5 Eira
Eira
When Eira stepped into her home after her discombobulating meeting with that handsome stranger, she heard a strange noise,
and then . . . that same malignant feeling she’d had in her shop that morning washed over her. Instead of preparing her dinner,
she spent an hour cleansing the space, muttering to Pennyroyal about how the full moon was making everything feel off.
Before she knew it, Eira glanced out her window to see that the sun had set, leaving her with the perfect opportunity to go
and find her dinner elsewhere. In a town as small as Cilirien, there was only one place to go after a long day of work—the
Honeyed Horn. And while Eira wasn’t interested in any of the men in this small town, she certainly liked to dress up on the
nights she decided to visit and have a few drinks.
Not only had she woken up this morning feeling off, but she’d gone to work with her hair looking less than perfect—which would happen on the day she’d met a handsome stranger. So yes, Eira Eckhart was going to get ready to go to the local tavern, but
she wasn’t going to spend hours getting ready, because she had magic.
Beatrice, the conjured hand that kept her house clean, was also remarkably good at doing Eira’s half-up, half-down pinned hair that she did whenever she wanted a visual pick-me-up.
There was nothing that lifted Eira’s spirits more than her hair looking put together.
Sure, Beatrice was technically illegal magic, but when had a conjured hand ever hurt anyone?
Still, Eira cast it each morning from behind the comfort of closed curtains in her home, and while she knew she should have dismissed Beatrice each day for her own safety, just in case someone stumbled into her home, Eira didn’t.
She knew it was risky; the punishment for witches that cast illegal magic was .
. . horrific. Eira didn’t remember the first purges of witches.
Her fall had happened just shortly after they had started, or so the local doctor told her, but she remembered the way people had tiptoed around her as they wondered if she’d only been pretending to be just a potions witch.
She hadn’t been pretending; she was truly just an alchemist . . . who also happened to know one single, harmless conjuration
spell that she only did in the privacy of her home.
A single conjuration spell that would have her killed by the Iron Empire if they ever found out about it. Eira didn’t hate
the city guards that worked in Cilirien—they were just soldiers doing their jobs—but sometimes she dreamed about what she’d
do if she ever met the person who outlawed magic and had her fellow witches executed: the lord general.
As the well-manicured hand worked away, translucent fingers glittering in the periphery of Eira’s eyes, she turned to Pennyroyal.
“You’re staying home tonight,” she said to the rabbit sitting on her pillow. “Also, that’s my pillow.”
The rabbit stomped twice, clearly indicating the answers were “no” and “it’s my pillow too.”
Brazen. How did Eira manage to get the most stubborn rabbit in the world?
Because like calls to like, she thought.
“You are staying home,” Eira said as the hand put the finishing touches on her hair, her mind wandering to the hazel eyes and large hands of the man that had been in her store earlier that day.
In a second, Beatrice moved quickly away from Eira’s scalp and nearly pulled a chunk of her hair out of her head.
“Ow!” she yelped, looking at the conjured hand that had already course corrected and was pinning her hair properly.
What was going on with her magic? She was distracted; the handsome stranger was stuck in her head. She needed to focus on
Beatrice and it would be fine.
Pennyroyal thumped her paws twice again.
“What?” Eira said, rubbing the part of her scalp that was aching but, thankfully, she hadn’t been left with a bald spot.
The rabbit stomped again.
Shaking her head and waving off Beatrice, Eira pinned the final coil of her hair behind her head, leaving a wash of auburn
waves trailing down her back.
After lacing her boots and picking up her bag from where she left it, Eira stepped out of her house, locked her door, and
placed the antique house key in her pocket.
The Horn wasn’t a far walk from her home, just a few minutes. Even if she didn’t know the winding alleys like the back of
her hand, she’d have been able to follow the sound of revelry to its peak.
The tavern was already bustling, the music from lutes and guitars and banjos seeping through the cracked-open windows that
let the crisp late-autumn breeze into what was sure to be an increasingly warm tavern.
She stepped into the tavern, floors perpetually slightly sticky from mead spilling day after day. The sounds of people chatting
and singing were almost overwhelmingly loud, but this was what she was here for. Like most small towns, the most interesting
thing to do in Cilirien was leave. The second was to go to the Honeyed Horn.
Her favorite bard was adjusting the strings of his lute, preparing to weave his own type of magic into the air as she turned toward the bartender, who was flashing a bright smile at Eira.
“Hey doll,” Alice said. “The usual?”
Eira nodded and smiled as she watched the curvaceous barmaid wipe her deep brown hands on her apron and then head toward Eira’s
favorite sweet mead, pouring her a pint and sliding it across the bar to her. Eira cherished a woman who, like her, embraced
her curves. Both knew the challenges that came with having a full figure, especially as single women, and together they protected
each other against those at the Honeyed Horn who wanted to grab a piece.
One would think the same men making advances would learn after the tenth, or three-hundredth rejection—but Alice and Eira
had learned that most men weren’t very smart once a certain amount of mead hit their bloodstream.
She tossed a silver coin to Alice, who plucked it deftly out of the air, and turned to try to find a place to sit, mead in
hand. Taking a first sip and wandering around, her eyes locked on a familiar face and her body flushed with warmth as their
eyes connected.
Hugo’s hazel eyes sparkled in the tavern’s warm light as he watched her, even from this far away. Goodness, he really was
handsome—and the dim light of a tavern had never made someone look worse than they did during the daytime.
Eira shook her head. She did not know this man, and she needed to start acting like he was the stranger he was. Not only was
it strange for him to be in a town like Cilirien, but it was also strange for her to have run into him twice in one day.
Be more cautious, girl, she thought.
But then again, new people visited small towns all the time. He could just be a handsome stranger who needed a spell from
her. A spell he never came back for and she didn’t know the parameters of.
What a great excuse to talk to the most handsome man in the room, she thought as she smiled deviously to herself.
His eyes never left her as Eira started walking toward his table and the free seat across from him.
Hugo wore a long black cloak over what looked like the tailored jacket he’d been wearing earlier, but it was now unbuttoned
at the neck and Eira could see what looked like light leathers underneath. Light armor? So he was no mere merchant passing
through town.
She sat, her skirt twirling as she crossed her legs before looking at him and taking a sip of her mead.
“I told you it was a date,” he said, smirking, hands on the table in front of him.
Bold of him to speak before me, she thought.
“As if you expected to run into me at one of Cilirien’s many taverns,” Eira chuckled, gesturing widely at the only tavern in town with a sweep of her hand.
“I hoped I would.” He took a sip of his own mead.
She locked eyes with him, her skin warming as she felt her cheeks flush. “As did I.” Eira looked down to conceal the blooming
blush across her cheeks. “I was hoping to find out what this spell you needed was. I assume you’re heading out of town since
you’re not a regular, so I thought I could get working on it sooner rather than later.”
It was a lie, but she did want to know what this mysterious spell was—and what he was doing in Cilirien.
Hugo watched her, his eyebrow cocked as if he was thinking of something to say. “I think I’d like to hear more about your
qualifications first.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table to get closer to her. Something in his tone seemed
strange to Eira, the questioning presented in a way that left her confused and concerned. He had come into her store, should he not have known what her capabilities were from whoever had told him about her?
“I told you earlier today, I’m the best witch in Cilirien,” Eira retorted, mirroring him and leaning in slightly in response.
“Right,” he said. “But what kind of witch are you?”
Her hackles rose slightly, remembering that she was toeing a dangerous line, in addition to the fact that she didn’t know
who this man really was. Or anything about him, really. “A potions witch, that’s why I run a potions shop.” Her fingers tapped
the table.
“And that’s all?” he said, still leaning to get closer to her.
“Yes,” she answered concisely. Eira’s curiosity kept her pinned to her seat, more interested in what Hugo wanted than the
nerves she felt about his line of questioning.
Hugo leaned back, dark eyebrow still cocked. “Let’s say I was looking for a sleeping aid,” he pondered. “What would you prescribe?”
“Something I had in my store earlier today,” she answered, voice snappier with each word. “So you and I both know that’s not
what you’re looking for.”
Just as Hugo opened his mouth to speak again, the front door exploded in a shower of splinters and the screaming started.