by Kaylin Lee
My heart leapt. “Who is that? Will he help me?”
“He offers temporary shelter to cast-off mages, when they’ve been deemed too weak for service and have no home outside the Mage Division. I’ve never heard of him turning anyone away.” Belen glanced up at me with a raised eyebrow. “But last I heard, he had a wife and young daughter, so you might be the first.”
I hunched over and bundled my arms around my knees. The fire was too hot now, but I didn’t dare move. “I’ll take that chance.”
Belen nodded curtly. “I’ll give you directions, but you must leave soon. The spring rains often flood the Badlands, and you’ll be in no condition to survive them if you wait much longer.”
The Golden Loaf Bakery. Even the name made the place sound like a treasure. Hope unfurled in my chest, a fervent longing that took the edge off the relentless pain of Darien’s death.
I’d found a way.
~
The next morning, I said good-bye to Belen and his camp. After several days of walking southeast through a wasteland of melting snow and muddy dirt, I finally made it within sight of Asylia.
Then I lost my nerve.
Asylia’s walls stood taller and smoother than Draicia’s. What did it mean that even the city walls were more intimidating than anything I’d seen before? The ancient stones looked clean and had clearly been repaired in several spots. Asylia still had a functioning government. That had to be an advantage. But it was also a disadvantage.
What if their trackers caught me? I’d be forced into captivity as a weapon for yet another mad ruler, and I’d be ensuring that my baby would be born into captivity as well.
I rubbed the underside of my swollen belly to ease the ache that plagued me when I walked too great a distance, as I’d done today.
If only Darien had survived his fight with the Wasp. If only he were by my side, as he’d promised he would be. He could have helped me decide what to do, helped me navigate the unfamiliar streets and politics of a new city.
What was the point of wishing? Darien wasn’t here. He’d promised to be with me, and now he was gone forever. I was alone.
The thought crushed my chest. Tears rushed down my cold, windburned cheeks in heavy torrents, and I clutched at my belly, suddenly unable to breathe. Then the baby gave a tiny, subtle kick, and I jumped. The reminder of the life within me replenished my courage and my will. I straightened and drew in a long breath.
It was up to me to ensure our baby survived so Darien would not have given his life for us in vain. I dashed the tears from my eyes with my dirty, ragged sleeve. If that meant sneaking into this wealthy, foreign city and throwing myself on the mercy of Master Stone, whoever he was, I would do so.
Failure was not an option and neither was captivity—not this time, and never again.
Part II
Chapter 11
I basked on the warm pallet beside the oven, luxuriating in the feel of the soft bedding and delicious warmth that still emanated from the oven after yesterday’s baking. Outside, the city was cool and wet, the chilly rain of a spring storm constantly tapping on the kitchen window. Inside, the kitchen was a warm, cozy oasis.
The bakery’s kitchen smelled of yeast and cinderslick. I loved it. The scent of cinderslick—the strange, magical cooking fuel they used in Asylia—was truly glorious. Sweet, dark, and slightly singed, the aroma was nothing like the acrid wood smoke that hung over Draicia like a shroud.
I cracked open my eyes. It was dark, but I didn’t mind. The bakery was perfect. I’d snuck into Asylia three months earlier, and against all odds, I’d found my new home. The baby kicked and somersaulted violently inside me, and I grunted aloud at the discomfort.
“Hello, there, sweet one,” I whispered when the pressure faded. I couldn’t help but smile. The bakery was the perfect home, but it wasn’t just my home—it was our home.
I pushed aside the book I’d been reading when I fell asleep, rolled to my other side, and stretched. Master Stone was a kind and gentle man, a talented baker, and a thoughtful scholar. His bakery was full of Western books with fascinating titles like Through Ice and Fire: Journeys to Theros or Encyclopedia of The Lost Cities of Theros, and my current favorite, A Scientific Exploration of Therosian Mage Powers.
The Western authors of the last book posited all kinds of strange theories about the nature of absorbent and expellant mages, which apparently were only found in Theros, including fascinating theories on how Asylian trackers worked. I read everything I could, storing up the knowledge to distract myself from thinking of Darien.
I got up slowly, rubbing my sore back with one hand, and then I put away my bedding, folding it into a small bundle and setting it on the bottom shelf beside the oven. I dressed for the day’s work in a loose house dress that had belonged to Master Stone’s late wife. It was far too nice for working in the kitchen, but then again, everything they owned was nice. Besides, the waist tie made it easier to adjust around my belly.
I covered the fine dress with an apron and got to work punching down the dough we’d left to rise the night before.
“Zel!” A pair of strong, childish arms folded around my middle as Ella buried her face in my back.
I laughed and tried to turn around, but she wouldn’t let go. “Ella-bella! Why are you awake so early, hmm? It’s still dark out.”
“Daddy doesn’t feel well,” she said, finally letting go of my back and coming around beside me. “He told me to come down and help you.”
No doubt he’d hoped to get her out of his hair so he could rest. “Well, lucky me. I’d love some help, sweet girl.” My hands were sticky with dough and coated in flour, so I rubbed her tousled, dark hair with my elbow. She giggled.
Master Stone’s daughter, Ella, was only five years old, but she was exceedingly bright and energetic. She’d taken to me immediately, for some reason, a little bundle of intelligence and warmth, always ready to help in the bakery, and constantly overflowing with affectionate sweetness. Perhaps I could have done without her incessant, curious questions, but after years of silence alone in my tower, they weren’t entirely unwelcome.
In the classic Fenra mold, she had bronze skin and dark hair, but her pale green, Kireth eyes lit her face, a contrast that gave her face a stunning, unforgettable beauty. She’d be dangerous when she got older, that was for sure. I almost felt sorry for the little boys on the lane who teased her about her green eyes. One day, they’d feel quite foolish.
We put in the morning’s baking, and then I made us a small breakfast of boiled eggs, buttered bread, and fresh brambleberries. A small breakfast. Ha! After months of nothing but bowls of victus followed by the meager, scavenged fare in the Badlanders’ camp, a small, Asylian breakfast was an extravagant treat.
Every bite lingered on my tongue. The golden egg yolks were rich and fatty. The airy, flavorful bread was soft on the inside and surrounded by a deliciously chewy, floury crust, with each slice drenched in creamy butter. The tanginess of the fresh brambleberries capped it all off perfectly. It was a meal fit for kings and queens, and here we were, enjoying it in the little bakery kitchen. I loved Asylia.
When we finished our breakfast, I carried a small plate to the top of the stairs, along with a folded copy of the Asylian Herald Ella had fetched from the corner stand. I knocked on the door to the family’s living quarters. “Master Stone? Some breakfast?”
An odd-sounding cough greeted my knock. “Thank you.” His voice was barely audible. He coughed again, and I put my hand on the knob. Just how sick was he? “You’d best leave it there, and I’ll come get it. Don’t want you and Ella getting sick too.”
“Yes, Master Stone. I’ll leave it here.” I set the plate and the newspaper gingerly on the floor. “Do you need anything else?”
I waited as he went through another coughing fit. “Keep Ella downstairs with you, please. Just…just in case. Thank you.”
“I will.” What was he worried about? The Asylian government had armies of healer mages in th
eir public hospitals, not to mention fancy healing salves stocked in every home. Master Stone had used some on my blisters when I’d arrived.
Surely, there was no sickness the powerful, Asylian mages couldn’t heal. Was there?
~
I stood just inside the room, holding a pitcher of water and trying not to cry. Master Stone was dying.
Two days after he first took sick, Ella’s father lost his healthy, golden-brown skin tone. Now, his sagging skin was a dark grayish color, as though his life was seeping out. The morning he took sick, the Herald brought news that a plague had entered Asylia’s walls via a contaminated shipment of imports from distant Western lands. Too late, the government learned that the Western cities had been utterly decimated by the same disease.
The plague had already wreaked havoc on the merchant families living in our lane. Our neighbor Gregor’s wife had passed away the very first day, and that night, the king called for all imported goods to be burned in bonfires in the street. We’d dutifully thrown Master Stone’s prized Western books and Ella’s imported toys into the fire. We had also burned the Lerenian wheat and flavorings the bakery depended on for operation.
But it was too late for Master Stone.
A hacking cough shook his body for several minutes before he whispered, “Zel.”
I stepped closer.
“No. Stop. Not too close.”
I paused. What did he want from me? A horrible, selfish question wormed its way into my mind. When Master Stone died, what would happen to me? Where else could I find shelter?
“I need you …” He broke off as another coughing fit came over him. I stood awkwardly in place, wondering what to do. “I need you to stay here with Ella when I’m gone.” He whispered the words in a rush, and my legs went weak with relief. “I know I’m dying, and I don’t have much time left. Please, promise me you’ll stay here with Ella. Raise your child here with her. Don’t leave her alone. Gregor is grieving, and he is too old to care for a small child. She needs you. Promise me, Zel. Promise me.”
“I…” Master Stone had sheltered me when I had nowhere else to turn. How could I refuse to shelter his little daughter? And yet, what kind of caretaker would I make? A life of secrets and danger was no life for a child. It was bad enough that my own child would face such a life under my care. What if I ruined Ella’s life too?
“Zel, she needs you, and you already care for her. I know you do. You’ll do right by her.” He coughed again, and the fit went on far too long. What would I do if he stopped breathing altogether? Finally, the coughing fit ended. “That’s all a father can ask,” he said, his voice paper-thin and achingly weak. “Do right by her. Take care of my girl.” Then he was quiet.
I peered through the dim light of his sickroom and realized he had fallen asleep. That was it, then. The conversation was over. How could I deny a man’s dying wish? Not even I was so heartless.
“I will,” I said to his sleeping face.
I shut the door softly behind me and went to look for dinner. We had no flour to bake with, not after burning it all in the bonfire to purge our home from traces of the plague. I’d have to sneak off to the market and pick up victus for myself and Ella.
~
The Sanitation Ministry workers took Master Stone’s body and bedding away late the next morning. I left Ella in Gregor’s care while I scrubbed every inch of our living quarters, my back aching and my stomach tightening repeatedly with a strange hardness that spread across my protruding belly and set my back to aching.
When I was done, I washed my body with blistering hot water and soap in the bathroom. I scrubbed until my skin was red and raw. If only I could be certain that would keep the plague away. When I was clean, I went to retrieve Ella.
I darted nervous looks over my shoulder as I walked down the lane to Gregor’s shop. When I’d first arrived, there’d been trackers on every major street in the city. It had been a miracle that I had made it all the way to the bakery without getting caught. Since the plague, I hadn’t seen nearly as many trackers in the Merchant Quarter, and not a single one near the bakery or at the nearby market where I got victus.
What would I do when the trackers came back? How would I care for myself, Ella, and the baby when I couldn’t leave the bakery without fear of getting caught by trackers and being enslaved?
According to the Herald, the trackers, guards, and healer mages were the first to encounter new plague victims, and therefore, the first to get sick. Thousands of citizens had fallen sick, and hundreds had died in the first week. No one knew how to stop the plague’s horrible spread, but eventually, it had to stop, didn’t it? When the city went back to normal, what would I do?
The sky was dark and heavy over our narrow lane. Yet another spring rainstorm. This land saw far more rain than Draicia ever did. Thick, fat drops of rain hit my face as I neared Gregor’s house. The wet, ashy remains of our bonfires stained the cobblestones in the street. I stepped around them and knocked lightly on Gregor’s door. “Gregor? Ella? It’s me.”
The door opened a crack. Gregor’s lined face was downcast, his eyes rimmed with red. He didn’t speak. He only nodded once and shifted away from the door.
I stepped through, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light.
“Zel?” Ella’s voice was soft and hesitant. She sat on the floor of the empty shop, surrounded by barren shelves. “You came back for me?”
“Of course, sweetheart. I was just … cleaning things up. I wanted to make sure you didn’t get sick.”
She nodded solemnly, clambered to her feet, and placed her small hand in mine. Her palm was warm and her skin, soft. She tucked against my side and clung to my hand like it would be a long time before she let go. “Can I come home?”
“Yes, of course.” A lump filled my throat. I turned to Gregor. “Thank you.”
Gregor didn’t respond. He stood by the door, tears coursing down his aged cheeks.
“I’m …” What could I say to man who’d lost his wife, his business, and his best friend in a matter of days? “If you need anything, just … we’re here, you know.” I stood awkwardly, waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing.
Then Ella let go of my hand and crossed over to Gregor. She wrapped her small arms around his waist as sobs shook his body.
My shoulders crept up, and heat spread across my face. I was a failure at everything—comfort, love, grief. How could Master Stone have expected me to raise his orphaned daughter when I didn’t even know how to comfort a grieving neighbor?
I took one hesitant step forward and then another. I raised a hand. What was I doing? Why did I feel so nervous? I thought back to how Darien had rubbed my back so sweetly in the tower when I was too afraid to escape the day of the white, magic storm. If Darien could comfort a monster like me, surely I could comfort a grieving man like Gregor.
I stepped closer, reached out, and patted Gregor’s shoulder.
He nodded. “I know, Zel,” he whispered hoarsely. “Thank you. And …” He pried his swollen eyes open, meeting my gaze with surprising steadiness.
I nearly yanked my hand away but managed to hold myself still, hoping I didn’t look as uncomfortable as I felt.
“Same for you and Ella. If you need anything,” he said. Then he shrugged one shoulder, a casual gesture at odds with his next words. “As long as I’m still breathing, I’ll be there for both of you. I promise.”
Another promise. I nodded awkwardly and pulled my hand away.
He swiped at the tears on his cheeks, squeezed Ella’s shoulder, and gave her a gentle shove over to me. As Ella folded herself into my side once again, Gregor said, “She doesn’t quite understand yet.” His lips lifted in a sad smile. “She’s too young. But she will, one day.” He nodded, as though reassuring himself. “Off with you both. Leave an old man to his quiet evening, hmm?”
I put a hand on Ella’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Ella. Dinner’s calling our names.”
We ate our victus in the kitchen, huddl
ed by the stove out of habit, though it hadn’t been used in several days and no longer held any residual warmth from the cinderslick. I could only hope the heavy spring rains let up soon to make way for summer, because without cinderslick, we couldn’t bake bread, and without bread, we couldn’t afford suffio embers to heat the living quarters upstairs. If things didn’t get better by next winter, we’d be frozen in our beds. Surely, the plague wouldn’t last that long, would it?
The kitchen was cold and quiet. Ella huddled over her bowl of victus, and though she stirred it several times, she didn’t seem to eat much. I supposed she would have to acquire a taste for it after eating fresh food her whole life.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it eventually,” I said, and gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“What?” Ella’s voice was scratchy and nervous, her eyebrows lowered in a frown.
What had I said?
I tapped my spoon on my empty bowl. “You know … the victus. It doesn’t taste great, but eventually, you’ll get used to it.”
“But …” Her beautiful light-green eyes filled with suspicion. “Won’t we have real food again once Daddy comes back?”
I chewed on my bottom lip and tapped my spoon on my bowl a few more times. Nothing had ever prepared me for this conversation. “She doesn’t understand,” Gregor had said. And I was the worst possible person to help her five-year-old mind come to grips with reality. The last thing I wanted was for Ella to be like me, with nothing but a dusty box of dreams in the back of her mind to stop her from losing herself to this new nightmare.
“He’s … your daddy is …”
Ella narrowed her eyes. “Why are you crying?”
I dashed the warm, wet tears from my cheeks. I hadn’t even realized I’d begun to cry. “Well, it’s because …”
