Chapter 2
Two
Even after I’ve left the noblewoman’s gory corpse far behind me, my heart keeps beating too fast.
I hunch down at the edge of one of the stone-lined culverts that wind from the Starsil River. My hands shake as I rub the blood off them.
I suck in the sour air and will my nerves to settle. It’s over now.
It was none of my business anyway. I didn’t even know her.
And it isn’t as if I’m a stranger to death. I’ve witnessed it more times than I care to count.
I’ve dealt it out myself, wittingly or not.
But something about that moment when her gaze bored into mine leaves a lingering uneasiness that I can’t totally shed.
So, I simply ignore it. I straighten up, give the soles of my leather boots a quick rinse as well, and check my tunic and breeches.
A few speckles of blood hit my sleeves, but they’re barely discernable in the dirt-brown linen. There’ve been plenty of days I’ve gotten more soiled.
If anything, I got off easy.
I can’t quite convince myself to laugh. It’s as if I can feel the noblewoman still staring at me.
When I touch my pockets to confirm I haven’t lost my remaining loot, a strange lump meets my fingers at my hip. I fish inside the pocket and pull out a delicate chain.
A bracelet.
The metal links glint gold in the dwindling sunlight. They hold a thin gold bar imprinted with a few abstract shapes that don’t match any symbols I know and two small red gems on either side. Rubies, I’d wager.
I study the bracelet for a minute, my body tensed. I must have taken it off the noblewoman.
I don’t remember pilfering her jewelry. Maybe my thieving instincts kicked in and my hand moved of its own accord during the brief spell when I blanked out?
If I hadn’t taken the bracelet, whoever found her body probably would have. I can wait a few weeks to make sure there’s no furor around her death and then see if I can hawk it without drawing unwanted attention.
But I’d rather not have it at all. In these neighborhoods, a piece this expensive makes a person an automatic target.
I was trying to save her, not steal from her.
At least, that’s what I thought I was doing. No matter how much good I try to do…
My stomach lurches. I shove the bracelet back into my pocket.
It’s a problem for another day. I have other tasks to finish.
Returning to my planned donation route doesn’t seem like the wisest idea when I had a very good reason for fleeing. I consider my mental map of the city and decide I’ll skip ahead to the edge of Slaughterwell. I can double back for the families I missed in a few days when I’ve got more bounty.
Having a clear plan boosts my spirits. I hop across the culvert and follow its curving path to more rows of drooping houses.
Here and there, I dodge the tiny dishes left out by doorways. Even though the people of Slaughterwell don’t have much, many never fail to offer tidbits of fruit or dried meat to the local spirit-creatures.
I don’t think anyone has ever witnessed a daimon partaking of the edible endowments.
Common thought is that even if the invisible beings that flit through our lives in their chaotic ways never touch the stuff and it’s only stray cats and dogs chowing down, they appreciate the generosity all the same.
They might treat the households that made the gesture with more kindness in their rambling folly.
Maybe if the charms merchant had offered more respect, they’d have left his horse alone.
I have just enough coins left for my own generosity to make it to one of my favorite homes. The faint buzzing of bees tickles my ears before I reach the gnarled oak that juts up on the border between two small gardens.
As I set the last stack of silver on the back windowsill, a giggle tinkles from just beyond the rear door. I dart back to the shelter of the tree, a smile springing to my lips.
While the door creaks open, I scale the twisted branches. My fingers brush the soft leaves of the ivy that loops around them.
It was this vine that inspired my chosen name, years ago on an evening like this.
I sprawl out on the branch that’s become my regular perch. From that vantage point, I have a view through the oak’s leaves down into Ewalin’s yard.
Ewalin and her mother, Frida, stroll over to the hutch that holds the beehive. As Ewalin lifts the lid, Frida hangs back with a teasing shake of her head. “I swear those creatures are twice as unnerving in the dark.”
Ewalin laughs. “Doesn’t stop you from wanting their honey in your tea, though, does it?”
As she reaches into the hutch, she hums under her breath. The stump of her little finger, cut off halfway down its length, gleams pale against her deep brown skin.
Unlike my severed finger, Ewalin gave up hers voluntarily. Every mortal gets one chance to ask for a gift of magical talent at twelve years old, when they dedicate themselves to a godlen. But such a gift requires a sacrifice in return.
I’ve heard Ewalin talk wryly about her dedication ceremony. She asked Prospira, the godlen of agriculture and abundance, for sway over animals, but she was too nervous to offer up much of herself. So she can’t easily cajole horses or pigs or even chickens, but she does well with bees.
It’s not a bad gift for half a finger. She can only manage one hive, but it produces enough honey to supplement the family’s meager income.
Ewalin draws out her spoon holding a small lump of honey. She dips it straight into the mug her mother has cupped in her hands.
As she stirs, Frida smiles. “Ah, a few stings would be worth it for the sweetness.”
Ewalin clicks her tongue. “They’ve never stung you. They’re good little mites.”
“They are. And so are you.” Frida winks at her daughter. Then her voice drops low. “Did you hear about the ants that got into Soral’s house?”
“Hmm, no. Did her ‘whimsical’ baking style finally catch up with her?”
As they fall into their usual pattern of neighborhood gossip, I rest my chin on my folded hands. Most of the lingering uneasiness from my bloody encounter earlier fades away with the rhythm of their affectionately amused voices.
I first stumbled on the pair of them nearly eight years ago, when I’d only been on the streets for a few months and hadn’t yet figured out how to be anything but an urchin.
My twelve-year-old self perched in this tree and watched the two of them banter and share stories, and I imagined I might somehow drop into their lives and they’d take me in as one of the family.
That would be something, wouldn’t it? To have a mother or a grandmother, or people like them, who laughed with me and whispered silly confidences?
Then Frida says, “Where’s that son-in-law of mine gotten to this late?”
Ewalin raises her eyebrows. “You didn’t know? Word went round that soldiers caught a riven sorcerer in one of the outer provinces. They brought him in to be executed tonight. Darek wanted to see it.”
She gives a little shudder and taps her hand down her front in the gesture of the divinities: three fingers to the forehead, heart, and gut before fisting her hand over her sternum. “I’d rather not be near one of those fiends.”
Frida’s mouth tightens in sympathetic agreement. “It’s a gruesome business all around. But it makes some people feel better seeing with their own eyes that the king is dealing with the menace.”
My pulse has leapt to rattle in the base of my throat. An execution tonight? I managed to miss any mention of the arrested sorcerer before now.
In the startled scattering of my thoughts, a rush of dizziness sweeps through me. My gut tips over, and my chin bobs. My hands clamp around the branch instinctively to keep my balance.
With a shake of my head, I manage to clear it. I must still be thrown off by the dead woman to be so unsettled by the news.
Frida and Ewalin are meandering back toward the house now. Ewalin spots the glint of silver at the window.
“Oh, we’ve been visited by the Hand of Kosmel!” She snatches up the coins. “They couldn’t have come at a better time.”
A twinge that’s both uneasy and exhilarating passes through my gut.
I’ve never encouraged the title many of the outer-warders have given to the mysterious figure who leaves donations of questionable origin by their windows.
I’m not sure I like being referred to as a mere appendage of a divine figure I’d prefer never noticed me, even if the godlen of trickery might not be quite as disapproving as his siblings.
But the fact that they’ve given me a name at all makes me feel a little more present in their lives.
When Ewalin and Frida have shut the door behind them, I slip down from the oak. With a mind to the upcoming execution, I hop over the fence and set off for the center of the city.
Hitching a surreptitious ride on the back of a carriage just returning to the city shaves a lot of time off the trek. I hop off just before we reach the inner wards.
After skirting the back of several buildings and slinking down a few alleys, I emerge onto Florian’s busiest commercial street.
In my first glimpse of this place, the blare of sound and color is always a shock to the senses.
The glow of a multitude of lanterns, some fueled by oil or wax and others by magic, glances off the stone faces of the tall buildings lining the wide street, all of which are painted in varying pastel hues.
Conjured images posture and swirl over many of the doorways, enticing customers with visions of what awaits them inside each shop and eatery. A translucent gown swishes its skirts here; wine bubbles in a row of illusionary glasses there.
And plenty of customers churn along the cobblestone road, peering through windows and chattering with their companions. To my left, a minstrel lends his voice and lute to the clamor; farther to my right, I spot another gliding her fingers over a harp.