The girl’s face was familiar, open sky-blue eyes filled with wonder in a face framed by thick blonde locks. The hair Vynasha had imagined golden against torchlight before seemed far paler in the light of day, more ashen than honey. Yet it was indeed the child who had looked on her with compassion in a bloodthirsty mob, the one Baalor had led away from that morning’s confrontation.
Vynasha opened her mouth to speak, but then saw the bruise welling on the side of the girl’s face, a fresh addition to even older scars. So this wasn’t the first time the girl had been abused.
Vynasha tamped the urge to assess her other potential injuries. It was the way she had been with little Wyll, who was out in this same forest somewhere with the humans Baalor hunted. Did that make her their enemy too?
The girl slowly pushed off the ground with a barely noticeable wince and spoke in a soft, small voice. “Aelon’s mother won’t forget what you did.”
Vynasha grimaced, but recalled the boy’s cruelty with the same ferocity that had made her lose control moments before. “He should be punished for what he did to you.” She couldn’t help but think of the village of Whistleande, of the many times she’d wished for the strength to stand up to their sneers and dimly disguised fear.
“I won’t forget what you did, either,” the girl said, bringing Vynasha’s eyes back to hers, the wide smile transforming her bruised little face into something beautiful.
Vynasha couldn’t help but smile back. It had been worth that moment of stupidity, no matter the consequences. “I’m the one who threatened your village this morning.”
The girl’s smile faded. “I know. You are Wanderer’s sister. They say you’re a witch.”
She thought of Grendall’s amulet and the way her skin had glowed from within, of all the things she had done and seen in the castle. “I guess I am.”
“My mother was a witch, too. That is why they hate me so much. My name is Erythea of the Iceveins clan.”
“Vynasha,” she replied with pursed her lips as she remembered Baalor’s hatred of dark majik and how Ceddrych had dismissed it with disgust. Something itched at the back of her mind that she was forgetting, but she pushed aside her growing dread. “Is your home nearby?”
Erythea stood and grabbed Vynasha’s clawed hand without a trace of fear. “Come and see.”
ERYTHEA LED HER by a narrow path cutting through the fir trees rather than return to the village, which bordered a babbling brook stinking of majik. All the while Vynasha wondered what kind of home this ethereal child hailed from. Clearly, if her mother was a witch, it would differ from the rest of the village. In Vynasha’s mind she imagined the type of witch’s abode Ceddrych’s stories had always made her picture as a child.
As they walked, Erythea chattered with fresh joy, as though she hadn’t been a victim before, as though this sort of thing happened every day. Vynasha’s blood boiled, but she kept her lips sealed and allowed the child to lead her further from the soft buzz of the village.
“Grandmother makes me do chores and study every day, but after she lets me do what I want. I think she feels sorry for me, because Mother isn’t here to teach me about woman stuff. But she is afraid of majik too, just like the others.”
“Why are they so afraid?” Vynasha dared to ask.
Erythea’s slightly upturned nose scrunched up as she answered, “Because of what happened long ago. Grandmother tells me the story to remind me why majik is dangerous. I am not afraid though. I remember what Mother taught me.”
Vynasha touched the amulet beneath her tunic and ducked under frosted low-hanging branches as the path veered right. “And do you have majik?”
Erythea’s open expression closed suddenly, returning to that pinched, drawn face Vynasha had first met, and her steps slowed to a halt. For a moment she stared at their feet. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”
“But I’m a witch, too, remember?”
Erythea lifted her chin and looked at her with a quirk of her pale eyebrow. “I don’t know how you could be. Mother told me that you cannot have majik and the curse at the same time.”
Neither Odym or Grendall had said anything about that. Vynasha frowned and started to ask more, suddenly wishing the girl’s mother was here to tell her more.
Erythea glanced at her from the corner of her eye and pointed to the path. “Come a little further. We are almost there.”
Snow drifted from the sky with a gentle kiss to their skin as Erythea led Vynasha between curtains of tree branches and snow. As they emerged the other side, the wind swept over them, lifting their hair to join in the dance. Vynasha opened her mouth as a strong scent washed over her and shook the snow from her head. She blinked, surprised by the height of the house before them. It looked much like the ruins of her father’s family manor at the foot of Whistleande Pass, only this two-storied wooden structure glowed with life from within. It was built in the rounded shape of the other village houses, but no fresh paintings adorned its sides to gift it with color. Instead, vines bearing a bright violet flower bobbed in the same breeze that carried their scent to Vynasha’s sharpened senses. The flowers reeked of majik and all she could think of was her mother’s roses.
On sight of her home, Erythea hopped and pulled Vynasha with her in a rush to the front door. “Come on! Grandmother will make us rabbit stew if you like, or any kind of tart. Do you like berry tart? It’s my favorite thing, besides Mama’s flowers.”
Vynasha watched the front door, with its faded paintings of vines and the roses hanging over its frame, and tears sprang in her eyes. “I—I can’t.” The door was partially open, revealing a glowing world smelling of freshly baked goods.
Erythea turned and stared at Vynasha’s clawed hand, pressed the tips to her small palm and almost whispered, “Oh, I am sorry. I guess I should have asked you first, but—after what you did to Aelon, I thought you could maybe be my friend?” At this she lifted her chin and her round blue eyes pleaded in ways she couldn’t.
Whatever instinct had frightened Vynasha before faded against the child’s sadness. She took in a deep calming breath and tried not to let the majik of the violet flowers overwhelm her, tried to focus on the smell of baking, of home.
“Thea, is that you, lass? What could possibly possess you to stand there with the door open? Trying to invite every muskrat and coney to our doorstep?” A slightly hunched-over old woman grabbed the door from Erythea, reprimand on the tip of her tongue, until she also noticed the clawed stranger holding the child’s hand. “Oh, my…Thea, get inside, quickly.”
“But Grandmother, she is eating with us! I promised!” Erythea took a step closer to Vynasha and stared defiantly at the old woman.
Vynasha fought the urge to shrink. The old woman’s frown deepened her careworn face. Her eyes were a startling black that filled her entire iris, clearly the mark of some other kind. Her snowy hair was braided tightly in a crown about her head and something of her former strength rose with her chin as she studied them.
“Grandmother, please? She made the other children go away today.” Erythea’s voice grew smaller at the last and the old woman’s gaze sharpened on her granddaughter.
“Did she, now? Well, it seems we are in your debt after all, stranger. You may cross the threshold.” The old woman backed into their home and pulled the door open further.
Erythea rocked to the tips of her toes and back with her small victory and glanced up somewhat sheepishly to Vynasha. “I suppose I should have asked again?”
Vynasha tried not to notice the way the old woman watched her every move as they walked inside. “The food does smell delicious.”
Erythea grinned and, as before in the forest, pointed to describe her home. “Our rooms are upstairs. Ours isn’t the only two-leveled house in the village, but it is the oldest, right, Grandmother?”
“Yes, Thea, it is,” the old woman replied as she returned to a rounded fireplace at the center of the main room, the chimney rising up through the ceiling above her head. Drie
d herbs hung overhead and a round rug lay beneath cushions surrounding a low table for eating.
“Do you like our table? Everyone in the village eats on the floor like this, except Wanderer. I heard he built a table with tall legs and chairs. Isn’t that funny? Grandmother’s grandfather built this table. Oh, and look, those antlers are from when the charla still roamed our forest. That is Grandmother’s loom. Our village keeps a few mountain sheep for wool and Grandmother’s the best. She is going to teach me one day. I still have to use the spindle.”
Vynasha stared at the loom with fascination. No one in her village used a loom, as trade with the southern kingdoms negated the need. She pulled free from Erythea’s grasp to trace the wooden side and thought back to the charla the Prince frequently offered her for supper. “Charla is good, if a little gamey…”
At the sudden stillness in the room, she turned from the taut woolen lines and found Erythea gaping at her, while the old woman gazed on her with something akin to terror.
“So it is true,” she gasped, “you came from the castle, as my son said.”
Vynasha shifted and avoided the old woman’s penetrating stare. Instead she took in the detail Erythea hadn’t described, the bolts of colored fabric braided together near the fire with rag dolls and the aforementioned spindle. Carvings had been etched into the rafters of animals and plants that scrolled all the way down to the walls. It was then she noticed the flowered vines from outside had crept within as well and hugged the old tapestries hanging on the walls. For a moment the people sewn on the old fabric seemed to point and giggle at her, whispering behind their hands. She blinked, and the walls returned to solid wood again. She grasped the amulet and white wooden key beneath her cloak.
“I shouldn’t be here…” she hissed.
Not with wild majik teasing my mind…
The old woman surprised her when she marched over to her. “Nonsense, you are naught but skin and bones! Suppose they never fed you in that cursed place. Come over and sit by the fire, and take off that smelly cloak. You shan’t freeze or starve under my watch. Thea, take her furs.”
Vynasha twisted as Erythea pulled her brother’s cloak from her shoulders and turned her head at the girl’s gasp. The women stared at the simple leather tunic hanging below her waist, the leggings and wrappings beneath.
Grandmother clucked her tongue. “Shame on your brother for letting you walk around in those hideous things… Thea, watch the pot a moment. I shall remedy this.” Her black eyes swept over Vynasha with pity before she retreated to a trunk sitting beneath the stairs. She returned with a parcel in her thin, knotted hands but hesitated.
Only after Vynasha looked up to meet her depthless gaze did she speak again.
“I am an old woman. I have seen over seven hundred winters now, I suppose. I lost count years ago, but when I was still young, I made these. I like to think I am not so old and bitter that I can’t show kindness to those who deserve it.” She pressed the parcel in Vynasha’s hands. “Thank you for helping Thea. The other children do not understand her any more than their elders understood her mother.”
Vynasha blinked back tears she wasn’t aware had formed at the warmth in the old woman’s eyes. “You’re welcome,” she barely managed. Inside she was still reeling.
Seven hundred?
The old woman nodded with a ghost of a smile tugging the corners of her mouth and turned back to finishing dinner. “Thea, show her a place she can change.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” To Vynasha, the little girl smiled brightly. “Come upstairs! I can show you my room.” As they ascended the stairs, she continued at a whisper, “I keep Mother’s old spellbooks upstairs. Grandmother doesn’t mind if I read them, but Father would be furious. He says majik is what caused most of our village to be cursed.”
Vynasha shuddered as she thought of the witch’s flowers and the image of the tapestries they sent to her mind and shook her head. Perhaps it was best to keep majik hidden after all in this land of beasts.
Erythea’s bedroom was the first door to their right down the narrow hall. There were five bedrooms total, Grandmother’s being the largest, she learned. The ashen-haired girl told her that before she was born, all the rooms had been filled with her family. Now it was just her grandmother, her father and herself left. Vynasha didn’t ask her why and the girl forgot to be sad the moment they entered her bedroom.
The bed was much larger than anticipated, and a tall chest sat at the foot, carved in patterns of flowers like the ones growing outside.
“Father carved my chest for me. One day I’ll fill it with all the things I will take to my home, when I find my mate.”
“Mate?” Vynasha picked up the odd phrase.
“Uh-huh, some of the mirror folk don’t, but Wolvs only mate once, for always. But sometimes you have to wait.”
Vynasha laid out the parcel on the soft fur blanket covering the bed and pulled the ribbon holding it together loose. Erythea paused long enough to gasp at the beauty of the clothes inside. Vynasha started to tell her to wait outside, not certain what the girl would say about her scars.
The curse wiped the burns away, remember?
She wished suddenly for the mirror in her castle bedroom, overcome with an urge to see her reflection, just in case.
Erythea danced on her toes about the room with the ribbon until Grandmother called from downstairs, “Thea! Leave the poor woman alone to dress in peace! Come help me lay the table.”
The girl groaned and rolled her eyes before smirking at Vynasha. “Sorry, got to go.”
Once the door was safely shut, Vynasha ignored the urge to dig through the pile of bound yellow-leafed books piled in a dim corner of the bedroom. By candlelight she slipped from her brother’s borrowed things and pulled on warm woolen undergarments that hugged warmth to her skin. She ignored the gleam of Grendall’s amulet hanging from her neck as she pulled on a white tunic embroidered with scrolling vines and flowers that hung below her waist. She secured a layered skirt the same shade as the fir trees outside with a blue and yellow beaded belt. Her leather-wrapped feet poked below the hem and she ran her hands over the soft fabric. It would keep her warm beneath her brother’s fur cloak. The colors and design were expertly made and she wondered why the rest of the village did not wear such clothing.
Grandmother and Erythea wore darker shades than the dress they gave her, their tunics stitched with much simpler patterns. Perhaps the styles had simply changed, but she suspected this was the result of Soraya’s curse. Outside the castle, it was strange to see the ripple effects in something so frivolous as styles of clothing.
She gathered her brother’s old leathers to her chest and lifted the candlestick as she made her way downstairs.
The spellbooks don’t matter, she told herself.
Grandmother made coney stew, rich in herbs she collected and grew during the shorter, warmer season. As the light dimmed outside their cozy corner of the world, Vynasha found herself relaxing against the cushions surrounding the supper table and laughing at Erythea’s antics and Grandmother’s stories of girlhood in the mountains, before the curse.
“You might happen across a whole village of hobgoblins in those days, or come across a cave of drakkons,” she said, much to Vynasha’s horror. The old woman’s gaze sharpened on her, not missing her revulsion. “Mayhap you saw some of the old folk of the mountains, during your stay…”
Vynasha swallowed another swig of honey ale and tried to calm her racing heart. Just because there was little of the beast about the old woman did not mean she couldn’t change skins like the others, like Ceddrych. At their expectant looks, the need to speak grew. Vynasha held up her clawed hand before them and watched as the girl and the old woman studied it.
“I have seen what majik can do to ordinary folk. I have seen beasts that walk on two legs and speak like men. I have seen spirits that live and breathe but are fading to dust. Everything around the castle is still alive and beautiful, but the castle itself is dead. I don
’t remember much of it. The journey there was strange, like a dream, and maybe the curse’s majik played with my senses, or maybe I was starving and too exhausted to take notice. All I cared about was getting there and finding the…” She hesitated at the excitement in Erythea’s blue eyes.
Grandmother broke her abrupt silence as though it had never occurred. “I always wondered how long the majik of Soraya’s curse could last in that place.”
Vynasha gaped. “You know of Soraya?”
Grandmother chuckled. “Of course! No wolfling, mirror lark or human babe was born not knowing our Queen was a Fayere sorceress.” She leaned forward with mischief in her sparkling black eyes. “She had wings, you know.”
“Truly, Grandmother?” Erythea gasped.
“Truly.” To Vynasha she play-whispered, “They’re quite rare, this side of the mirror, you know. Saw her wings once myself, when the Queen came down to our village for a visit. Wore them down and partly hidden in the train of her long dresses, she did.”
Vynasha shook her head in wonder. “Your lives are so long here. I had no idea…”
Grandmother smiled knowingly. “Of course. Some live longer than most, of course, depending on their will. The Iceveins clan has always been long-lived, however. We are a tough bunch to kill.” She cackled when Erythea giggled and Vynasha found the cusp of laughter bubbling past her lips.
Laughter, as well as all warmth in the room, was cut by a strong, icy gust of wind pouring through the open door and they turned to meet it.
Vynasha stood at the potential threat, claws out, hand itching to snatch her jeweled dagger hidden against her thigh. Wind carried a familiar threat to her nose so she was torn between fleeing and fighting her way out.
“Wait!” Erythea grabbed hold of her hand. It was the smell of the girl’s fear that bade Vynasha straighten her spine, while dread dropped like a dead weight in her stomach.
Scarred Beauty Page 8
