by Stacey Jay
“What is it, child?” we ask.
“I stole the milk.” The girl’s grime-streaked throat ripples as she swallows. “But I only done it for the babe, muh lady. Mum says my milk won’t come if I don’t drink it while the babe’s inside, and our cow died last winter.”
We reach out to the girl with our magic, pressing past the layers of fear wavering around her like heat escaping from stone, until we sense the swift rhythm of her heart and, beneath it, the swifter pulse of the babe growing within her. It is a new life, not quite five months formed, but big enough that a spirit has come to dwell within it.
We close our eyes and send out a prayer of thanksgiving. Such bounty. Surely it is a sign that the Lost Mother blesses our plans.
“She tells the truth.” We meet Illestros’s gaze, nodding in answer to his unspoken question. He bows and turns to exit the throne room, going to fetch more ink. The umber pigment is a sacrament used sparingly. Illestros only ever brings enough for one coin. He will need more to mark me twice.
“Don’t be afraid, child. Your babe will dwell in peace and joy in the kingdom beneath and you along with it.” We sigh as we reach out with our magic, snatching the child’s soul away as easily as plucking an apple from a tree. Having had so little time to grow attached to its body, it comes to dance in the glass quite willingly.
The girl, however, proves more difficult. She seems to sense the departure of the child’s spirit, clutching her belly and moaning like the cow she thieved from. Her fearful whimpers become a wail of mourning, and then a scream of rage born of the love she felt for the unborn babe.
Love makes her stronger, and our task more difficult. She fights us bitterly, writhing on the floor, cursing us for long hours until her last breath shudders from her body with a ragged sigh and her soul flickers into the altar glass moments before we become too dizzy to stand.
By the time we draw the souls from the glass into the goblet, we are trembling with exhaustion, but as soon as the spirit mead flows down our throat, we are restored. The souls feed and sustain us, blessing us as surely as we will one day bless them.
We remove our wig, open our robe, and lie prostrate on the floor beside the empty body. We will lie here until Illestros returns to mark us and remain until the first light of dawn, meditating on the bounty and wisdom of the goddess. And when the sun rises, we will deliver the corpse to our creatures that dwell in our gardens and they will gather to feed and we will stroke their fur and feathers and hum along as they buzz and chitter and caw and take comfort in the nearness of good things.
Soon Aurora will be our captive, and the moment of the prophecy at hand. Soon the world will be transformed and our people will feed until the final human shell falls to the ground with the last sigh the air will ever hear and the Lost Mother is free to call her children home.
If Illestros speaks the truth … If this prophecy isn’t false like the—
We banish the thought before it can reach its end. Illestros left the hall when he realized the girl’s soul would take some time to claim and has yet to return, but he could be close. And if he is close, he could be listening. We are born of the same parents and share a connection even greater than that we share with our cousins. He knows our every thought, our every weakness.
It isn’t safe to doubt our brother when he might hear. It is never safe to doubt the prophet. All who doubted are dead, slaughtered and thrown into the sea without the final sacraments, their souls cursed to dwell in the black depths of the ocean forever.
The memory of those dear ones drifting on the tide breaks the wall holding our thoughts at bay.
Better cursed than used. Better one woman damned than all the beauty of creation lost and nothing at day’s end but destruction and despair. If this prophecy is a lie, there will be no descent into the underworld. If it is a lie, we are not a shepherd gathering her sheep into the safety of her flesh and bones … we are …
We are a murderer. We are a monster and the most tragic fool ever born.
We press our forehead into the stone floor. We cry out silently to the goddess for guidance, for some sign that our doubts are nightmare children born of our weakness, but she doesn’t answer. She never does. She tests our faith with silence. She draws just close enough for us to feel her presence before flitting away, pulling the comfort we crave out of our reach like a sweet held too high for a child to snatch.
Illestros was never the sort of brother to play tricks like that, not when we were younger. When we were children, he would bring us treats and presents; he was always protective, determined to keep us safe.
These doubts are madness. Illestros wouldn’t demand this sacrifice if the prophecy weren’t a true one. He has betrayed others, but he would never betray us. We are different. We are special.
We shiver, but we do not reach for our robe. We relish the suffering of our body. We focus on our discomfort and will ourselves to believe we suffer for the salvation of the world. If we let our doubts take root and flourish, we will be lost.
It is too late for doubt. It is too late for salvation. We’ve come too far down this foreign road to ever return home again.
CHAPTER NINE
AURORA
We ride until the horses begin to stumble and dawn stains the horizon an ugly brownish orange before finding a decent hiding place beneath the far-reaching limbs of two alders bending low over the bank. We tie the horses near a creek that dribbles down to join the river and lay our bedroll out in the deep shade of the trees.
I stay standing long enough to lay the damp Cavra leaves I gathered across Niklaas’s wound—too exhausted to feel awkward about touching his bare stomach—before I plop down on my weary bottom and set to tugging at my boots.
Niklaas makes some vague noises about staying awake to keep watch, but I shush him with a finger in the air and a motion of my hand across my throat.
“What does that mean?” he asks with a chuckle that quickly reshapes itself into a yawn. “Someone has to take first watch.”
“Sleep. Both. Useless without it.” I throw my boots to the rocks with a grateful sigh. “Sleep. Now.”
I point to the other side of the bedroll before turning and falling onto my half of our shared sleeping space. The bedroll will be big enough for two so long as we let our legs dangle off the edges, and right now I could share a hammock with a litter of baby tigers and have no trouble falling asleep.
I curl into a ball inside Niklaas’s cloak with my head pillowed on my arm, and am asleep almost instantly. I have no idea whether Niklaas took my advice and got some rest as well, until I wake up hours later to find a wide, warm back pressed to mine, and a snuffly snore drifting through the air.
He snores. The realization makes me blush.
I’ve never known such a private thing about a boy before. I’ve never slept with a boy—in any sense of the word—but I certainly never imagined that simply sleeping at the same time in close proximity with one would feel so intimate. But it does. I am suddenly shy, unsure what to do next.
I lie still, blinking as the sunlit world beyond our shadowed hiding spot comes into focus. From the glare, I’m guessing it’s at least noon, maybe later. We’ve slept six hours or more, but I’m still as tired as twice-boiled meat. I could close my eyes and sleep another hour or two easily.
I might have been tempted—it’s peaceful in the shade and the gentle hum of insects and carefree calls of the river birds make me certain trouble is nowhere near—if my bladder weren’t in serious need of an emptying. After a moment it becomes obvious that the tickling low in my body is what awoke me in the first place, and no sooner is the need obvious than it becomes imperative.
Moving quietly, I sit up and shove my feet into my boots, glancing over my shoulder when Niklaas rolls onto his back with a soft moan.
He’s still dead to the world, his eyes closed and his lips softly parted. Despite the increasingly serious bald places in his increasingly furry beard, he looks sweet in his sleep. Younger.
Innocent of the ways people find to use each other.
I remember that I have to tell him the truth—that my sister will never have a husband if she can help it, and certainly never ensnare a decent person like him—and my stomach lurches. I have to do it. He risked his life for mine last night. If he refuses to believe me, then I won’t feel guilty about taking advantage of him, but if he does, this could be the first and last time I wake next to this prince. The notion is oddly disappointing, but my bladder is aching too fiercely to dwell on the feeling for long.
Pulling Niklaas’s hood over my head, I scurry along the hard clay, past where the horses sleep, up the bank to a patch of dense brush. With one last glance over my shoulder to make sure Niklaas hasn’t awoken and decided to follow me, I rearrange my clothes and squat behind a sticker bush, comforting myself by thinking how much easier it will be to relieve myself if I don’t have to worry about being discovered.
I’ll be alone and friendless again if Niklaas leaves, but I’ll be alone and friendless and free to do my business like a girl whenever and wherever I feel like it.
“Small comforts,” I mutter as I hitch up my britches and set off to the river to wash up.
By the time I scrub my hands and face, scrape the fuzz from my teeth, decide the messy knot on my head can last one more day before I need to brush, braid, and reknot it, and return to our hiding place, Niklaas is awake.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the bedroll, thoughtfully gnawing a handful of jerky. He greets me with a squint of his eyes, which seem even bluer after his rest.
“Sleep well?” I ask, still a little shy for some reason.
“Like a stone. And woke up hungry to the spine.” He smiles and holds out a piece of jerky. “There are blackberries across the way. I’ll pick some once I get my strength up.”
I take the offered jerky and gnaw the salty meat. Despite its leathery texture it’s surprisingly delicious, even better than yesterday. Or maybe I’m half-starved. I’m not sure which, but I know I’d give a toe or two for a bow and arrows to hunt with as we travel. A rabbit for supper would go a long way to renewing my faith in the future of this quest.
My stomach growls loudly enough to be heard over the rustling of the alder leaves, and Niklaas chuckles. “Should I fetch out the last of the crackers?”
“No,” I say, knowing we have to ration the food. “Ignore it. My stomach’s a spoiled thing. It’s usually had two meals and as many treats by this time of day.”
“Fairy food, eh?” he asks, brows lifting. “I thought humans who ate fairy food had to stay with the Fey forever or else they get all shriveled and ancient as soon as they leave fairy lands.”
“It’s true,” I say with a serious nod. “I’m shriveled and ancient over most of my body. Luckily it’s the part covered by my clothes.”
He grins. “So that’s why you wouldn’t get in the spring with me.”
I shrug. “I wasn’t sure you were ready for the majesty of my raisiny bits.”
Niklaas laughs, chucking his last piece of jerky at me. I catch it before it hits the ground and pop it into my mouth to hide my own smile.
“When we get to Goreman, I’m going to eat my weight in fish. Sweet corn and potatoes and fish and cold beer until my stomach explodes.” He hops to his feet, wincing as he stretches his arms above his head.
“How is your stomach?” I motion toward where his gray shirt is stained black with dried blood. “Did the leaves stay on overnight?”
“I think so. It feels better, anyway.” Niklaas lifts his shirt, revealing his wound. The leaves have fallen off, but the skin beneath looks calm and smooth. I step toward him and lean down for a closer look, probing the flesh around the wound with gentle fingers.
“There’s no swelling or heat, and it has closed well,” I say, ignoring the tingle in my fingertips as some girlish part of me notes how unexpectedly soft his skin is above the firm muscle beneath. “The risk of infection should be gone, but I’ll keep an eye out for more leaves. It wouldn’t hurt to keep that covered for another night or two.”
“All right.” Niklaas drops his shirt and I stand up, grateful for the hood that conceals my heated cheeks. “I’m going to pick some blackberries and wash up. I’ve got linen and mint and rosemary ash in the saddlebag. You should use it.”
I make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort of surprise. “Are you saying my breath smells?”
“I’m saying it’s important to take care of your teeth,” he says with a wink. “You’ll never get a girl to kiss you if you’ve got a mouth full of rot.”
My smile slips. “That reminds me … About my sister, I—”
Niklaas stops me with one hand over my mouth while the other makes a slicing motion across his throat. I recognize my exhaustion-crazed gesture from last night and grunt. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, voice muffled beneath his palm.
“It means I don’t want to hear it,” he says, removing his hand and smoothing his sleep-rumpled hair from his face. “I’d rather things stay the way they are.”
“But—”
“We made a deal and I’m holding you to it.”
“But—”
“Uh-uh!” He points an accusing finger at my face. “A deal’s a deal. I honor my half, and then you honor yours.”
“I’m not saying I won’t honor it,” I say, frustration rising. “I’m saying that—”
“Nope.” He covers his ears and closes his eyes. “Not listening.”
“But—”
“Not. Listening!”
“Fine!” I snap. “But don’t come complaining when—”
“La la la la, la la loo-la lay.” He takes off toward the blackberry bushes on the opposite bank, singing his ridiculous song loud enough for it to carry. I think about shouting for him to be still—we could still have ogres and mercenaries on our trail—but shouting would defeat the purpose, and I know there’s no real reason to be quiet.
Last night, we forced ourselves to keep riding until we were in the middle of nowhere. We’re fields and fields away from any of the main roads. The river is low now, but Niklaas says this entire valley is prone to dangerous flooding in the spring. As a result, the trail to Goreman was cut on higher ground to the north and all but the most daring farmers have built their houses in the foothills. The chances that there is anyone close enough to hear me shout or Niklaas sing are slim to none.
Out here, it’s only the creatures loyal to Ekeeta I have to worry about, and so far I haven’t seen any animals behaving strangely. There are no vultures circling or crows lurking in the trees overhead. No wild dogs or pink tails or swarms of corpse flies or …
I realize my knowledge of the creatures that feed upon the dead is probably incomplete and tug my ear as I fetch the linen and cleaning ash from Niklaas’s pack. Hopefully, if I keep my face hidden until we reach the Feeding Hills, where no ogre soldier would dare follow, it won’t matter.
I return to the river and attend to my teeth. Niklaas—still busy in the blackberry bushes—has switched to a different tune, a song I don’t recognize about summer and lovely girls with long black hair, but that is pleasant all the same. His voice isn’t particularly pretty—fairy boys have lovelier voices, and Jor sings in a tenor as pure as spring water—but there’s a warmth to Niklaas’s tone that makes it special. His pitch might be off and his rhythm wobbly, but his song makes me feel something. It has heart.
Unlike you. You should have forced him to listen.
I ignore the guilty voice in my head. I tried to tell Niklaas the truth; it’s not my fault he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s old enough to make his own dumb decisions, and so long as we steer clear of ogres, I might be doing him a favor, keeping him from hunting down a bride for a few weeks. Maybe it will give him time to come to his senses. He’s too young to be married. He can’t even grow a proper beard. What business does he have taking a wife?
“Get in there, Ror. That jerky mouth isn’t going to take care of itself.” N
iklaas appears at my side with his own linen and snatches the ash from the rock beside me.
“You should shave when you’re finished,” I say, determined to give as good as I get. “You look like you’ve contracted mange.”
“Don’t be jealous, little prince.” Niklaas laughs. “Your face should get prickly soon. Even fairy boys grow whiskers eventually, right?”
I want to tell him that fairy boys grow lovely whiskers, perfect whiskers that would never dare grow in looking like a half-burned field of grass, but I bite my lip. Boys don’t go around admiring the perfect whiskers of other boys, or if they do, they don’t admit it out loud. I nearly slipped last night when I mentioned girls seeing better in the dark when I used to play hide-and-seek. I need to remember that being careful includes watching myself around Niklaas.
“I’ll shave when we reach Goreman.” Niklaas spits into the river before rinsing his cloth. “No one to be pretty for until then.”
Even the way he spits is overly confident. The boy is entirely too sure of himself. He deserves to be taken down a notch or two, and discovering he’s gotten the worst of our bargain isn’t the most terrible way to learn a lesson. Maybe once he’s learned it, he will be less insufferable, and the next girl he goes after will like him better.
But even as I think it, I don’t believe it. I imagine most girls like Niklaas just fine the way he is.
I sneak a peek at him from the corner of my eye to see a pained expression flash across his face. His wound must be hurting more than he let on.
“We can put more Cavra leaves on for the ride,” I say.
“What?” he asks, not shifting his gaze from the treetops on the opposite side of the bank. I look up to see three white swans, a mother and two adolescents, flying east, their elegant bodies alabaster against the azure sky.
“You look like you’re hurting,” I say, shifting my attention back to Niklaas. “The Cavra leaves will help with the pain.”
