by Mary Weber
Swine.
I force myself to look away from them both. Hold it in, Nym.
“C’mon! No one else is going to want her. Let me have her, and I’ll pay you more if she ends up being worth it.” The man uses his hands to boast, and the redhead’s reins yank her little neck around as he swaggers through the captive audience who’ve parted to create a path for him. She begins to cry. He doesn’t even notice.
My chest ignites. Stop, I warn my insides. She’s not you.
In the back of the crowd, a noblewoman strolls over from one of the stalls. Her shimmery, gold-lined eyes match her brilliant hair and painted lips as she studies me. My shoulders smooth out. My eyes hope. “Please take me,” I whisper. Before I can’t control it.
Her gilded lips press together in a thoughtful line, then she turns away.
I drop my gaze on the man now standing directly below me in front of the stage.
“How about you show us a bit more skin and maybe I’ll throw in an extra draght?” he hollers, brandishing a hand at the throng as if to earn their agreement.
A whimper beside him, followed by a squeak, and it’s only then he seems to notice the little girl whose neck he’s nearly cracked. She’s sniffling and straining upward so she doesn’t get hung by the collar.
I freeze.
He sneers at her. But she doesn’t notice. Her gaze is glued on me. He looks back and forth between the two of us. Curiosity, then anger flickers across his face. I pretend to ignore it. Until he lifts the girl’s reins and gives them a tug.
She winces and I grimace.
A sick grin twists his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he raises her reins another inch so her toes are barely touching the ground. He watches for my reaction.
The girl’s eyes go wild. She begins to writhe and spin, trying to hold her head high enough to keep breathing.
My fingers curl into fists.
Stay out of it, Nym. Close your eyes.
An awkward hush falls. The man’s perverse pleasure is tangible as again he lifts the reins. But this time he doesn’t stop until her feet are off the ground and the little girl’s expression has exploded into full-blown terror. She is kicking, flailing, gasping. Choking at the end of her noose.
And he’s enjoying every second of it.
I shut my eyes and feel the throbbing of my own neck. One . . . two . . . three heart pulses, and abruptly there’s a pause in the air. As if the wind itself is holding her breath.
And then the sound of a choked spasm, so fragile in its hopelessness, signaling what I already knew.
He’s going to let her die.
But I can’t.
Thick clouds descend on the marketplace in a swirling rush and darken the sun. They sharpen the friction in the atmosphere, engaging with my infuriated blood, my skin. Sickened, I open my eyes in time to see faces draw upward. Their expressions slowly alter from humor to horror.
I’m so sorry, I want to say. But all you fancy people in your pretty shawls? You should know better.
Shouts pick up. “What’s going on? Is she doing that?”
The cold sets in. My body shivers, followed by heat rippling along my skin’s pale surface.
The little girl’s owner lowers the reins and stares at me. As does the noblewoman in back with the gold-rimmed eyes. Is it in fear? Fascination? I don’t know which and I don’t care.
The sky rumbles and the wind quickens, wild so my hair is everywhere and the stand is creaking and a howl picks up through the market stalls. The shop vendors scramble to place their baskets and wares under cover and tamp down their tent stakes. The crowd scatters, diving for safety. Everyone but the half-choked little girl, her owner, and the noblewoman. Why aren’t they running? Go, my eyes beg the child. Not that it would help the wretched man with her.
I tense.
Here it comes.
The familiar crackle rips along my veins, and then the pain pierces through as my muscles stiffen and coil inside me like the air above. Igniting. My body, both master and slave to the elements. And I don’t know how to breathe, how to stop it, how to be anything but this thing fracturing the sky.
The first lightning strike lands in the middle of a meadow. Far enough away to avoid people but close enough to terrify.
People scream and stop running. Some look around. Some hunch over, as if making themselves smaller will save them. “It won’t,” I yell at them. They’re about to die because of a curse I am powerless to control.
A raindrop splashes on my forehead. Then another. Then they’re dripping everywhere. Pouring off their faces and dulling their cries, and in the middle of it all, the noblewoman is still watching, a growing look of hilarity on her face. She must be insane—standing in the storm looking like that.
Leave! I try to scream at her, but abruptly my voice is gone.
In front of me, the man has given up staring and is running now too—trying to escape with the redheaded girl. She’s struggling so desperately that the reins slip free and she falls backward.
I sense it before I see it. The storm overhead snaps its fury.
My body jolts.
His violent death will be the only one that won’t haunt my nightmares tonight.
A deafening crack and blinding flash. The marketplace goes white. Burning grass and flesh fill my nostrils as a repulsive thrill winds through my static-filled veins.
His body bursts into pure energy.
The crazy noblewoman laughs as the man crumbles to dust.
CHAPTER 3
It’s snowing. Bits of ash and frost are biting at my fingers. I hold them out in front of me and watch, terrified, as the night’s destruction swirls around my winter home in a smoky blizzard of hail and lightning. A dirty red trail leads all the way from the chateau to my little bloody feet, which are melting holes in the luminescent snow. The tracks look like a spattered path of scarlet bread crumbs.
It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know why I am outside.
I gag and cough in the thickening smoke. It’s burning my throat in its spread toward the blurry tree line. I can’t breathe. I’m frightened.
I want my mum.
Something moves on my right, but before I can look, there’s a crash and one side of my home caves in and flames leap out. Followed by screams, first Mum’s, then Dad’s. Scared. Then furious. Calling my name. My heart clenches and crumbles all in one breath. What have I done?
I scream and start running, tripping, clawing toward their voices, but hands pull me away and pick me up, and I’m tearing them off, trying to get back. I have to rescue my parents. But the grip is too strong. Tears freeze into rivers midflood down my face, and I can do nothing but watch it all fade as I’m dragged away. Knowing I have somehow destroyed the best part of my world.
“And thus the Sea of Elisedd churns noisy, and thus her sapphire waters turned salty . . .”
Oh good grief, is that minstrel still howling?
I open my eyes with a plan to inform him just how very bad my head hurts and how his serenade is not helping. But it occurs to me that his voice has altered to an octave higher and much prettier, and in fact has become very much like a girl’s.
As has his face.
I blink.
Squint. Blink again.
What in hulls?
It is a girl, with auburn hair braided around a freckled countenance barely older than mine. She’s singing and setting a tray of tea and bread by my bed. My insides dissolve at the smell. I can’t remember the last time I ate. It would’ve been with Brea on the road yesterd—
I bolt straight up, scrambling my thoughts around the canopy overhead and the soft substance beneath me. And then I’m out of the enormous berth faster than a whipping boy running for his mum—horrified at having been in it, let alone having been discovered there.
The room spins drunkenly for a second, swooning with my aching head as I grasp the nearest bedpost for support. How did I get in here? I can’t remember anything beyond standing on the auction blo
ck.
The singing girl stops. “Ah, so you’re awake.”
“Who are you? And where am I?”
“It’s ’bout time, cuz we gotta ’urry and get you ready, right?” She settles the tea tray and ignores my question. “Adora wants to talk to you before it starts.” She tips her head my direction and clucks her tongue, as if chiding me to quit standing around.
Ready for what? “Where am I?” I repeat, taking in the room as quick as my eyes can absorb it. The huge, arched ceiling, the fireplace, the hideously expensive tapestries hanging on either side that are the color of my bloody feet from my nightmare. And the window—the giant window with its breathtaking view of the evening’s purplish, smoke-strewn skies melting into a hillside that surrounds the High Court city. I peer closer at its white, pointy buildings and staggered streets leading up to . . . to . . . the Castle! And behind it the jagged Hythra Mountain peaks.
I turn back to the girl.
She’s holding a steaming cup of tea. “You’re in Adora’s house,” she says as if annoyed I’ve not caught on to this yet. She waves the cup precariously and frowns at the air next to my head. “You best be careful, cuz it’s hot, right? And we ’aven’t got a lot a time.” She shoves the cup closer. Except she’s not quite holding it toward me. More to the side of me.
My hungry stomach turns sour as awareness registers. “Are you serving me?” I back away, shaking my throbbing head. “Look, I don’t know how I got in this room, but if they find me here, you and I are dead. I need to leave. Now.”
“Well, we’d do it a lot quicker if you’d just drink the tea already. Cuz it’s Adora’s orders you’re in here, but now she’s orderin’ you downstairs, right? An’ I wouldn’t make her wait if I was you.” She folds one arm across the cream-colored peasant frock draping her curved body like my mum’s used to, and with the other hand continues to offer the cup at an awkward angle, her eyes still peering off somewhere behind me. “She really don’t like to be kept waiting,” she adds, voice lowered as if she’s sharing a confidence. “Especially on party nights.”
I rub my pounding temple. Party nights? I take the teacup with my good hand just so she’ll stop standing there so uncomfortable, but she just keeps standing there anyway. I drink a hesitant sip. She stares without watching me and grins. “Good, i’nt it?”
It is good. And I’m famished. I gulp down half the cup before slowing under the gaze of her brown, unfocused eyes. They have a funny look to them. Suspicion surfaces. I tilt my head and shift my whole body to the right, to see if she’ll follow my movements. She doesn’t. Her stare is glued to the exact same spot. Oh.
She’s blind.
Her smile becomes shy as if she’s completely aware of what I was just testing. “Yep, I’m blind, and the name is Breck.”
I return the cup to the nightstand, almost tipping it over in my distraction. I’m embarrassed for being insensitive as much as for the inexcusable error she’s made. It’s a mistake no owner will forgive just because of blindness.
“Listen, Breck. I’m clearly not what you think I am, which is understandable seeing as you, well, you know . . .” Great. Just insult the poor girl. I clear my throat and look down at my clothes, which aren’t mine but a thin gown of the softest silk clinging to my scrawny body. Curses. I lick my lips. “Okay look, if Adora bought me, then I’m supposed to be down in the slave quarters. I need you to take me there.” I glance around. “But first I need to find my clothes.”
Breck’s mouth puckers. She nods. “I see. So you’re a bit thick in the head, no?” She sighs and turns to walk off toward a large oak armoire near the window where she pulls open its doors. “Just don’t let Adora know it, right? Try to act smart if you can. She’ll have a lovely ’issyfit if she finds out she spent good money on an idiot.”
I raise a brow. An idiot? I’m tempted to set her straight, except I don’t actually care what she believes of me. I just need to get out of here.
She reaches into the armoire and takes out what appears to be the lone item inside—a dress of beautiful yellow, crisp material with simple lines that speaks of price and taste. “So here’s the thing, right? Try to listen careful and follow what I’m saying.” She speaks slow and precise like she’s talking to a child. “Adora bought you from the merchant auction yesterday. You’re in the right room, cuz I’m blind but not a fool. And you are a slave. Of some sort. You can talk to Adora ’bout that. As for your clothes . . .”
She carries the dress over with an expression of satisfaction. “She had me burn them when she brought you home last evening. And you’re welcome. Now she’s waiting for you downstairs, so we best get on it before she maims us.” Breck holds the dress up to me as if she can visualize it. “Now be polite and give us your name.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at this person who is hands down the strangest servant I’ve ever encountered. In the most extravagant house. Under the most irrational circumstances.
My lack of speech only makes her nod all the more disappointedly. “So you really are an idiot, then.” She bats her hand until it connects with my arm, then pushes me in front of her. “Well, let’s at least get you dressed. Adora can’t have you trompin’ around here with yer looks matching yer dull-witted brains.”
I’m a mute mixture of horror and confusion as she strips me down and goes to pull the fancy dress on over my head. I stiffen for the brief second my tattoos are exposed, just before the dress slides over them. Until I realize her blind eyes can’t see the markings. And then the gown is on, snug and soft and wholly uncomfortable in its foreign luxuriousness. And I’m scared as litches because I know she’s made a mistake and I’m going to get the insides gutted out of both of us for even touching this room and gown.
“Just one of Adora’s old things. Nice, right?” Breck is muttering away. “Well, you won’t think so once you see what she wears most of the time. That woman’s like a High Court fashion stylist all in ’er own twisted self.” She turns me around to face her and runs her hands down me to feel out the dress, as if picturing it through her fingers. “You gonna tell me your name now or just keep on bein’ stupid and rude?”
“Nymia,” I whisper cautiously. “But I go by Nym. From the Fendres Mountains.”
“Nymia? Like the sea nymph? Never been to the Fendres, but I ’ear they got some fearsome animals. Now come ’ere and ’ave a quick look in the mirror afore we take you down to the ol’ crazy.” She steers me around the bed and shoves me in front of a tall looking glass on the other side.
I pause, then gasp and step backward, nearly tripping over Breck’s foot. The person in the mirror is not me. She has my pale skin and blue eyes and everything about her heart-shaped face is mine, but . . . I lean in to peer closer.
The hair. Is not.
It’s brown. A rich, burnished, not-anything-like-me brown. “What the bolcrane happened to my hair?”
“Ack! Should’a warned you. Adora had me put some walnut-root juice in it this mornin’ while you was still passed out. That slave master must’ve hit you pretty ’ard at the market for as comatose as you been the last twenty-four hours. Almost thought you was dead. Anyway, she didn’t want you walking around ’ere looking like . . . well, like what you are. Too many questions.”
While she’s talking she’s rummaging through a small bag clipped to her apron. She pulls out three long hairpins and, quick as I’ve ever seen, twists my hair up into two messy knots and fastens them awkwardly to the base of my neck, then pets the top and sides of my head. She stands back. “There. How’s it look?”
Ridiculous. Disgusting. Beautiful. Everything that is not me or anything I’m familiar with. A part of me wants to stare at this mirrored girl, knowing she’ll never be real again. The rest of me wants to tear it all off because it’s a gross fake. Like wearing someone else’s skin that’s better than anything I am—that I didn’t ask to borrow. And I’m terrified for when the owner finds out.
“Now we gotta go, but you might wanna ’nother qui
ck swig a tea. Adora—she can be a troll. You gonna need all the sustainin’ you can get.”
Wonderful.
I bite my lip and pull my gaze from the mirror before muttering, “Let’s just go.” Time to get the lights beaten out of both of us.
Breck clucks her tongue again and prods me toward the door. When she opens it, I swear a tornado has touched down inside the house. The hall is filled with voices and rich, tinkly music, the clatter of dishes, and servants running by us without a glance in our direction. The delicious scents of baked bread and roasted meats seep from the covered platters they’re carrying, permeating the cherrywood walls and lush, silver floor carpets.
My stomach erupts in starvation as Breck forces me out into the wide walkway and, with a tight grip, proceeds to lead me down a maze of hallways and back stairwells. I try to keep up, impressed at how effortlessly she can wind through it in her blindness.
Two flights of steps we’ve tramped down before I ask, “How long have you lived here?”
“Me and Colin been here eight months.” She turns a corner.
“Colin?”
Another corner and then she halts so suddenly in front of an enormous gilded door, I nearly plow into her. “My brother. You’ll meet ’im eventually if you stay.” Breck gives a rap on the gold with her fist, and the thudded sound it creates absorbs into the door and makes me wonder if it’s solid or embossed. Either way, it’s an obscenely ridiculous waste of money.
I hear a muffled, “Come in.”
“Now, remember what I said,” Breck whispers. “Try to look smart and sound like you got some brains in your head, or the ol’ crow’ll be done with you faster than her harem of menfolk.”
“Harem of menfolk?”
Before I can press further, Breck pushes the door open.
CHAPTER 4
THE GOLD DOOR OPENS TO REVEAL A GIANT sitting room lined with richly draped windows and, beneath those, red velvet couches full of men chatting and sipping from colored goblets. Their perfume has practically condensed into clouds around them, and each one is dressed like a fairy-tale creature.