The Sweetest Spell

by Suzanne Selfors

  My stomach growled as we walked past baskets of fish. The little silver ones, the kind Lara had cooked for me, lay alongside large orange ones with bulging eyes. There were other creatures for sale, bigger versions of the sand crabs that had shared the beach with me and creatures with long necks that squirted water. Gulls flew over the docks, circling and swooping as they tried to steal a feast. Crusty fishermen gutted and cleaned their catch, while merchants in green coats argued prices. No one spoke to Griffin as he strode past, his hand on his sword’s hilt, but they cast ugly glares. Some whispered, their eyes narrowed as they stepped aside. Others simply chose to ignore him. Clearly there was no love for the king’s soldiers in this village. Perhaps they had come, just as they had in the Flatlands, to take away the unmarried men.

  From beneath the rim of my bonnet, I kept a look out for Peddler. My heart fluttered at the sight of each green jacket. An old man sitting on a bench caught my eye. When he turned and faced me, I took a relieved breath.

  I hobbled across the street, following Griffin. My curled foot had gone numb, as if it had died sometime during the day’s long walk. One of my WANTED posters hung from a lamppost. Griffin walked right past without so much as a glance at it. We stopped beneath a hanging sign that had no words, just a bed painted on it. “Remember, say nothing,” Griffin hissed. Then he wrapped his fingers around my arm and led me inside.

  The place was dark, the scent of cooked meat heavy in the air. A man sat behind a counter eating some sort of stew. Voices, boisterous and slurred, tumbled from a room nearby.

  “Who do I talk to about getting a room?” Griffin asked.

  “I’m the innkeeper,” the man said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His face was pale, unlike the weathered, sunburned faces of the fishermen outside. “Welcome to the Gull’s Breath Inn. Soldiers of the realm are always welcome here.” His nose, shaped like a malformed turnip, took up too much of his face. His thick yellow beard held bits of his meal. “This your first visit to Fishport?”

  “I want a room,” Griffin said keeping a tight grip on my arm. Was he worried I was going to run off?

  “Are you wanting a bed for one or two?”

  Griffin hesitated, then wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. My face burned as the innkeeper raised an eyebrow and nodded knowingly. Griffin set the soldier’s coin on the counter.

  The innkeeper shook his head, pushing the coin toward Griffin. “Soldiers don’t pay,” he said. “You must be a new recruit if you don’t know that. The king’s men never pay for nothing.”

  It was Griffin’s first mistake, but he recovered instantly. “I was testing you,” he said, retrieving the coin. “I was testing your loyalty to the king.”

  “I’m as loyal to the king as any man,” the innkeeper insisted with a scowl.

  “Prove it,” Griffin said. “Give us your best room.” His courage impressed me. But after all, he was used to getting his way.

  After grabbing a ring of keys from a hook, the innkeeper led us past a crowded room where men sat drinking and eating at long tables. The smell of cooked meat was stronger here, and I caught a glimpse of a creature roasting over a fire. I’d never been inside our village tavern, but this is probably what it looked like—flagons overflowing with ale, men with reddened cheeks and noses. Laughter arose as one man fell off his stool.

  “You’re not from these parts,” the innkeeper said as we followed up a creaky staircase to the second floor. “I don’t recognize your accent. Where are you from?”

  “I’m from all over,” Griffin said, darting a glance at me. “Here and there, wherever the king sends me.”

  “Here it is,” the innkeeper said, fiddling with the keys and opening a door. “Our best room. It comes with a view of Lonely Bay and a tub for washing.”

  “What about food?” Griffin asked.

  “Meals are served in the main room downstairs.”

  “I’ll be too busy to go downstairs,” Griffin said, pushing me into the room and onto the bed. “Bring us some food immediately, and I’ll tell the king that the Gull’s Breath Inn knows how to treat royal soldiers.”

  The innkeeper nodded, then started down the hall. I scrambled off the bed and pushed past Griffin. “Excuse me,” I called, stepping into the hall. “How do I find the Baroness of Salt?”

  “The Baroness of Salt?” The innkeeper twirled his ring of keys. “She lives in Salt, of course. Everyone knows that.” His curious gaze crawled across my face like a wandering insect. I looked down at my boots.

  “Could you please tell me where I can find … Salt?”

  “It’s just down the bay, not far from here. But if you want to see her, all you have to do is wait. She always rides into Fishport on market morning, which is tomorrow.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Was luck shining upon me? The Baroness of Salt would be here tomorrow. As the innkeeper’s footsteps faded, Griffin pulled me into the room, closed and bolted the door.

  “I told you not to say anything,” he grumbled. “Who is this … salt person?”

  “Someone who will help me.” I sat on the edge of the bed, smiling at this ray of hope. “Someone who can free my father.”

  Griffin yanked off his knit cap, his blazing locks falling onto his shoulders. Then he unclasped his belt and let it slide from his hands. The sword clanged as it hit the floor. He pulled off the soldier’s tunic and threw it aside, groaning as if it had burned his skin. Then his face went slack, and I could practically see the confidence melt away as he sank to the floor. He brought his knees to his bare chest and held his face in his hands. The tears were silent. To think I’d ever see Griffin Boar scared, that I’d ever see him cry. It never occurred to me back in Root, in the days before all this hell, that he was … human.

  “Please, Griffin,” I said, pulling the bonnet from my head. “Please tell me about my father.”

  He kept his face hidden for a long while, then dropped his hands. A flash of anger lit up his eyes. “The king is a liar,” he hissed. “There’s no war in the mineral fields. Our people have been turned into slaves.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Slaves?” I whispered the word.

  “Aye. Slaves. The king has turned our men into slaves.”

  I fell back against the pillow. The Oaks were right. They hadn’t heard of a war in the mineral fields because there was no war. It was a lie. “I don’t understand.” My gaze flew across the ceiling. “How can my father be a slave? He’s a citizen of Anglund.”

  “We’re dirt-scratchers,” Griffin said. “We’re scum.”

  “I hate that word,” I snapped. “Don’t use it. We’re Flatlanders.”

  “To everyone else we’re filthy stinking dirt-scratchers.”

  I took a long, controlled breath. Lashing out at Griffin would solve nothing. “Why does the king need slaves?”

  “Because he wants gold and silver and the last place in Anglund to get gold and silver is the mineral fields. But it’s a death trap. No citizen will willingly work there.” As Griffin lowered his voice, a shiver rolled down my back. “The mineral fields are the ugliest places I’ve ever seen. No trees, no animals, no river. Just a wasteland of holes. Piles of rock and dirt in every direction. And you can see the air.”

  I sat up. “What do you mean you can see the air?”

  “It’s so full of dust and poison you can see it. You can run your fingers through it. And there’s a yellow fog that clings to everything and takes your breath away. It comes out of the holes.” He shuddered. “The place smells like death.”

  I scooted to the edge of the bed, pressing the tips of my boots on the floor. “Father can’t stay there. He’ll die.”

  “All our men will die,” he said, slumping against the wall. “There are others who came before us. Convicts who were sent there instead of the noose. They looked like walking skeletons. And many were coughing up blood. They said it was from the yellow fog. That’s why the king took us dirt-scratchers. Because he doesn’t have eno
ugh convicts.”

  “My father would never work as a slave. You’re lying. He’s a proud man.”

  “Pride be damned, Emmeline!” He pounded his fist on the floor. “If your father refuses to dig, they’ll whip him. If he still refuses, he’ll be hanged from a rafter by his ankles and left to die in the burning sun. They toss the corpses into a pit.” Griffin’s breathing quickened, his eyes widening as he recalled the horror of the place. “I knew that if I didn’t escape on that first night, I’d never escape.”

  I gripped the blanket, picturing my father breathing poison, imagining him cringing beneath the blows of a whip. “Why didn’t you take him with you?”

  “I couldn’t take anyone,” he snapped. “One man could slip away, but more would have drawn attention. I had one chance and I took it.”

  There was no time to waste. I needed to turn myself over to the Baroness of Salt as soon as possible so I could buy my father’s freedom. Morning couldn’t arrive fast enough.

  Laughter arose from below, followed by singing. The muscles in my right leg cramped with each step as I walked to the window. Night had fallen over the bay. A boy made his way down the road, lighting lanterns that hung from wooden posts. I found a candle and flint on the room’s only table. As flame took hold of the wick, soft light bounced off Griffin’s face. The little scar on his chin would always remind me of the day when he’d been so enchanted by his own reflection that he’d almost run me over. He’d be shocked if he could see himself now. Greasy hair, reddened eyes, hollowed cheeks—his handsomeness covered with grime.

  He stared into space. Was he thinking of home? Of our green pastures and sweet air? Of the crops that needed tending and the girl who might have become his wife? He still hadn’t asked how I’d gotten there, but that was no surprise. I was still unimportant—an odd creature of no interest to him. I took a deep breath. “Griffin, there’s something you need to know.” Though I spoke the next words softly, they pierced the air like poisoned darts. “Root is gone.”

  He furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

  The story poured forth, as if pushed by the floodwaters themselves and no matter how I tried to slow my words, they came fast and furious. Griffin’s gaze never left my face as I spoke of the days and nights of endless rain. How the fields turned to mud, how the river rose. How the villagers fled and how his family piled their belongings onto their cart. I told him that I gave my donkey to his father and his family left for higher ground. I skipped the part where I tried to save Snow. I still couldn’t say her name without tears.

  “Wait,” he interrupted. He got to his feet and walked toward me, pointing his finger at my face. “If you were washed away, then how do you know everything’s gone?” His arrogance had returned in full force. Why should he believe me, the girl he’d looked upon with scorn his entire life? “Maybe it’s not as bad as you say.”

  “Griffin,” I said gently, “you must believe me. A boy … a family saved me. The Oak family. They didn’t care that I was from the Flatlands. They fed and clothed me. They paid a surgeon to stitch my leg. They told me Root was gone.”

  “They helped you even though you were a dirt-scratcher?” Griffin folded his arms. “Show me the stitches. Then I’ll believe you.”

  I looked down at my hem, hanging just above the top of my boots. To show Griffin my leg would have shamed me in my old life. But he needed to accept the truth, otherwise he wouldn’t be prepared for the disaster that waited back in Root. Slowly, I rolled up the hem, stopping mid-thigh. “The stitches are gone but you can still see the marks on my skin.” His gaze lingered on the scar. I dropped the hem and walked back to the window.

  “Okay, so these Oaks took care of you. But how could they possibly know about Root?”

  “Tax-collector Todd came downriver on a raft. He said everything had washed away in the flood.”

  “Did you talk to Todd?”

  “No. But—”

  “But nothing. These Oaks lied to you.”

  “Why would they lie to me?”

  “Because they wanted to keep you from leaving. Were you working for them?”

  “Aye. I agreed to work to pay my debt for what they’d done for me.”

  “I thought so.” He smacked his palm on the table. “They told you a lie to keep you there. Just like a slave. They want us to be their slaves! We can’t trust anyone. Not outside the Flatlands.”

  At the sound of knocking, Griffin grabbed the sword off the floor. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his face pressed to the crack in the door.

  “Food,” replied the innkeeper.

  “Leave it outside,” Griffin ordered. “I’m … busy.”

  Pottery rattled, then the innkeeper’s footsteps faded. Griffin tucked his hair back into his cap and slowly opened the door. After peering down the hallway, he pulled the wooden tray inside and closed and bolted the door once again. My stomach knotted as the scent of cooked meat filled the small room. “They treat soldiers like gods,” he said as he set the tray on the table. I could barely control myself, having eaten nothing but fish and sea plants for an eternity. But there sat a loaf of dark bread, a roasted hen, and a bowl of boiled potatoes—a feast in the Flatlands.

  We ate as if it were our last meal, stuffing our cheeks between swallows. I tried to keep up with Griffin. He didn’t care one bit about sharing. Without bothering to divide the food, he started shoveling it into his mouth. My jaw ached I chewed so quickly. But even though he ate twice as much, I was nearly full. When he’d gnawed the last piece of poultry from its bone, he sat back, his lips glistening with grease. He wiped his hands on his bare chest. Then after a long burp, he went into the water closet to do his business.

  When he returned, he rubbed his neck wearily, then fell facedown upon the bed. The only bed. His feet hung over the edge and his outstretched arms took up the width. Before I could ask him where I was supposed to sleep, snoring filled the room.

  The singing downstairs had stopped. I looked out the window into the inky darkness. Ugly images filled my mind. My father working between the lashes of a whip, breathing thick yellow air. Lara’s scarred body in its lonely rocky grave. Owen on his back, moonlight settling on his lifeless face.

  Then I looked across the room to where Griffin lay. I couldn’t bear sleeping alone, not with those memories haunting my dreams. But there was only one man whose bed I wanted to share.

  That would never happen now.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was warm beneath the quilt. At first I thought I was back on the beach because the sound of crying gulls woke me. But the pillow was soft and someone’s arm was draped over my side.

  How many Flatlander girls would have given everything for a night with Griffin Boar? And there I was, curled against him, his chest as warm as a riverbank that had baked all day in the sun. Sure, he’d be disgusted if he woke and realized I was there. But after so many nights alone on that beach, half-frozen in that crumbling shack, these few hours in bed had felt like paradise.

  Owen. Why couldn’t he be Owen?

  I carefully lifted his arm and slipped out from beneath. Perched at the edge of the bed, I gazed upon his sleeping face. His hair, the exact color as mine, fanned across the white pillow. He was badly in need of a shave but the stubble helped hide the little scar, which was barely visible unless you leaned in real close and knew exactly where to find it.

  His eyes flew open. “What are you doing?”

  I leaned back. “Nothing.”

  He looked around. “Where?” Then he scratched the back of his head. “Right. Now I remember. We’d better get going. We can’t hide here all day. It’s a long way back to Root.”

  He was right. I did need to get going. I wanted to be at the market the moment the Baroness of Salt arrived. “I’m not going to Root.”

  He wasn’t listening. He sat up, mumbling to himself about getting a horse and water—listing things he’d need for the journey. He stopped mid-mumble and stared at me. Reaching
out, he touched a lock of my hair, looking at it as if he’d never seen red hair before. Then he lunged off the bed and grabbed the soldier’s purse that lay on the floor. He shuffled through its contents and pulled out a small blade. “Griffin,” I asked nervously. “What are you doing?”

  “Take it,” he insisted, holding the knife at arm’s length. “Go on, take it!” I took it. Then he sat on the stool and folded his arms. “Do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Cut my hair.”

  I winced, drawing away as if he’d asked me to cut his wrists. “No,” I said. “I can’t do that. I won’t.” How could Griffin Boar, the guy who loved looking at his own reflection, who’d been surrounded by lovesick girls his entire life, ask me to do such a thing?

  He tightened his arms. “Don’t argue, Emmeline. I’m an escaped dirt-scratcher. The hair will give me away. Cut it short. Cut it to the scalp.”

  It was an enormous sacrifice, but he was right. I didn’t know how many days it would take him to reach the Flatlands, but trying to keep every lock of his long hair hidden would be difficult.

  Gripping the knife’s handle, I stood at Griffin’s shoulder. With a trembling hand, I grabbed a clump of his thick hair and pulled it taut. Tears pooled on my lower lids as I sawed with the blade. As the locks fell, Griffin moaned. Flatlander men grew their hair long as a symbol of pride. Power and beauty shone in Griffin’s hair. Our people’s history wove through each strand.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he grumbled.

  Clenching my jaw and pushing away the tears, I sawed the knife back and forth, back and forth. It was a terrible mess, as if an animal had been grazing on his head. I worked as fast as I could, the pile of hair growing around my feet. As the sun rose outside, fishermen shouted on the docks. Surely the market wouldn’t begin this early. Surely I still had time.

  “Who’s Owen?” Griffin asked as I worked my way behind his ear.