The pressure around Nemma intensified, squeezing her head, neck and limbs, sparking sharp pains in her joints and limbs. It crushed the air out of her chest and her throat closed up—she couldn’t breathe.
“What are you doing?” asked the second Thaide, alarm in his voice.
“Dealing with the matter, as we were asked to,” the first one replied through gritted teeth.
She struggled to call out, to scream, but nothing would come. Pain rushed through her in long waves causing ringing in her ears. She could not take a breath, they were… killing her. Her head spun with the injustice of it. Would they dump her body with the many that die in the Ryim each day? Would anyone even know? Mother and Father’s faces swam into her mind. They would see her lifeless body and wonder why she had left the hut. No. She fought against the force with every ounce of energy she could muster, pushing it away, straining against it.
The force shuddered and slowed. The strain on her chest lifted and the pain dulled. Her arms tingled as the pressure lifted and they came back under her control but they moved as though she was pushing through heavy water. She looked down at the Thaide. One stood a little further back than the other but both stared at her in amazement.
“What’s happening? How is she doing this?”
“I don’t know.” The closest Thaide had a note of panic in his voice. “I’m using a full strength force-bind.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
Nemma kept pushing, concentrating on moving the pressure away. Now her legs responded to her direction. Her mind became clearer and her breathing returned to normal.
“Join your Gift with mine,” urged the nearer Thaide.
“Why?”
“It will be a stronger if we combine our Gifts, you fool. Then we can destroy her.”
Nemma set her mouth in a line as she focused her mind to push the force away. Did they think she could not hear them? There was no possible way she would not try to protect herself and with a surge of determination, she thrust the pressure from her. It exploded away in a flash of light and she dropped to the floor gulping the cool air.
With enormous effort, she got to her feet to face her capturers but was stunned to see the Thaide lying on the ground. What were they doing? She stepped closer to the nearest Thaide, then recoiled. His body was charred with black marks and an odd smelling steam rose from him. Was he dead? Nemma couldn’t will herself forward to check.
A scuffling noise drew her attention. The other Thaide clawed the ground, dragging himself along the rubble-dirt path. Nemma ran to him.
“No, don’t hurt me!” he whimpered, when she came close. “Leave me be, leave me…”
His voice faltered and he fell unconscious.
Nemma surveyed the two Thaide with disbelief. Had she done this? Hurt two Thaide? It couldn’t be, she was just a beggar.
There was only thing to do. She turned and ran the rest of the way home, her fear mingled with the eagerness to be with Mother and Father.
The morning she left seemed like such a long time ago—she had never spent this long away from them before. Finally she would get the chance to apologize for her behavior and explain all that had happened. Her stomach turned as she ran. There was no doubt that the murder of a Thaide was an offense punishable by death, even if she was defending herself. In any case, who would believe that they tried to kill her? A beggar’s word was useless against the evidence of a Thaide’s corpse. What would happen to her? Father would not be able to work things out so easily this time.
She completed the last curve and saw her home. Something was wrong.
The hut was leaning to one side. A cold shock shuddered through her. That could only happen if… if…
She crept to the door, careful to keep an eye on her surroundings. It was hanging on its hinge. Heart pounding, she pushed it open and went inside.
Darkness swamped the inside of the hut, and she almost tripped as her feet kicked something on the floor. As her eyes adjusted, Nemma stared in horror at the sight before her.
Shredded serge cloth, ripped clothes and bed stuffing lay strewn across floor among overturned furniture and scattered ornaments. The stove was on its side, broken in two, and even the inside doors lay cracked on the floor, pulled from their hinges. The inner wooden wall seemed to have exploded into the room, splintered pieces of thick wood in all directions and shards of lumni stone gleamed from all over the floor, creating the hazy silvery light from which she could see. The outer wall had cracks running along it, causing the entire hut to lean.
She edged inside, trying to find space to walk. What had caused such destruction here? Where were Mother and Father? A sickly sour odor hung in the air and she noted their food supply scattered over the hut. The Thaide had to be responsible for this. Ryim beggars could not destroy stone walls and they would have definitely taken the food. She noticed a leg from Mother’s favorite chair jutting out from a far corner of the room and took a deep breath to calm her worry. If Mother and Father had been hurt in any way she would never forgive herself.
She searched the hut for anything of worth she could take with her, aware that scavengers may very well arrive any moment. It was even more important than ever that she take anything of value. Although Father had acquaintances in the Ryim, they had no true friends, no one that would help them for free. Their silence would have to be bought. Searching through the debris, she moved through the hut methodically, finding mostly broken useless items. She managed to find all seven poa stones and stored them in her carrysack. The stones generated a natural heat and would help to keep them warm. She also found Mother’s large stash of flow wadding, always useful. She came across a strange looking lump. It was a translucent gray color, the material wrinkled. Moving for a closer look, she reached out to touch it but as her fingers made contact, she realized what it was. A shrunken hand had wedged itself between a wooden drawer and slab of mull stone. It was severed at the wrist and oozing a maroon jelly over the floor. Nemma yelled with horror and surprise, lurching backwards and, as if in response, a gurgled splutter came from behind her. Turning, she saw a body emerging from among the debris trying to crawl towards her.
Her heart jumped to her throat. “Father!”
He looked disheveled and broken. His torn clothes hung on him, his face was swollen and dripping with blood and raw bald patches had appeared on his scalp. One of his legs lagged behind him, twisted at an odd angle.
She rushed towards him as he dropped to the ground, unable to hold his weight any longer.
“Father,” she cried again, trying to hold him up and clear the ground beneath him.
“Nem... N-N-Nem...” he said, smiling to reveal gaps in his teeth.
“What happened?” Nemma laid him on the ground and searched for the cleanest cloths she could find to wipe the blood from his face. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll find someone… you’ll be fine. I’ll get help…”
But even as she said it, she did not know where she could find such substantial help. Ryim dwellers did not get health provisions, but she searched her mind anyway. She must know someone with at least basic care skills. Perhaps Rish could help, had he not revived the young girl who almost drowned after stealing his boat in–
“Nemma, listen…”
Or maybe Yarna could be called. She had delivered most of the children in the Ryim, she may know how to treat injuries such as–
“Nemma…” Father’s voice sounded stronger.
Maybe he could walk. She could take him to the gate and exchange herself for his health. Would they do it? She looked down at him, her strong, clever father who cared for her so much more than himself and had taught her so much. She saw a frail old man, with deep gashes in his face, hair and teeth ripped from his head. His breath was becoming labored and a thin trickle of blood sought its way to his chin from the corner of his mouth. Would they do it for a Thaide murderer? She began to sob.
“Nemma, listen to me.”
The s
trength and urgency in his voice forced her to hold her sobs in her throat.
“You must listen, Nemma, before I can no longer draw breath to speak,” he said, sternly. There he was. There was her father.
She nodded, sending tears wobbling down her cheeks.
“You must know that your mother and I are your real parents, no matter what you may have heard us say. We cared for you as our own and love you more than anything else in the world.”
Nemma nodded again, scarcely believing she had run out of the hut instead of discussing the matter.
“Our son Carrick brought you to us when you were only days old. I don’t know how he found you but he desperately wished for your safety.”
Father enclosed her hand in his and she kissed it as he spoke on.
“Take my ring. If they find it… you may be danger.” He paused to catch his breath, which was beginning to rasp.
Confusion flooded Nemma for a moment. His ring was a plain silver band. Perhaps he was getting disorientated. She didn't say anything, just slipped his ring from his finger.
“What happened here, Father?” Nemma whispered, tears streaming down her face.
“They came for you,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Where’s Mother?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Father looked back at her, hurt in his watery gray eyes. “She is the one who answered the door, Nem Nem.”
Her stomach dropped. “Do you mean…?” Nemma couldn’t finish the sentence, shock stinging hard. Mother is… dead? No, it can’t be, she would have found her body when she searched through the wreckage. But… the severed hand…
“No, Father, no,” she groaned, leaning over to sob into his chest.
He reached up and stroked her hair.
“She would have died for you… a thousand times over Nemmy. She knew the… danger we have always faced and she fought as best she could.”
“But I let her down. I should have been here. I shouldn’t have left.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Father said. “Never blame yourself for… the actions of others.”
Nemma sobbed hard, not wanting to believe that the life she had when she woke a few days ago was gone. It had not been much, but it had been hers. Her home, her parents, her belongings. Now nothing remained. She lay on her father’s chest breathing in his familiar smell, ignoring the sweat and pungent odor of blood and listened to rise and fall of his breath.
It was getting shorter.
“Father?”
“It’s time for me to go, Nem,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“No. What will I do, where will I go? I need you, Father.”
“Know I will always be with you, Nemma.”
Fresh tears blurred her eyes as she watched him weaken, a wheeze riding on his breath.
“Don’t stay… in the Ryim…” He smiled at her, looking over her face. “Find Carrick,” he whispered, moments before his last breath twisted from his body.
Six
“Beautiful, Clisantha.”
Clisantha smiled. “Thank you, Betha.”
“Truly delicious as always,” said Via.
“Agreed,” Ketzia nodded, mouth full.
“It’s quite sweet. What did you soak the meat with?”
Clisantha turned to Rona. “Honey.”
“Did you pepper it also?”
“Yes.”
Rona didn’t question further and Clisantha busied herself refilling everyone’s glasses.
Betha took a long swallow and sighed. “I don’t know how you always manage to get the best wines, Clisantha.”
Clisantha smiled again but said nothing. She had known her companions since moving from the Arc but they were all on different paths in the social hierarchy. She did not care to give them any information before she was ready, no matter how simple.
“You know, our little meal parties are becoming an envy of the other noble women,” Betha commented, arching a shaped eyebrow. She looked stunning in a buttermilk dress that curled around her shoulders. On the crown of her mahogany hair sat a butterfly circlet.
“It’s true,” Via said, grinning. Her golden hair had been twisted, braided and coiled neatly into a complex style that rose high on her head. Clisantha made a note to seek out her hair-braider. “Only last restday,” Via continued, “I found myself being questioned by Misme and Wonya.”
Ketzia snickered. “They don’t think they would be invited, do they?”
Via shrugged. “They had plenty of questions, most of which I didn’t answer.” She looked around the table, red lips pouted and eyebrows lifted. “Those two are the worse gossips I know.”
Clisantha fought the urge to laugh. They couldn’t compare to Via and Ketzia. Not forgetting Rona—she was a gossip of the worst kind.
“But there’s nothing to tell them, in any case,” Betha said, spooning the last of her root mash and wild boar into her frosted pink mouth. “I know how much you love to sup and chat, Via, but we do nothing special in these meal meetings. I think they are fussing about nothing.”
Via made a face. “Betha, surely you are aware of our growing worth? We are the only group of noble women with such a close friendship. Don’t you know our influence strengthens the more our bond does? Just the other day Madam Faryner offered me a great discount on beauty gallery services if I promised to mention her tonight. We could be a threat to the other women if we choose.”
Betha rolled her eyes. “What kind of threat? These women are gossip merchants with nothing better to do. How, in fact, did she happen to know we were all meeting tonight?”
Via swallowed as her ears turned red and she shrugged, picking up her glass.
Betha pursed her lips and continued. “We are all successful in our own right and meeting once a month does nothing but help us keep abreast of each others’ actions and, of course, sample Clisantha’s delectable recipes.”
Clisantha chuckled. “I appreciate your compliments, Betha, but I have hosted the last three parties. Someone else must volunteer to stage the next few.”
“I think Ketzia should,” Rona said. She had a subtle beauty, hidden amongst her cinnamon hair and almost plain features. As the wife of the most successful clothing merchant in Torak, the simple cut, maroon tunic-set she wore to the dinner seemed a lazy choice.
“I would love to but my home is so small,” pouted Ketzia over her glass.
“If it’s large enough to entertain the delightful men I see you with each week, surely you can entertain us,” Rona grinned.
“How many are we referring to over the past month?” Via asked, her brows furrowed but her eyes sparkled.
Ketzia smiled into her glass, but Rona held up three fingers. Clisantha shook her head and held up five until Betha flashed ten, her mouth in a small ‘o’. They burst into laughter as Ketzia squealed and swatted her on the arm.
Later that evening, the falling sun sent disjointed rose-gold beams through the living area window, flooding the room with a warm glow. The group had moved from the kitchen to Clisantha’s soft-seats, chatting while drinking bitterberry wine and crunching sugary almond clusters.
“This house is gorgeous, Clisantha,” Via enthused, shifting to avoid crumpling her white taffeta dress. She was the youngest and most petite of the group and had married a merchant who specialized in rare and unique foods. “I hardly get any sunlight through my windows.” She leaned back looking at something outside and then leaned towards Clisantha, her voice an excited whisper. “Is it true that Della is pregnant again?”
Clisantha almost snapped at her. “I don’t know, Via. I don’t spend my days with my nose in my neighbor’s affairs.”
“Well, what do you spend your days doing?” Via snapped back.
Clisantha’s eyes narrowed. “My mother has begun her journey to the Sovereign’s Haven. Have you forgotten? It hasn’t been more than forty days since her burial.”
Via opened her mouth to speak but closed it, a flush spreading to her cheeks.
“I spend most of my time with her at the Journey Grounds before she passes on,” Clisantha continued, after a moment’s silence, “and my afternoons are spent clearing her belongings from this ‘gorgeous’ house. A worthwhile pastime, wouldn’t you agree?” She paused again, relishing in Via’s embarrassment. “I would wonder how you spend your time with so much at your fingertips.”
“Tending to my house and husband of course,” Via sniffed, forgetting her delicate taffeta and throwing herself back in the soft-seat. “You unattached women have no idea what it’s like to keep a home for someone other than yourselves.”
“We were trained from the age of six how to keep a home,” Ketzia objected, her deep blue eyes almost purple in the window’s reflection of the sun’s glint. “We did learn more than just etiquette in the Arc, you know. Besides, you have aides to do all manual work for you. All you have to do is organize and manage.”
“Which can be difficult sometimes,” Rona said. “We have to coordinate finances, meetings, staff… A man has preferences about how he wants to live, what impression to give certain visitors, how he should achieve his goals… It’s like being an administrator.”
“What did you think you were signing up for?” Ketzia laughed.
“I wish I had your freedom,” Betha said to Clisantha and Ketzia. “Having a husband is so restricting on one’s time.”
“Time to do what?” Ketzia said, frowning. “You don’t have to work and you are taken care of and provided for.”
“But you can go where you want, when you want without being tied to a schedule. And you don’t have any pressure on you to grow a family,” said Rona.
“Well of course not,” Ketzia exclaimed. “Husbands want heirs. No respectable man would touch me if I had children out of marriage.”
“Some women manage it,” Betha muttered.
“Which brings us back to Della,” Via said, looking pointedly at Clisantha. The other women tried to look disinterested.
“She’s not pregnant as far as I know,” Clisantha said, trying to keep irritation out of her voice. “And I don’t know how these men could come and go without anyone noticing.”
Deviants of Giftborn (The Etherya Series Book 1) Page 7
