I was undoubtedly a female, and many eyes glinting with interest landed on me while I walked beside Gallant. They would look at me, then up at Weston, and then look down and keep walking. I had the feeling that if Weston wasn’t with me, I wouldn’t have gotten down the trail so easily. Maybe the assassin had been a good idea, even if his sense of humor was disturbing.
If any man saw me dressed like this in Alger, he would have probably assumed I was a prostitute. If any woman saw me, she would have probably fainted on the spot.
I wasn’t a bashful girl, not at all, but my entire life I had been taught that this wasn’t appropriate, and I felt a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the first man who saw me like this. Then I realized he wasn’t the first. Weston was.
Moot point, since I was sure he saw me as a child.
“Weston?” I asked, looking up at him.
He narrowed his eyes without even glancing at me as if he didn’t like me using his name. What was I supposed to call him, then? Oh, that’s right, I wasn’t supposed to talk to him at all. I snorted. I wouldn’t take a vow of silence for a month. It’d be impossible, anyway.
“Are you a Titan?” I asked. Today, he only wore his sleeveless jerkin without a shirt underneath, and I saw the Titan brand on his forearm. It was a series of black rings and lines with a T in the middle. It matched his brother’s, but Weston’s had one red line circling his forearm.
“Was,” he drawled.
I brightened and was pleased that I had learned something about him so I pushed for more. “I thought Titans weren’t allowed to leave,” I mused. He didn’t answer my question. Well, technically, it was a prompt, but he still ignored it. Nothing new.
I rolled the new information around. Him being a Titan was almost more intimidating than him being an assassin.
Titan was close to the sea. Far from Alger, that I’d never learned much besides legends and stories from villagers.
From what I had heard, Titans went through extensive training as soon as they could walk.
They tested out at a certain age, and if they weren’t warrior material, they became servants. They had harsh training as children, and once they were adults, they had to fight for a position in Titan. Only the strongest men got to hold the high positions. They had stringent laws, and if disobeyed, they were killed on the spot. The strangest thing that I had learned about them was the women got to choose who they wanted to conceive their child.
Even if they were married, they could still pick a stronger warrior to be the father; they chose based off skill and strength. Many high-ranking warriors had an uncountable amount of children. Grandmother didn’t like me to talk about them; she had always said they were vulgar. Little did she know I had one as an escort.
I wondered if Weston had any children out there. I looked at him, trying to ascertain his age, finding his eyes already on me. “Do you—”
“Stop wondering about things that do not concern you,” he cut me off.
I blinked. How did he know what I was thinking? There was no way he could have known I was thinking about him, unless . . . “Can you read my mind?” I asked, my eyes wide. He was awfully perceptive.
“No, I wouldn’t need to. Your face is an open book.”
I frowned, not sure if I believed him. But maybe Titans learned how to be so perceptive? Or maybe I would just tell myself that because I didn’t like the other option.
“What does the red ring mean? Your brother didn’t have one,” I asked.
He glanced at me. “I’ve killed more people than him.”
I swallowed. “Oh . . . that’s a lovely accomplishment.” I should have known it wouldn’t have been for winning a daisy-picking competition.
I wanted to ask more about what happened at the inn with his brother, but I knew he would just give me a look that said, Seriously? Why waste your breath? So, I bit my tongue. I didn’t like being ignored, and he’d most assuredly do that if I asked.
I looked away from him when I noticed something in the distance. It appeared to be people standing still in a perfect line on each side of the path ahead. The small brown trail we were on came together with another one and created a large dusty road.
As we got closer, I saw that was exactly what it was. Each person had a hand on a tall rod-like rock in front of them. The rocks sprouted out of the ground in all kinds of different shapes as if they were already here and not man-made. The people’s tanned skin was even darker from the smudged dust on their faces and bodies. They wore white scraps for clothes that fluttered in the dusty breeze. But they were as still as death. A shudder went through me when I saw one person blink.
“What is this?” I asked Weston in a horrified whisper.
“It’s a form of punishment,” he answered, now walking beside his horse as well. I was surprised that he heard my question since it had been so quiet.
“How?”
“They are being kept like statues by the magic rocks they are touching. They are aware of everything going on. Endless torture of being kept still but aware. Some have been here for years, I’m sure.”
I could see the entrance to the city ahead. A large white arch, which looked as if made from clay, had large writing on it that said, ‘Sylvia.’
I looked around me with a pit in my stomach. This was their welcome to their city?
“What have they done?” I asked.
“Some, probably not much. The city we’re entering has slavery. Just being an annoyance could get them sent out here,” he told me.
My skin crawled as I looked around while we walked down the path. My disgust grew to a nausea I could hardly stand when I saw shorter rocks . . . with shorter people. Children. How could I walk past this? How could anyone do this to a child?
I forced down a sick feeling while I let Gallant’s reins go and walked towards a little girl. She had black hair that was almost as long as she was tall, and her skin and clothes were so filthy that her eyes were a bright blue against the smudged brown on her face. I couldn’t tell whether the tears running down her cheeks were from the dust blowing in her eyes or of terror and sadness.
I didn’t know what I was doing. Didn’t know why. But I itched to walk up to the girl and rest my hand on hers. Maybe comfort her for a moment, and maybe free her.
Free her. Free her. Free her. The thought repeated itself in my mind and took my nausea to a crescendo.
“How do you free them?” I asked him.
“The rocks are unbreakable, and only the one who placed their hand on the rock can remove it.”
I wanted to smash the rock. I wanted to scream, and I wanted to do terrible things to the people who did this to the little girl. I wanted to put their hand on the rock.
I almost walked away, wanting to get far away so the sickness I felt would go away. But I couldn’t, couldn’t stop myself from resting my hand on her grimy one. Her blue eyes met mine and begged me to save her. Begged me.
Her hand was chilled, and a tear ran down my cheek before I took my hand away. I couldn’t torture myself anymore. I couldn’t save her, and I couldn’t stand to see this anymore.
I turned around but then heard a cry behind me. I spun back around, but Weston was already there catching the little girl before she fell to the ground.
My mouth dropped open.
A fearful shiver went down my spine. And it took me a few minutes to understand why while the girl sobbed into Weston’s arms, and he looked at me as if I were a Red Forest creature.
My chest tightened with unease because I was much more than a farm girl from Alger.
And now I had proof. That thought was terrifying in itself. But the thing that scared me the most wasn’t that.
No. It was because I had no idea who I was.
The little girl squirmed in Weston’s arms. He put her down, and we watched her run down the path and over to a woman. I didn’t hesitate to follow her and touch each person’s hand on the way.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” W
eston said from behind me.
I turned around. “Why not?”
“You have no idea who these people are. They could be murderers.”
“You’re a murderer,” I retorted.
He gave me a frosty look. “Save their sad souls, then. Whatever they end up doing, that’s on you.”
They could be murderers, but what if they weren’t?
I touched forty-two hands in all. The woman was the child’s mother. She wrapped her grimy arms around me and thanked me before they headed back into the city.
My eyes filled with confusion and I stopped her to ask why they would go back to the people who had condemned them. She told me it was all they knew; why would they go anywhere else? The majority headed back into the city, only a few deciding to go in a different direction.
As I stood in the middle of the barren magical rocks, a breeze rustled the trees and headed straight for me. It spun around me like the crows flew around the turret at Cameron Castle.
I shivered as I recognized the breeze wasn’t fast moving air; that was just its facade. It was solid and made up of things too indiscernible to comprehend.
It brushed my skin with such familiarity as if it had been around me my entire life.
Goose bumps appeared on my skin as it whispered one word to me.
“Alyria . . .”
CHAPTER NINE
POINTLESS SCRUBBING
“Who are you?” Weston asked me for the second time. He watched me vigilantly after the breeze left. I didn’t know whether he had heard what it said. Although I hoped he hadn’t, I felt as though he wouldn’t have missed something like that. I couldn’t explain my situation to him. He was a conundrum. A complete mystery to me, and I couldn’t trust him.
“I don’t know whether you have forgotten, but my name is Calamity. Ca-lam-ity. You probably forgot it because you’ve never used—”
“Shut up,” he barked.
Anger heated my skin, and I walked away from him before I said something stupid. I didn’t make it two steps before he grabbed my arm and spun me around.
“Tell me what you are.” He said it in that authoritative way, which made me want to tell him my whole life story, and that made my blood boil.
“Tell me what you are!” I retorted, thinking about his nonexistent hum.
His closeness had me on edge. It was disconcerting to see how much larger he was than me, and how pathetic it made my demand. His tanned hand was wrapped around my ivory skin, his brand on display. Was the red ring red because of all the blood he had spilled? Disgust swept over me, and I tried to shrug his hand off my arm. My heart pounded, and I stopped fighting when his other hand wrapped around my throat. A nervous sweat covered my skin.
He pinned me with a hard gaze. “You have deluded yourself if you think you can demand anything of me. Have you forgotten my profession? Do you think I started because I love to humor spoiled little girls?”
I swallowed hard against his palm as I imagined him breaking my neck in one snap. At least it would be less painful than being eaten by the Red Forest creatures. He made a frustrated noise and pushed me away by my throat. “Get on your horse.”
I stared at him with wide eyes while I tried to decide whether I should run or not.
“Try it.” His smile was predatory, and it gave me the shivers. I dragged my feet over to Gallant. And told myself I was only doing it because I wouldn’t be able to get to Undaley alone.
Not because he scared me.
Not at all.
I would just have to try and keep my mouth from taking over again. Keyword: try.
It might help boost the possibility that I would survive this trip. The random thought of my grandmother meeting my escort had me laughing more out of fear and uncertainty than actual amusement. Weston looked at me as if I were a strange breed of woman that he’d never seen before.
It wouldn’t be surprising news to me.
I was hesitant to enter any city that would have a welcoming like this one did, but as we walked under the arch and I looked around, the thought left me with the breeze. How could this be only days away from Alger? It felt as though I were in an entirely different world.
The brown houses seemed to be carved into the dirt hills and stretched on for miles. The men only wore white pants and the women only short white skirts, while a white cloth covered their breasts. I understood why they wore what they did because the heat would have been unbearable in anything else. The women were smooth skinned and beautiful, all of them, just as beautiful as the city.
It was primitive, with no stone castle, but the way the sun shined on the flowing stream that ran through the city was breath-taking. Women carried baskets of laundry on their heads, and children chased each other, before tackling each other in the dirt. We walked down a dirt street in the city, and I imagined I was in an ant colony. A tiny person in a series of trenches. A bird flew by, and I cupped my hand to see it against the sun. If only I could see myself from its view.
“We’ll stay here tonight,” Weston said as we stopped at an inn. It was probably only midday, so I was surprised we were stopping, but I didn’t complain. After camping outside the night before, it would be nice to sleep under a roof tonight. Weston paid for two rooms and then left without a word, to do whatever he did.
I climbed the stairs to my room and ran my hand against the cool dirt walls. I sighed in pleasure when I saw the bed. I couldn’t decide between crawling in it or taking a bath first. After deliberation, I decided on a bath.
The innkeeper gave me directions to the women’s bathhouse, and I walked down the dirt streets until I made it to a building I imagined was the one. They all looked similar enough that I was afraid I’d be walking into someone’s house, but the sounds of soft water noises and women talking assured me I was at the right place.
Some women were in the baths, and some were lying on their backs while others poured something on their legs. They all turned to stare at me when I walked in, looking me over meticulously.
“I’m just here for a bath,” I said, a little uncomfortable under the intensity of their stares. They were the naked ones, and yet I felt the most exposed in their moments of silence and perusal.
One dark-haired woman shook her head and tsked. “You do not plan to go to the festival like that, do you?” She asked it as if it would be a form of sacrilege. Sacrilege to my grandmother was falling asleep in the chapel. Apparently to Sylvian women, it was dressing like a dirty man. I hadn’t figured out my own definition yet.
“I don’t know anything about a festival,” I said, still standing in the doorway.
A different woman smiled. “Oh, you have visited at the perfect time then!” She clapped her hands. The sound of dangling chains came from behind me, and I turned to see a slave girl enter the room. Shackles came down from a metal ring around her neck and attached to an iron cuff on each wrist. She brought in a pot of whatever the women were pouring on their legs.
Alger didn’t have slavery, but I knew it existed. Whatever king ruled this city must have allowed it and, considering his welcoming committee, he must not have been a very good king. Every region of Alyria was governed by one of the seven kings, and thankfully Alger had a kind one.
“Come! Don’t be shy!” one woman said. I began to undress and left the cloth over my cuffs while I looked around to see whether anyone noticed the oddity. If they did, they didn’t show it. I sighed when I entered the baths. It was the perfect temperature, a cool contrast against the hot air.
An older woman handed me a bar of soap with a suspicious smile, and I hesitated for a moment before I accepted it. I ran the soap down my arm, and when the smell hit my nose, I almost dropped it.
What the hell?
It smelled rotten as if it was made of dead animals and bile. I couldn’t help but grimace while the lady watched me with a toothy smile. A suspicious toothy smile.
Was this some kind of jest they played on visitors? Or was it a custom of theirs? I didn’t know, but
as the lady nudged my hand in an encouraging gesture, I realized there was no way for me to refuse. I didn’t want to end up on one of the empty rocks out there. Or for them to notice their missing prisoners while I was here.
My stomach rebelled as I scrubbed my body with it and vowed I would wash it off if I had to come in here while everyone was at the festival. While I pointlessly washed my body with rotten soap, I realized that the women were pulling the hair off their legs . . . and everywhere else on their bodies. Sylvia was a strange city. As far as I knew, only prostitutes did it in Alger. So, my mother . . . I supposed.
When one of the women insisted I have it done, I cringed at the idea. But now I felt like the hairy farm girl from Alger as I looked over their smooth skin. My hair was blond everywhere, so it wasn’t as if it was that noticeable, but the women sure looked at it as though it was. I had a nervous pit in my stomach about losing more hair, but this was an adventure, and I wanted to try new things. Be someone else. So I agreed.
They tsked while they looked me over and then tortured me. It wasn’t terribly uncomfortable when they ripped the hair off my legs; that came next when they ripped the hair off between my legs. I was cursing myself for agreeing to do this while I watched the old lady who gave me the soap disappear out of the bathhouse. It didn’t take an alchemist to realize she was up to no good. I sniffed my arm, and low and behold it had a slight smell of rotting corpses.
Wonderful.
When the torture was over, I was completely hairless besides the hair on my head. A woman rubbed some balm on my smooth skin, and I hoped it would cover up the stench of the soap. I was about to put my dirty clothes back on when a woman offered me their standard white clothes.
It felt like the further I got on this trip, the littler my clothes got as well. I was going to accept them, but I paused just enough so I could tell my grandmother I thought really hard about it. And I did . . . sort of.
A Girl Named Calamity (Alyria Book 1) Page 7
