cloak, making sure it’s securely covering my wings. Every movement throbs. I can’t tell if I’m bleeding or not because I’m already covered in Iema’s insides.
“Stop it!” she shrieks, and I look up dazedly to see a newly arrived Hand, raising his club—I have enough of myself to be grateful it’s not his sword—above his head with both hands. He’s ready to strike me again, and he’s grinning through his stiff gray beard and nearly snow-colored skin. “Stop it, she was trying to help me!”
He doesn’t listen. His grin just gets broader. He prepares to strike. I prepare to roll away—I’ve been trained for exactly this—but find that I can’t move. It’s not the pain; it’s something deeper, something in the Energies, something tugging, like it tugged when I stood over Leece while he was Dreaming. But I don’t have time to wonder about the Energies.
I panic. I am about to die. Then—
“Reve!” Another voice cuts in, sharp and high and angry. The soldier’s grin is replaced by a scowl. The protruding purple vein in his snow-pale forehead throbs.
“Leave her! Get over here and help me. Now.” The soldier—Reve—spits down at me, right into my face. I lift ashoulder angrily to wipe the glob away. When I look up, the soldier is slipping his club back beneath his white cloak and trotting to where Iema lies a few flutters away. I stay on the ground, shaking and openmouthed, my jaw throbbing from where he hit me. But the Energies ease out as he creates some distance between us. I raise my head slightly.
A girl, looking like she’s about my age-mate, is kneeling in the snow next to Iema, her chest heaving, running her gaze over her injury to assess the damage. The girl’s tight black curls spill out of her hood as she yanks it down along her neck, somehow both urgent and graceful. Her lips are moving, but I can’t hear her words as Reve looms over them both.
I stay down. I don’t trust my ability to play non in front of this Reve character, not when there’s blood melting through the snow. A fair stream of which might be mine.
“Tell the keepers of the inn at Lethe to prepare for an urgent patient. Use my name. Don’t delay, and do not argue with me. Iema, this will sting. But you’ll be all right soon enough. Here, squeeze my hand.” She’s weaving Energy bandages, much sturdier than mine, out of her wrist while Iema grabs at her other hand. Slices of Iema’s flesh sizzle, but she stops leaking so much blood. The bandages the girl weaves have a rich golden color, like the mist of soul keepers that used to be so common around these parts. Until they, like Dreamers, started getting killed. Or worse, shipped off to the Pits. Mostly by light non men like the one who just clubbed me and spit in my face.
Reve drops to one knee and I hear him whisper-shouting at the girl in Highlander non, his voice harsh and urgent. I can’t make out her words in response, but she sounds angry. His shoulders tense but he concedes, sweeping Iema into his arms like she weighs nothing. He sprints back to the Tread and up in the direction of the nearest non settlement, Lethe.
I know the inn she’s talking about; I was there a few sunups ago to see about an antidote for the infections a lot of the dragons have been developing since the Kinzemna massacre. Mom and Jax are great healers, and the Forest learning pods are lucky to have them, but Highland healers have more resources in their poorest facilities than our best infirmaries are allowed to touch. And when I’ve got my wings tucked away, they’ll talk to me like I’m one of their own.
Looking like the enemy makes for being a great spy.
I curse myself for not thinking to bring Iema there.
Reve’s footsteps recede and leave me alone with the Forest, with the girl. Somewhere, I know that Osley is watching nearby, but que won’t emerge with nons in the area. Que never does.
The girl’s breaths are heavy and she’s still on the ground, bloodied hands bracing her stomach on her thick thighs. She wheezes out something in what might be an Izlanian dialect. I recognize thank and Iema’s name, but nothing else.
Not understanding the words, I try to read her body. I wonder if Izlanians communicate with their bodies like we do in the Grove. They hadn’t mentioned it in our learning pod. Or maybe they did, and I was too busy fooling around with Lerian to notice.
Now, the girl tries to catch her breath; she must have sprinted to get here. She leans back, arching her back and tries to rub a stitch out of her full side, her expression tight with pain. She stays that way until her breathing regulates, her face ashy from the bite of the cold.
I don’t move to lift my shoulders off the ground, even though the snow’s already seeped through the back of my cloak and I’m starting to shiver. The girl looks at me then, without raising her head.
She stares at me for a moment and then takes a deep breath and switches to Highlander non. “You didn’t understand a word I said, did you?”
My insides uncoil a little. She thinks I’m a non like her. Of course she does. I give a mock scoff and lean up on my elbows, lifting an unsteady hand to my smarting jaw. “I caught the gist.”
She laughs softly, and it sounds like the wind on a sun season sunup, rushing through the skyflower trees in the Underland. “Sorry about that. After all this time, even with all the laws, sometimes I still forget to speak Highlander aloud.”
I understand her words, but I’m still not completely sure what she’s going on about. I just nod in the non way.
Leaning heavily on her thighs, the g
irl hoists herself up and brushes snow from her bloodstained cloak, gracefully and gingerly pulling her thick hood back over her halo of hair. She looks down at me. “I don’t know you. I doubt Iema does either. But you helped her.”
It’s a statement but an uncertain one. Almost like a question. I drag myself off the ground unsteadily but don’t go any closer to her. A blanket of bloodied snow lies between us.
“I was nearby, and she was hurt.” She won’t let me look away. She nods quietly before stepping gingerly around the steaming red snow toward me.
She’s keeping one hand close to her belly, holding it limply from the wrist. A thick off-white bandage is protecting her knuckles. My lips part, but she speaks first.
“I’m Evelyn.” She’s looking into my eyes, but her functioning hand is reaching tentatively toward my bloodied jaw. She arches an eyebrow gently, and I nod. Immediately, I feel the Energies shift in front of me, within me, and healing warmth floods my jaw. Her gaze fixes on the spot where Reve clubbed me, leaving me free to take in the way her brown eyes have a small ring of amber in them, her wide nose, and full lips, painted purple.
My mouth runs dry as she exhales shakily into the space between us, the white cloud of her breath mingling with mine and with the golden tendrils of healing Energies she’s magicking. I clear my throat.
“Evelyn,” I repeat. “I’m uh…” I’m having trouble thinking straight, and for a moment, I can’t even remember the name I use when I’m spying. And Sadie is a Highlander non name, anyway, like my wider-set shoulders and thinner wings—yet another thing to set me apart from Forest faeries.
Her stare drags up to mine at my hesitation, and all at once I feel a burning, like an unexplained but unchecked need, to give her my real name. “Sadie,” I splutter. “Thanks for, uh…”
She shushes me, her attention refocusing on my wound. I stay as still as I can until she releases the Energies around us, done with her healing spells.