I turn back to face him and meet his bright gaze. He claims to know all about me. Is that simply because the traders told him everything they knew, or is there more to it? I cling to that brief sense of familiarity I felt while sitting across from him in the front room of the house. There has to be something more here. Perhaps he does have a candle to shine in the darkness of my childhood, my adolescence.
The sharp glimmer in his stare frightens away the questions pressing against my teeth.
He stomps forward, and I retreat until the small of my back hits the countertop. He pauses before me, looming like a great tidal wave.
“Give me your shoes.”
“But—”
“Shoes!” he bellows, and I kick them off. Their soles are nearly worn through.
He picks them up and throws them into the still-hot stove.
“What—”
“Your room is ready,” he says, cutting through my protest with calm words, as though he hadn’t just screamed at me. I step forward to show him my compliance, but I only start moving again when he heads up the stairs. I don’t want this man walking behind me.
The second floor consists of two bedrooms and a closet. He takes me down the hall and around the corner, to the door on the left. My room.
Inside are a cot and a beaten chest. Judging from the smell that permeates the walls, I’m guessing it was fetched from the bottom of the ocean and left to dry here. The floor creaks under my feet. There’s a window, but it’s been bricked up so that only a narrow strip of glass shows. It’s nowhere near large enough for me to fit through. Smears of mortar tell me the work was not professional and possibly recent. Perhaps this is what Allemas spent his time doing while I paced in the chill of the cellar.
“I am fair. I am accepting.” Again, he doesn’t seem to be speaking to me. At least, he doesn’t look at me when he says the words. “Yes. You can learn from me, Maire.”
I say nothing. The marauders taught me it was safer to be silent sometimes.
“Hmmmm,” he hums, tapping the pads of his fingers together before his nose. “I will use you. I know what you can do. But I have to speak to them first. Yes. I can lock you in here.”
My eyes glance at the door. It has several locks running down it, much like the other doors in this house. While Allemas might not have expected to bring someone home when he did, he was prepared to keep a slave.
“No, no. Rocks. Rocks. Can’t be lazy.” He grabs my elbow and drags me from my room and down the stairs, guiding me to the back door. His fingers run over the locks in an order that makes little sense. Some of the locks he unlocks and then locks again. Eventually all the bolts retract and he opens the door.
The backyard is rough with sand, pebbles, and large stones. Beyond this rocky expanse stretches endless beds of green weeds, and far beyond those, the forest.
“Move all the rocks,” he says. “To here.”
He points to the east side of the yard, seemingly choosing the spot at random.
“Why?” I dare to ask.
“To move the rocks,” he answers, as though the answer is both sound and obvious, and then he goes back inside, locking and unlocking locks again. Locking me out.
I stare at the door. I have no shackles, no chains. Nothing to keep me from running. Sparks light under my skin, fireflies scrambling to get out. Surely he doesn’t believe his earlier threat is enough to tether me to this strange place!
I wait, expecting him to either come out again or press his face against a window to watch me as he’s wont to do. But I don’t see him.
I edge backward, eyes on the door. Slip around a stone. Slow, cautious. Reach the edge of the yard. Gasp.
I leap forward as fire gnaws at my heel. Spinning around, I eye the border of green weeds. It takes only a moment for me to recognize them.
Blazeweed. It surrounds the entire yard and rolls in green waves in every direction. An entire sea of it. I would have to leap at least a dozen times to clear the narrowest patches of it, and by then its tiny, violent thorns would have eaten my feet alive, making it impossible to run.
This is why Allemas burned my shoes.
I fall to my knees, staring at this prison that’s far stronger than iron. Even if I crawled through it on my hands and knees, leaving my feet unscathed, I’d pass out from the pain. And the trees . . . There were no trees within the blazeweed prison that I could climb, and not enough stones in the yard to build a bridge. The sea of fire is narrower at the sides of the house, but Allemas thought of that, too. Fences almost as tall as the roof stem out from either side of the house, bowing into the impassable weed. Their wood is a mishmash of barbs and broken glass. Somehow Allemas even managed to coax blazeweed up some of its length, making it completely unscalable.
I turn about, taking in the full view of my surroundings. The green blazeweed blurs together with the brown of the woodland and the blue of the sky. I blink, and tears cascade down my face.
The smallest flash of white touches the edge of my vision, and when I turn, I see the ghost from Carmine hovering over the weeds.
The water tastes like fishes and the fishes taste like water.
CHAPTER 5
I startle and scramble to my feet. That same jittery sensation that plagued me when I saw him in Carmine fills my chest and belly like smoke, and I forget the throbbing of my heel for a moment. He watches me with those same indescribable eyes, the rest of him white, white, white. A breeze passes through the weeds and woods, yet it doesn’t tousle his hair or rustle his clothes like it does mine. His water-like wings, almost prismatic, flap once before curling along his arms.
“You are broken,” he murmurs. The words are spoken low and soft and crumble to the ground like pieces of stale bread.
I glimpse back at the house, then return my focus on him. I limp forward, three steps, then pause, keeping a safe distance between myself and the specter.
“Who are you?” I clutch my hands and press them to my chest, the knuckles whitening.
He doesn’t move, only looks me up and down. His facial features, entirely human from what I can see, are heavy, sorrowful. There’s a strange sort of beauty to them.
“So many holes,” he says. He hovers closer until he’s just a foot from the edge of the blazeweed. I hold my ground. “You have become . . . fragile.”
I lower my hands and ball them into fists. “Am I the only one who speaks directly?” A growl lines my voice. “When I’m allowed to speak at all. I’ve had my fill of strange men and their riddles.”
He hovers a step backward, but the slightest smile pulls at his lips. “Forgive me.”
A voice inside of me chants, He knows you he knows you he knows you. I take a deep breath. “I saw you in Carmine. Who are you?”
The frown returns. “I cannot tell you that.”
I rub tension from a muscle in my neck. “Surely you have a name.”
His gaze intensifies. “Fyel.”
“Fyel,” I repeat, and my skin prickles. I’ve heard that name before, haven’t I? Someone in my village, perhaps? Did one of the marauders call another “Fyel”? I try to place the name, but the more I ponder it, the more foreign it sounds, as though it, too, is being swallowed up in the void of my mind. “Why can’t you tell me? Why are you here? You know me from . . . from before, don’t you?”
He remains firm, stoic. I rub the palms of my hands into my eyes and force another long breath in and out of my lungs. Then I stare at him, unabashed in my gaze. His body appears human, too, except for his coloring and those curious wings that extend over either elbow. Is he a wandering spirit? Do we all inherit wings once we die?
“Please,” I beg, keeping my voice low. “I’ve been trying to remember for more than four years. Anything you know—please tell me. Where I’m from, who I belong to, why I’m here . . . I’ll do anything for just one answer.”
As I wait for him to speak, I feel as though there are invisible hands on either side of me, pushing in toward my center. The strain makes it hard to breath
e.
His expression wilts under such sadness I fear his eyes will melt off his face. His lips pinch together. He shakes his head, and now I’m the one melting, my insides puddling into a cold heap at my heels. “You remember nothing else?”
I shake my head, and he remains silent. Perhaps thinking.
I take a deep breath, then another. Glance back to the house. I don’t have much time. “Can you at least tell me where I am now?”
He looks up, then glances behind him. “You are near Ochre.”
“Ochre?”
“I believe that is what it is called. You know it?”
I nod, although I’ve never been there. It’s a city-state northwest of Carmine, far away. I take my gaze from the specter—Fyel—and peer through the woods, turning slowly until . . . there. Ahead of the house. Brown and purple mountains in the distance: the Shadow Peaks. At least now I know where to run should the opportunity ever arise.
“I’m not a slave,” I say, though I don’t know why this spirit cares.
“I know.”
I turn back to face him. I can see the trunks of trees through him, as though he is fog taking the shape of a man. He hovers over the blazeweed.
I stiffen, straighten, and a bubble of hope presses into the base of my throat. I sprint to the edge of the blazeweed, toward him, until we’re only feet apart.
“Can you take me over it?” I ask, pointing to the fiery plants. “Can you carry me over the nettles?” Lowering my voice, I say, “I must escape. He’s a mad man . . . I’m not a slave! I have to go home. Please, will you help me?”
Fyel’s face falls once more, and that tentative bubble in my throat bursts. “I am sorry.”
Tears sting my eyes. “Why?”
“I am not part of this world,” he whispers, holding up his hand. I see the outline of blazeweed leaves through his palm. I remember our brief meeting in Carmine, but I lift my fingers to touch his regardless. I pass right through him. He feels no different than the air around us, and I wonder, briefly, if I’ve gone mad.
“I don’t understand,” I say, but before I can beg for more information, I hear the rattling of locks at the back of the house and stiffen.
Fyel looks up as well, and the nameless color in his eyes blazes brighter. His proffered hand retracts into a tight fist. “No.”
I look back to him. “What?”
He scowls and lowers himself closer to the earth, though he still doesn’t touch it. “Stay away from him,” he growls, sounding older and more masculine. “You must get away.”
“Then help me!” I cry. Another lock clicks from the door.
“I will, I swear it. I will do what I can. But you must trust me.”
The door opens, and Fyel vanishes.
Allemas’s slick voice calls out, “You can’t run. That’s blazeweed.”
The muscles in my back tighten into thick cords. “I know.”
“You haven’t moved the rocks.” He frowns. “I told you to move the rocks.”
I face him. “Why?”
“It’s discipline. Move the rocks. Here to here.” He points, though the desired location has changed from the first time he gave the order, a little farther to the east. “Then you can make magic, but not for me. I know someone else who can use you. Move the rocks. Rocks.” He points again.
I grind my teeth together until they threaten to chip. The stones are not especially large, but they are heavy. Some I have to roll across the dirt to move them. Sweat tickles my forehead, but I throw myself into the work, grateful for some outlet for my anger. I don’t understand any of this, Allemas or Fyel. I peer toward the woods several times as I work, but the specter is nowhere to be seen.
Allemas watches me, as usual. I’m beginning to grow used to it, which worries me.
Fyel’s words run through my head again and again. “You must get away.” I couldn’t agree more, but what does the specter know that I don’t?
I drop another stone in the desired location and meet Allemas’s stare. My boldness doesn’t unnerve him, and I wonder why. I wonder what he has in store for me.
I wonder what he knows.
I cross the yard and retrieve another stone, my thoughts spinning in a new direction. He trusts me to make cakes. I could poison them . . . but I will not kill him. Cannot. The very idea makes my stomach turn. But if I could make him sleep, maybe make him sick? I’m not sure it’s possible since every ingredient I have comes directly from his hands. Could I will slumber into a confection?
My magic is gentle, subtle. I don’t think I would be successful. Not as successful as I need it to be.
“All done,” Allemas announces, and he opens the door into the house. “Come, come. I need specific things. Things to grow and things to shrink.”
I pause in the doorway, leaning my weight on my left foot. My right is burning from its encounter with the blazeweed. “I don’t think I can—”
“You can, you will. Try try.” He points to the ingredients still left out on the counter; I haven’t put them away, nor have I cleaned up the mess from this morning. “I need a cake. And another, unbaked. One to grow and one to shrink.”
“Grow and shrink? A . . . person?” I ask, and he nods, and my head hurts.
I have never tried to alter a person’s physical form with cake—or any baked good—but I get to work to satiate my buyer’s demands. If he notices my limp, he doesn’t remark on it.
I crush berries and pour them into batter, which I stir while contemplating tallness: trees, sky, ceilings. The blacksmith and the clock tower from my village, towers and beanstalks. As I add flour, I think of plants drinking in rain and sunlight, growing tall and strong.
One unbaked. I wonder at that request as the first cake goes into the oven and I start the second. I decide on something savory and chop thyme and basil into fine bits. Small, tiny bits, until their green color stains the countertops. Small, small, small. I think of mice and sand, of newborn babes and freckles. I picture plants again, but now the sun is too hot and the ground too dry, and they shrivel. I think of their seeds flying on the wind, wishing I could ride them to safety.
I think of the first time I stepped into the village square with Arrice. All those eyes watched me, marking me as new, unknown, and strange, and I looked back, unable to remember names or faces or anything, and I felt so very, very small.
I whisk the batter until my arms hurt, making it as smooth as I can. Allemas produces a bottle for it, and I funnel the batter in with a spoon and my hand. When I finish, he ties it with a tag that reads, DRINK ME.
“What is that for?”
He doesn’t answer me, only moves to the oven and pries open the door.
“You’ll make it fall,” I say.
He glances at me, his face blank as a new canvas.
“The cake. You’ll make it flat.”
He shrugs. “As long as she can eat it.”
I don’t know who “she” is, but I don’t ask. I busy myself with cleaning up spilled flour and scrubbing green stains. I place my ingredients into the cupboards. They’re mostly bare.
After I take the first cake from the oven, Allemas escorts me to my room and locks me inside. I watch out the window until he leaves, carrying the bottle and pan with him. He doesn’t take his wagon.
Returning to the door, I test its locks, trying to wriggle my fingernails beneath them. I slam my weight into the door, but it holds strong. Moving back to the window, I grab bricks and heave, but the mortar, though messily done, is unrelenting.
You must get away, Fyel had said. And I will.
Somehow I will. I do not understand up. Down is down but up should be down too.
CHAPTER 6
While Allemas is gone, I plan my escape.
I draw my finger across the old floorboards of my room, mapping out invisible lines of the house and its surroundings. There’s some sort of road that leads up to the front, or else Allemas’s wagon would never have made it here. I imagine it’s parallel to the house. T
he backyard is shaped as a half circle and surrounded in blazeweed. Blazeweed swarms the sides of the house and those menacing outer walls.
I don’t know what the other upstairs rooms look like, only where their doors are. I doubt Allemas will give me the chance to view them, but maybe I don’t need to.
There are two safe ways to leave this house. The first is through the front door and down that road. I assume there isn’t a village or town for several miles, but as long as I can outrun Allemas, I can get away. Allemas’s legs are long, awkward gait or not, and though I do walk a lot, I’ve spent my days licking cake batter from bowls. I’m not confident I can outrace him. What will Allemas do if he catches me trying to escape?
I pause in my make-believe drawing and ponder. I’m still not sure if Allemas truly does know something about my past, or if he’s merely mad and I’ve interpreted his ravings to suit my wishes. If he does know something, I’d be running from one of the only clues I have about my history, my identity, my person. But if it’s the latter, I’ll never find any others, unless Fyel begins to talk. But even he told me to run.
I eye the door. I’ll have to escape while Allemas is gone for it to work, but there’s no way out of this locked room. I may not even make it to the front door to see how far my legs can carry me.
That leaves the second option.
Allemas has left me in the backyard unsupervised once already, knowing I wouldn’t run because of the blazeweed. But there’s one side of the yard that is unprotected: the house itself.
I cannot go through the house, not with all those locks on the back door. But I could go over it. I try to picture the house in my mind. Two stories, with plenty of window ledges for footholds. If I manage to scale the side and reach the roof—especially if I do it quietly—I might be able to drop down on the other side before Allemas notices. Maybe, gods willing, I’ll find a sympathetic traveler somewhere on that unknown road to aid me, or if not, I can hide in the woods. I know a lot about the native plants and what is safe to eat. I’m not familiar with these woods, but if I manage to find water, I will survive. I think.
Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet Page 5
