Seteal’s soul laughed soundlessly, existing miles above the earth. She was alone in her being, free from the torment of embodiment. Her broken and defeated body couldn’t burden her. There was no stolen virginity, rape, pain, or nightmares. Those things stayed with the body she’d abandoned. That body was lying in a bed that Seteal no longer required in a boat so very far, far away.
Seteal twisted through existence, bending what was until she came to drift above the outermost parts of the Bairon Desert. The desert stretched away from her, farther than she could hope to see . . . not that she was truly seeing, considering she no longer had any eyes. But Seteal wanted to know where the desert ended. She surged forward, but all too soon slowed down due to a debilitating weakness. Her soul became vague and uncertain. Seteal pushed a little farther, but soon found herself drifting out of consciousness, which in the Ways was all she had. Clearly there were limitations as to how far she could travel from her body.
Pulling back, Seteal made her way northeast. There she found what she was looking for--and, indeed, the Frozen Lands were beautiful. Vast stretches of ice spread out over hundreds of miles, only to rupture into the sky as towering sculptures formed by wind and rain. The lofty cliffs looked like great waves, reaching into the air where they’d been snap-frozen before having the chance to crash back down into an ancient ocean. The landscape was coloured by breathtaking whites and blues that reflected the blazing sun.
As Seteal moved southward again, she couldn’t help but reflect on the beauty of the things she’d seen. As she sailed through the treetops, she began to slow down, but much to her surprise, it wasn’t her that slowed. It was everything else. A small white bird beat its wings in slow motion. A leaf fell from a nearby tree, momentarily sat in the air, and finally began a painfully slow downward decent. A snake launched into a death bite whilst moving so slowly that Seteal could have read a book before its strike was complete.
Laughing at the insanity of it all, Seteal danced through the woods watching anything and everything that moved. She focused her energy on the surroundings, squeezing time and giggling inwardly when everything slowed even further. She squeezed again, but was unable to quite get everything to stop completely. She suddenly found herself imagining a ball of clay. One could squash the ball until it was little more than a slither, but the slither could never be flattened into nonexistence.
Seteal danced about the woods, feeding her soul with the light of freedom in a place free of hatred and regret. Only joy existed here. She plunged into the sky and sawed among the clouds. She snatched at her imagined ball of clay and pulled at both sides, stretching it out and speeding up eternity.
The air began to vibrate and Seteal watched as the sun sped by the clouds in its desperation to meet the horizon. The moon glowed into existence and stars filled the sky. As suddenly as night had come, again it vanished and floral faces reached for a sun that raced over the horizon as if it were running late for an appointment. This was impossible! Seteal wanted to scream and clap her hands. Instead, lightning struck the earth and the sky burped its throaty apology.
Again, the sun was gone. Night returned. It rained for a split second. The sun returned. But Seteal was no longer having fun. Something was wrong. Her breathing became laboured, but she didn’t have lungs. Her heart rate felt strange in a chest she no longer possessed. Her palms were sweating and her lips were too dry. Her throat was parched.
Seteal plunged into a darkness that swallowed her. She spiralled through the air, drawn from eternity to a finite point. She felt pressure on every part of her being as she was crushed and compacted into the confines of an all-too-familiar vessel. The first thing she noticed was the biting cold. The next thing she noticed was the pain in her stomach. Seteal opened her eyes, which was painful. She opened her mouth. That too was painful.
‘Here.’ Far-a-mael’s voice filled her ears as the old man loomed over her bed, a glass of water in hand. ‘Drink this.’
After swallowing only a few mouthfuls Seteal stopped, uncertain as to whether she’d be able to keep the water down. ‘What happened?’ Seteal asked, surprised by the weakness in her voice.
‘I’m not terribly sure.’ Far-a-mael gazed into her eyes, his own filled with concern. ‘We’ve been unable to wake you for more than two days. We found you sleeping, but your aura was absent. It was as though you were dead.’
‘I feel terrible,’ Seteal moaned.
‘I’d imagine so.’ Far-a-mael recoiled. ‘You’ve had nothing to eat or drink for days. You must be more cautious when you’re playing about with the Ways, Seteal. I dare say you need only practice under my direct supervision from now on. Simply too little is known about Elglair abilities in half-castes.’
Seteal disagreed inwardly, but was too tired to fight. She was miserable, a prisoner within her own skin. The flesh she was wrapped in served as a constant reminder of everything that’d happened to her, what she’d lost and what she’d become as a result, little better than a common whore.
‘I want to be free,’ Seteal whispered as she closed her eyes.
How could she not have anticipated what would happen when time sped up? Did she really think she was Maker, able to play with the Ways as she pleased? She hadn’t sped time up. She’d merely sped up her perception. Seteal had abandoned her body to starve for two nights and almost three days. She should’ve gone longer. Perhaps if she killed the body, she’d be free forever.
‘Seteal,’ El-i-miir called and her eyes popped open. Apparently she’d fallen asleep. ‘Eat this.’ The woman handed her a bowl. Seteal took it between shaking hands.
‘What is it?’ She asked.
‘I don’t know.’ El-i-miir shrugged. ‘Fes made it for you. She says it’ll put strength back into your bones . . . or something like that.’
‘Are you all right?’ Seteal narrowed her eyes as she lifted the spoon to her mouth.
‘All right?’ El-i-miir laughed nervously. ‘I’m fine!’
‘You seem awfully jittery,’ Seteal replied after swallowing a mouthful of Fes’s broth, which tasted delightful if a little salty.
‘I’m fine.’ El-i-miir shrugged.
‘Why’re you dressed like that?’ Seteal frowned, running her eyes over El-i-miir’s fur coat and animal skin boots.
‘I don’t want you to be alarmed,’ El-i-miir began slowly, ‘but you’ve been out for a few days.’
‘What of it?’
‘We’ve almost reached the heart of Cold Wood,’ El-i-miir lowered her voice.
‘I see.’ Seteal put down the bowl.
‘Far-a-mael and Waxnah want everyone to be prepared, but to remain calm,’ El-i-miir said steadily. ‘It would be advisable for you to slip into something a little more appropriate.’
‘Yes,’ Seteal murmured as she felt her strength beginning to return. ‘That’s probably for the best.’ She swung her feet out of the bed, only to freeze as the riverboat moaned from its depths. Seteal snapped her foot away as the floorboards warped and a shelf splintered from the wall.
El-i-miir launched herself beneath the covers with Seteal, in time for the temperature to plummet. ‘The heart of Cold Wood,’ El-i-miir whispered, pulling the covers above their heads.
‘Well, we can’t just lay here,’ Seteal replied. ‘What if they’re in trouble up on deck?’
‘Far-a-mael can take care of it,’ El-i-miir cautioned. ‘You’re hardly well enough to be walking about.’
‘I feel fine,’ Seteal replied dismissively. ‘Stay here if you’re too scared, but I’m taking the blanket.’ She pulled hard on the cloth, rolled off the bed, and shoved her feet into boots.
‘All right!’ El-i-miir yelped, leaping off the bed and snatching up the blanket from the top bunk. ‘I’m coming,’ she snapped. Just as suddenly as the cold had struck, it vanished.
‘What just happened?’ Seteal asked, hurrying over to the wardrobe to throw on a leather coat.
‘I’ve heard about this.’ El-i-miir’s face filled with recognition. ‘They say t
hat the first sign of entry into the innermost parts of Cold Wood are the pockets of frozen air. Eventually the temperature will become consistent, but this far out it doesn’t quite mix properly.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense.’ Seteal frowned.
‘Not all things of demonic origin do.’ El-i-miir shrugged. ‘Not that that makes me a believer.’
‘A believer?’
‘You’ve never read the Holy Tome?’ El-i-miir cocked her head. ‘I thought your people were all church-goers.’
‘Not all of us,’ Seteal replied, without bothering to hide her contempt. ‘Followers of the Tome do nothing but condemn others without pausing for a moment to witness their own hypocrisy.’ Seteal took a deep, calming breath.
Faith had never done anything for her. She’d heard of people being touched, or inspired, or having felt Maker’s presence. Seteal had never felt it. If he existed at all, Maker had only ever shown her spite, his book openly condemning people like her as abominable. Maker created her as the person she was, only to turn around and call her that? That wasn’t love. That wasn’t kindness. The Holy Tome spewed such hatred that Seteal couldn’t even share the truth with her own father.
‘Why? What words of inspiration does the great and Holy Tome have to share with us today?’ she asked bitterly.
‘According to the Tome, Cold Wood is where the first silts punctured the barrier between Hae'Evun and our world,’ El-i-miir said slowly, taken aback by Seteal’s aggressive tone. ‘But, of course, that’s just nonsense. For all we know, silts have shared this world with us since the dawn of time. They’re probably more similar to us than we’d like to admit.’
‘They’re monsters.’ Seteal stared at El-i-miir. ‘Never let anyone convince you otherwise. Now, if you’re done sympathising with demons, I’m going to look for something productive to do.’ Seteal headed for the door, feeling disturbed by El-i-miir’s tolerance.
Seteal wrapped her hand around the doorhandle, but snapped it back as the cold bit into her fingertips. A second later, it felt as though she’d been plunged into some dark recess of the ocean that had never seen the light of day. The cold was crushing, crawling along the surface of her body until once again warmth touched her face. Rubbing herself vigorously, Seteal barged through the door and raced outside.
Men hurried about on deck, pulling lines in between rubbing their arms and wrapping their jackets tight. Seteal headed back downstairs to look for Fes and eventually found the Merry Islander in a small room that functioned as a kitchen. She was busy keeping a fire stoked and the water boiling.
‘Fes,’ Seteal called out as she entered the room. ‘Could I borrow some of the blankets from your wagon?’
‘Do what ye want,’ Fes muttered sulkily without even looking up.
‘Fes?’ Seteal said slowly, confused by the ordinarily cheery woman’s demeanour. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Nah, I’m nah all right.’ Fes spun around. ‘That gil be beatin’ the silt too much. It nah be fair. He ain’t done nothin’.’
‘Fes!’ Seteal’s jaw dropped. ‘It’s a demon.’
‘And nah let me get started on ye, young lady,’ Fes shook her head, her shoulders slumping as she turned back to the boiling pot. ‘Even El-i-miir be havin’ more compassion than ye and she be one of them. I know ye been through a hard lot, but ye be losin’ yeself, Seteal.’
‘I’m not losing myself,’ Seteal growled. ‘Demons are enemies of the Elglair.’
‘And ye are nah Elglair!’ Fes snapped. ‘Best ye remember where ye came from. Now ye listen ta me.’ She came very close and lowered her voice warningly. ‘I be knowin’ men like Far-a-mael in my time and they seldom mean well. Ye be careful ta remember what ye believe in.’
‘I’m going to get those blankets,’ Seteal muttered stonily as she left the room. She began to head back toward the deck, but it suddenly seemed more important to go down to the hold. Perhaps the silt had died from the cold. When Seteal reached the bottom of the spiralling staircase, she noticed how dark it was. No lanterns had been lit and not one crewman stood guard at the brig. Perhaps they’d needed additional hands on deck. Still, Far-a-mael would not be pleased when she reported this to him. Seteal smiled at the idea of telling Far-a-mael what she’d seen. He’d be very pleased with her. He was her rock, her stability in all this madness. The old man who she’d once so readily doubted was rapidly becoming a second father to her.
Seteal made her way over to the metal door embedded in the wall and placed a hand flat against the cold surface. ‘Are you there?’ she whispered.
‘Who is it?’ the demon responded, its voice sending shivers of repulsion throughout Seteal’s body.
‘I wish I could be there,’ Seteal heard herself saying as she rested her face against the door and allowed the images to tumble through her mind. ‘I wish I could see your face when they burn you at the stake or cut off your wings, if only to spit on you.
‘You’re that woman,’ the demon stated. ‘Seteal? Listen, I’m sorry about what happened to you. It wasn’t fair to leave you alone in that field, but people were trying to kill me and I’d never heard of that happening in Abnatol before. Our people are ordinarily very kind.’
‘Shut up,’ Seteal hissed, still imagining the creature’s inevitable demise. ‘I don’t care to hear your piteous excuses, nor do I care that you abandoned me to be raped. I do not care that you were born in Sitnic, or that you had human parents, or if you’ve never created a single whisp in your life. I hate you because you’re a demon. You are a disgusting, repulsive, leathery-winged demon and if only I had the power and permission I would squeeze your throat until I’d killed you with my own hands. Do you hear?’
The silt did not respond and eventually Seteal grew tired of waiting. With a dreamy smile on her face she floated up the spiral staircase, along the corridor and up on deck. She wove between the crewmen and made her way to the Keacos' wagon. She opened the door at the back, climbed inside, and collapsed on a pile of blankets. A wave of nausea pinched her stomach and thrust itself into her throat. Vomit sprayed from Seteal’s mouth and hit the floor of the wagon before she even knew what’d happened.
Seteal gagged at the smell, but found herself unable to leave the dark interior. ‘But you’ve been a naughty girl.’ His voice haunted her. Seteal put a hand on her shoulder, remembering his first touch.
‘Are you all right there missy?’ Master Fasil asked, grasping at Seteal’s shoulder. ‘How rude of me.’ The man shook his head. ‘I’m Master Fasil.’ He reached out to take Seteal’s hand and pushed his lips against it.
‘Seteal,’ she replied, retrieving her hand hastily.
‘And whom, may I ask, do you belong to?’ The man snarled like a predator.
‘Belong to?’ Seteal shook her head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve confused me.’
‘Pretty little thing, but none too bright,’ Master Fasil laughed mockingly. ‘But it’s always that way with the better ones.’
‘Is it really, you filthy old bastard?’ Seteal laughed vengefully. Master Fasil’s eyes widened in terror as she withdrew a great sword from its scabbard and spun it around in expert circles. Seteal smiled lustfully as she thrust the sword into his genitals and again into his body. Even as his eyes closed and blood poured to the earth, oh, how Seteal laughed. She laughed and laughed as the blood sprayed across the dirt. Again and again she plunged that sword into his black heart until he was nothing more than a discoloured pile of mush.
Wiping the vomit from her chin, Seteal fell back against the wall of the wagon. Outside she could see the crewmen rushing about their duties under Captain Waxnah’s watchful eye, but for all it mattered, she could’ve been a million miles away. What was happening to her? All she ever felt was hatred. It was exhausting. So much hatred. It consumed her. Maker, when would it ever end?
Seteal rocked forward onto her haunches and retrieved an armful of blankets, before making her way unsteadily out onto the deck. With an expressionless face, she wandered a
bout handing out blankets and avoiding eye contact. Eye contact might mean conversation and conversation might mean time away from her hatful thoughts. She couldn’t risk that. She needed the hatred.
So focused on avoiding seeing anything, Seteal’s toe caught on a protrusion and she tripped. Her body flew forward without her, arms flailing, but a moment later her soul, too, fell forward into the back of her body, just after it’d hit the deck.
‘Are you all right?’ A crewman rushed over and grabbed her elbow in an effort to help her up.
‘It didn’t hurt you did it?’ Master Fasil narrowed his eyes in predation. ‘Pretty little thing like you.’
Seteal screamed before she could stop herself, she thrust her tightly clenched fist into the man’s face.
‘Get away from me!’ Seteal cried as she picked herself up to run away. ‘Just leave me alone!’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
COLD WOOD
The Inner Circle: The Knowing Page 39