4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Embla
It’s peculiar how a day can start like any other, and within moments it can flip upside down, taking me along with it. Morning gave way to an afternoon that brought banging on the front door. The tile is still slick from my daily mopping, and I am forced to tiptoe across dry spots to answer the unyielding knock. I raise my chin high when I find a messenger, red-faced and out of breath puffing on the step.
“Lumin’s office at once,” the messenger demands, his high-pitched voice grating in my ears. I wonder where his manners and etiquette disappeared off to. I, at the very least, expect him to respect the station of my father. His eyes track my movement as I brush my white hair behind my ears as the messenger’s callous-less fingers tremble uncontrollably as they hold out an envelope.
“I beg your pardon, what is the purpose of your unannounced vis—” He doesn’t wait for the words to roll off my tongue before he pushes past me. Taking purposeful strides to Papa’s office. I’m invisible. Sometimes I feel like no one would notice if I left. I scan the area outside the house, looking for the eyes I can feel following my every movement. They’ve been following me since I left the palace. I can’t tell if I’m being paranoid or if the shadows have someone watching me. I hope the messenger doesn’t latch the office door; the only way anyone tells me anything is if I overhear it. I quickly shut the front entry, sliding the lock into place before I risk darting for my broom.
Cleaning tool in hand, I crane my neck around the corner, the end of my hair tickling the middle of my back as I move closer to the back of the hall. Thank Malia, the office door is open just a crack. If it is something serious, I do not want Papa hiding it from me. He tried to hide the illness while I was at school and I’m not going through that again. I knew something was wrong even if he would not admit it. I position myself in front of the door and sweep the floor I just mopped. It must be pretty serious for a messenger to forget his manners.
“The entire second shift of the northern fields has fallen ill, and half of the northern herd has fallen over dead,” his voice is quiet, near frantic as he explains further. “A quarter of them have died, and the rest are in different stages of blistering across their bodies. Some are even seizing,” the messenger puffs out, his irritating voice floating into the hallway where I lazily swipe my broom over the tile. Those poor people, their poor families. Our district can’t handle the loss of any more people, not with the tithe coming due soon. So many people have died, people I’ve been used to seeing every day since I was a child. It’s hard to leave the house anymore, not because of the people still here, but because of the faces that are no longer in the crowds or on the street. Little holes in the community have started to tear us apart. We have never been this short during a harvest.
“What of their masks?” There was a lot of pushback from the district when the Institute of Health forced masks on us but almost everyone wears them, even if begrudgingly. We’re all scared; no one is ready to die a painful death, and no one wants to watch a loved one go through it either.
“They all wore them, sir,” came the messenger’s shaky response. I thought the numbers were going to start going down, but it seems like the number of afflicted grows more and more each passing day.
Something shatters. “Ask the health institute representative why they didn’t work, and we will need someone here for the emergency meeting tonight.” His voice is a growl, the scratching of a pen on paper follows and I imagine the messenger writing down his new instructions. The plague is getting worse, and if it continues, there won’t be anyone in the Farm District left.
I scurry out of the hallway moments before the office door flies open. I really cannot get caught eavesdropping again. The messenger flees the manor, leaving a trail of open doors behind him. Papa meanders out of the room seconds later, stroking his graying, red beard as he closes his office door, then the front door. The red hair on his head stands up like he was pulling on it. His face is a faded pink. He used to be a warrior, one of the best from what I was taught in school. He’s killed fae and faeries alike. The ghost of the warrior is still there under his beer belly. There are glimpses of it in his broad chest and muscular arms.
“Embla,” he says exasperated, he rubs his temples , brown eyes meeting mine. “Quit eavesdropping on Lumin business, and go paint or something.” He sighs. I hang my head; shame creeps up the back of my neck. The last time he caught me, he made me promise I would stop listening in on conversations, and I can see the disappointment shining in his eyes. I mumble an apology as I run off to find something to keep me busy.
It’s just Papa and me for dinner since Astrid is working at the clinic. I do my best not to fidget as I chew my food. Every time I find my fingers fidgeting with the hem of the table cloth the weight of Papa’s glare falls on me, forcing me to shove my hands in my lap to stop. I hate it when Astrid works late. Neither Papa nor I have said a word since we sat down. I’ve been doing my best to avoid him since the messenger left. Unfortunately, dinner is the one place I am not able to avoid him.
A soft knock sounds on the front door. Papa wipes his mouth on the cloth napkin and the ancient chair scrapes against the wood floor I painstakingly painted to look like marble. Two small scuff marks glare at me. I take in a sharp inhale and push down my rising frustration. No one appreciates anything I do here. I release my breath reminding myself that we all have a role to play.
Papa drops the cloth in his seat before he walks to the front door. His stride is confident as he walks out of sight. I don’t know how he can hold his head up high while there is still no cure or any kind of remedy for the illness.
“The Institute of Health sent me for the meeting.” I stand slowly following Papa’s footsteps to peer through the entry hall to get a glimpse of the strange voice’s owner; a man with ashy blonde hair wearing a blue coat. A student physician, the same ones Reyna wears. One step up from intern and a step down from master.
“You can make yourself at home around the meeting pit. I’ll be out shortly to light the fire,” Papa says, his tone clipped. “I can’t believe they sent a student.” He curses, his fingers massaging his temples as he walks back into the dining room. Because the instructors don’t know any more about this sickness than the students do, the master healers are hoarded by the King who claims he needs to keep them close in case of assassination attempts.
I don’t bother saying anything. When he’s in one of these moods, it's better to be silent. “I’m going to light the fire and prepare for the meeting,” he announces, and I simply nod. There’s no point in saying anything, he wouldn’t listen to me anyway. I scoop a large bite of baked beans with sausage out of my bowl with a potato chip before popping it into my mouth. I huff repeatedly, my hands flailing as I try to quickly cool the too hot food. Papa turns on his heel, striding out the front door. I hate it when Astrid works second shift, but I thank Malia that today is her last day, and hopefully she isn’t placed on another second shift assignment. I know she plans on moving out one day, but if she thinks for a second I’m going to stop caring for her when she does, then she’s wrong. I make a mental note to make her a plate for the fridge.
I’m staring at a blank canvas, a paint brush handle in my mouth as I balance a wooden palette in the center of my palm as Papa walks through the door, voices spilling in behind him. Nothing sounds interesting enough to paint. I wonder who will ask me to dance at the festival. If anyone will ask me for the dance of the maiden. I really need to start making a list of the eligible bachelors in my year. Lost in thought, I barely acknowledge him.
“Good, you’re painting,” Papa says before he turns to the wall where his Luminarium hangs. The tall staff has a bright green crystal embedded in the wood. Roots wrap around the jewel anchoring it in place, and it looks as if the wood tried to claim the gem itself. It is a sign of the position’s power in the community. Papa reverently lifts the staff from the wall with both hands. I continue to try to paint, but the canvas remains blank. My mind is flooded with thoughts of everything that is going on; the Oracle’s decree that the festival must go on if we expect Malia to bless us again. The Oracle is the only one who can commune with the god. While I have always trusted her interpretation of Malia’s will, I can’t help but judge the sanity of this with the possibility of the disease spreading to the other districts. The illness would threaten the city, especially when it had already taken a good amount of people from the Farm District.
“Are we going to be able to pay the tithe? Complete the harvest?” The questions slip through my lips before I can stop them. The number of able bodies on the farm is dwindling. If just one of the remaining homesteads can’t supply enough crops or money to the temple, there are consequences. I’ll have to forfeit my life, but we’ve still got plenty of time.
“We’re going to try,” Leif says, as he makes his way back outside to confront the masses. I stare at the blank canvas for what feels like an eternity until my frustration wins, my focus shifting to look out the large window into the woods behind my house, and the memories that hide there.
I giggle as I run through the forest. Mud squishing between my toes as I run deeper until I find a small group of trees shining amethyst, sapphire, and gold. I peek into the clearing and find three women with six wings stretching from their backs. Their hair is the color of untouched snow. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than the colorful sparkles that radiate from them. The golden faerie stands in the lead, and I squeeze my eyes closed when her gaze turns to me, remembering something Papa said about never looking a faerie in the eye.
“Sweet girl," a voice dripping in desire coos, her voice is a melody on the wind. My entire body vibrates, but then I feel the gentlest of touches against my cheek. Calm floods my system from that single touch laced with the want to open my eyes. The urge is so strong, I find myself refuting the stories Papa told all those years ago. Faeries would never hurt a human. When I meet the gold faerie’s eyes, I can’t control my body any longer. She holds me there; it feels like she pulls in my mind, convincing it there is nothing but her. The faerie reaches into her pocket and pulls out a golden orb that glows calling to me.
“Your time has come. You will be the strongest of us all." She drops it into my hands. Warm light bursts from my palms. It flows into my chest, filling it as the wind begins to whip through my hair. The three faeries disappear in the chaos and the wind dies down. I think it’s over, but then tingling starts between my shoulder blades. It grows into a ripping pain as something tries to break through my skin. Through my tears and throat burning screams, I can see Astrid laying still on the ground. I thought I left her at the barn.
“Leif, they're here!” I want to cry in relief when I hear the familiar voice of Uncle Bjorn. They found us; Papa will know how to make the pain stop. Arms scoop me up, cradling me against his chest. I try to stay still, but I can’t stop writhing as the pain lashes through me. It feels like my skin is being ripped from my back. It burns as screams tear through me. Men’s voices sound around me, but I can’t speak or make out what they are saying. I am consumed by this nightmare that has taken over everything. I’m deposited on something soft, but the pain doesn’t go away. I twist my body at odd angles looking for any kind of relief. For days I stay like this, writhing on the bed. Sometimes Papa is by my side, sometimes I am alone. Astrid never comes.
“Em, this is going to fix everything,” Papa’s gentle voice says before something cold lands on my chest. The coolness sweeps through me, staunching the pain. I take a few unburdened breaths before trying to sit up. Only for Papa’s large hands to push me back down. A lock of my hair catches my attention because it's not the right color. I pull my long tresses around my neck to my chest as I study the milky white lengths that were once mousey brown.
“Papa, what happened?” I ask, warm tears slide down my cheeks.
“You’re okay now, Em. It’s all going to be okay.” He wipes away one of my tears before carefully handing me a mirror.
I gasp, my hair is stark white, yes, but my eyes glow gold. The mirror falls back from my hand, and Papa catches it as exhaustion sweeps through me. He tucks the blanket in as I start to lose the battle against sleep. On his way out he opens the door to reveal a tear-stained Astrid before the door clicks shut hiding her once again.
That was the day I got my locket. The same as Astrid’s, except gold where her’s is silver, with a simple sun instead of a crescent moon engraved across the surface. My fingers twist the necklace as I make my way to my bedroom. My mind, lost to the past. That day has haunted me since it happened. Something calls my name from outside Demendia– a call I’ve been ignoring. There’s nothing out there for me, my life is here. Everything I’ve ever known and wanted is here, and I’m so close to finding someone to share my life with.
It isn’t long after I lay down for bed that I hear Papa telling Astrid to get inside followed by the door slamming loudly. My sister is always pressing our father’s buttons and pushing his boundaries. They’re more alike than either of them will admit. Papa doesn’t like the rules Malia has on knowledge and has been known to pass on illegal stories. The stories of fae and faeries he used to tell before bed have been forbidden for as long as I can remember. Something he hasn’t done since Astrid approached him about training her to use that stolen sword. Not only did he refuse to train her, he threatened consequences if she asked him again.
It isn’t much longer until the bedroom door opens, light pools on the floor revealing Astrid’s silhouette. She brushes her long black hair from her shoulders. It cascades freely as it sways, shining in the green light. She shuts the door behind her with a soft click, quickly plunging the room back into darkness. A blue glow radiates in from the singular window. Outside, the fire is so big farmers all over the district will be able to see it. There’s a rustle as Astrid pulls her white cotton nightgown from its drawer, setting it aside. It’s the same nightgown every woman is required to wear. The Muren states a woman who wears anything else or nothing at all shall be considered a woman of the night. Being accused of prostitution only leads to one thing. Execution. There are even rumors the Shadow Guard steals women of the night.
The floor creaks as the house sings under Astrid’s feet. She walks to the window, slowly pushing it open. Her familiar perfume of lavender, vanilla, and something else comes together to smell like a clear summer night that’s chased away by the smell of smokey bonfire. The chaos of the crowd fills the room with the sound of many voices. Instead of climbing into the top bunk, Astrid takes a seat in front of my bed. Sighing, I sit up and start running my fingers through her hair.
“How was dinner?” I ask, breaking my silence. “I saved you a plate in the fridge.”
“I couldn’t eat,” my sister says curtly. Her gaze shifts to the window, waiting to hear what Papa has to say to the crowd. The roar of voices outside ebbs and flows as more and more farmers join.
“So, you know what happened?” I ask softly.
“A bit, but I’m not sure what the whole story is.”
“A messenger came today.” My hands still, but I leave them tangled in Astrid’s hair. “All the North field’s second shift came down with the plague, many covered in blisters and others have already died.” I relay the message that was delivered today.
“What are we going to do about the tithe?” Astrid asks. That’s a question I can’t answer. That’s the answer the entire community is waiting to receive. The Oracle and her priestesses aren’t known for their mercy, but for wanting to please Malia the Prosperous, no matter who is hurt or dies in the process. According to them, our district has fallen out of Malia’s favor, and we have to worship even on our darkest days if we want him to return our blessings. Which is why we couldn’t cancel the festival.
Three loud thunks of wood on wood save me from having to try to answer Astrid’s question. The crowd outside becomes completely silent.
“People of the Farm District,” Papa’s voice booms through the night. The meeting saved me from having to answer Astrid’s questions, but that won’t stop the consequences of not paying the tithe. Any member of the district unable to pay their tithe isn’t something I want to think about.
“We have suffered a great tragedy. The northern field’s second shift has fallen to the plague. Let us take a moment of silence for those we have lost, and those we will lose soon.” The silence grows morose and heavy with grief. Twenty-five harvesters fell ill today, and I can hear the muffled sobs coming from the crowd. My hands start working through Ash’s hair again. “Those who are ill have been quarantined within the infirmary, and the healers are doing everything they can to find a way to fight this,” Leif continues after a tense minute.
“Lumin, how do we protect our families?” a new voice calls out.
“We will all continue to wear masks—”
“The masks aren’t working!” a male voice this time cuts Papa off and the crowd rumbles with agreement.
“We still don’t know how the illness is spreading. If it isn’t airborne, the healers tell me it could become airborne, and we need to be ready if this gets worse,” Papa says, and the crowd seems to calm at his logic. “Those who lived with someone who is now quarantined will need to self-quarantine at their home or dorm for at least two weeks,” Papa announces, and the crowd erupts into outrage. I can’t help but wince at the community’s fury. We’re all struggling in one way or another, and there’s not much Papa can do without going through the proper channels. Even then he can only request help, there’s no guarantee the district will receive it.
“Two weeks! How will I feed my kids?” one voice shouts followed by many more.
“Who will tend my herd?” Concerns grow louder until all the voices are fighting and overlapping with one another until they are indistinguishable.
A singular thunk of wood on wood reverberates through the night air once more, and the crowd hushes. I know Papa has leveled them with a glare that would stop anyone in their tracks.
“We must focus on the harvest.” His voice is no more than a growl as it seeps over the crowd. “Each of you knows we don’t have much time. The tithe is due in a few weeks which gives us limited time to finish harvesting the crops we need.” His voice takes on its booming quality once more.
“Those who do not share a homestead, starting now you will remain at least six feet apart to ensure we aren’t spreading the illness between us.” I recognize the voice as the healer who came from the institute. I can’t remember his name. “Healers will continue manning the fields as well in case anyone falls sick on shift,” the voice continues and the sound of shuffling feet on dirt can be heard.
“Thank you, Healer Madson,” Papa says, his voice commanding respect. “We will have round the clock harvest shifts. I’m passing a sign-up sheet so you can sign up for times you would prefer to work. Anyone with a Farmer’s license can sign up for a shift. We will all need to pull doubles for the rest of the month.” The shuffle of paper accompanies his words, and a murmur spreads through the crowd “This isn’t forever, this is just until we can pay the tithe and things will go back to normal,” he says. Getting through the tithe stresses Papa out more, especially now, with the illness killing people left and right.
My fingers twitch with the urge to peak out the window. I’d give anything to see what was going on out there right now. The only thing holding me back is the voice of Headmistress Brighid running through my head, like I’m back at the Palace’s finishing school.
Demendian women must trust their men to lead without question. Brighid’s shrill, nasally voice echoes through my mind as my hands clench into fists. The ghost of the headmistress’s thin wooden rod still stings across my fingers to my wrists. I shrink back from the memories not wanting to relive the pain that lances through my palms. She was right, I concede like I did every time in the Palace. I left the school for nobility, but it feels like this is a dream and in a moment I’m going to wake up back inside those black stone walls.
“Embla, ow,” Astrid says, and I glance down at her, realizing I have clenched my fists around my sister’s hair. Surprised to find my hands still in her long black locks, I freeze.
“I’m so sorry.” I take a deep breath to calm myself as I release my grip from Astrid’s head, pulling the sleeves of my nightgown down to hide the scars that my sister somehow hasn’t noticed.
“We will do everything we can to meet the tithe demand, but we will all have to work hard to get there together. We will not give up the life of one of our own. I will not allow it,” Papa says and the crowd outside cheers as one, sounding more like the call of a beast.
“I think he’s finishing up. Why don’t you start getting ready for bed?” Two loud thunks echo through the window meaning the end of the meeting. Astrid nods and walks to the door of our room. She picks up a towel along the way, throwing it over her shoulder before picking up the nightgown she set to the side earlier.
I wait until I hear Ash grunting as she carries buckets of boiling water to the tin bathtub.Usually she showers at the Northern Compound, because it's easier with the indoor plumbing. Government buildings like that don't have to pay the tithe for things like electricity or water, not like the homesteads do. As soon as I hear the bathroom door close, I dive to the side of my bed, pulling out a book that has seen better days. The brown leather cover is cracked and flaking where the spine is broken. Chipped gilded letters on the spine flake away under my touch littering the bed with sparkles. The title was already unreadable, but that doesn’t stop my love for the book. I stole this book from Papa’s office. Stories like this were forbidden by the King the same day the city gates closed. A day burned into the city’s memory, the same way King Daemon burned the books he called heresy. Papa at least had the wits to protect as many as he could by hiding them in the false wall of his office.
Astrid’s bath is long enough for me to finish a few chapters. The familiar stories bring me a sense of safety and comfort with everything that is going on in the district. It’s like a hug from Papa after a bad dream, but real life is an inescapable nightmare. The dull thuds of my sister’s feet against the wood floors has me scrambling to hide it. Astrid would tell me I’m being childish indulging in stories, and a noble woman shouldn’t indulge fantasy. If only she knew the truth.
“That was exactly what I needed.” Astrid preens as she steps into the bedroom, scrunching her dripping hair in the towel. Her long night dress is transparent where her hair hangs down her back.
Three loud knocks sound before the bedroom door opens again. Papa sticks his head in the room, his red hair a beacon in the dim light. He maneuvers the rest of his wide body in, not bothering to close the door behind him. He’s almost too tall for the door frame, and his bushy, gray-flecked eyebrows scrunch together as he observes the open window. His thin frowning lips peek out from under his beard. Papa walks across the room and pulls the window shut before turning on us.
“I’ve learned something you both need to know,” Papa says, overly calm, hands clasped in front, thumbs fidgeting like the game we used to play as kids. “Bjorn gave me a list of names of the afflicted. I don’t know how to tell you this, but Reyna is on it.” Papa’s voice cracks on her name.
“She can’t be. She works as a healer in the greenhouses, not the fields.” Astrid scoffs as she goes to climb up to her bunk.
I take in Papa’s face, and his red rimmed eyes. My heart sinks. With one look I can see the sorrow he’s hiding. The lines across his forehead are deeper than usual. The weight of pain and loss tries to drown me. This isn’t something Ash should be scoffing at.
“Ash,” I whisper using the childhood nickname that stuck around even when I grew out of baby babble. I place a hand on my sister’s shoulder. “This is serious.” I try to keep my voice soft and comforting, but I cringe when it sounds more like pity. Astrid has been a lone wolf since the incident that left me with snow-white hair. Reyna was the only one who accepted my sister and saw her as more than damaged. Reyna has always said she’s a warrior and bound for greatness. Even if Astrid doesn’t see it.
“She switched with Brynhild, just for the day. It was Bryn’s husband’s birthday or something. There were a few people involved in the shift swap. I’m so sorry, girls.” Papa steps toward Astrid with uncertainty clouding his eyes. The King should be doing something to help our people, where are his master physicians? They could be saving lives. I watch Astrid step away from Leif, recoiling from his touch before she crumbles in on herself , and he hangs his head, listlessly swinging his arms, unsure what to do.
“I don’t believe you,” Astrid seethes, her eyes blaze with denial. “I want to see her,” she demands, stomping a foot on the ground
“She’s quarantined, you can’t. I’m not risking your life.” The finality in his tone crushes something inside of Astrid, and I watch as a light in her eyes goes out.
“Go to sleep, Papa. We’ll see you in the morning,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around Papa’s middle. He returns the hug after a beat before leaving. It has been a long day for all of us, and we all need our sleep.