Chapter 4
4
T EN MILES SOUTHWEST OF T HORNbrOOK lies Kilkare, a collection of mud-brick homes tucked in a shallow valley where the River Mur and River Twee converge. As with all towns in Carterhaugh, it is surrounded by a stone wall spiked with iron teeth. Kilkare adheres to some of the older beliefs about combating the fair folk, so a thick piling of salt rings the wall as an additional layer of protection.
We’re stopped at the gates prior to entering town. The chestnut mare drawing our wagon paws the dirt as the gatekeeper searches our cargo, the boxes of wares. Ten novitiates wait beside Mother Mabel, myself included.
The gatekeeper lifts a hand. “Clear.”
Fiona draws the mare forward by the reins, and the cart lurches onward. Aligned in single file, we trudge down the wide dirt lane. Every tree has been cleared, every blade of grass crushed underfoot, Kilkare a dark scar in the center of green-flushed Carterhaugh.
The air smells of smelted metal, and the sun peels away from the mountain’s crown to flood the valley in mid-morning light. Market Day—the first of the month. Although Thornbrook is self-sufficient, we sell much of what we produce—herbs, wine, fresh bread—to supplement the resources the abbey provides to the surrounding community.
Chaos overwhelms the main thoroughfare. Cart wheels dig trenches in the mud. Half-dressed children, all knees and elbows, dart beneath horses, dirt flinging from their bare feet. Tables, stalls, and storefronts clutter the road, merchants swinging their wares, artisans belting out prices as if they’re moments away from going out of business. The forge where I once apprenticed belches smoke from the next lane over. In the distance, the white spire of a cathedral interrupts Kilkare’s earthen tones.
“You know the drill, ladies.” Mother Mabel gestures to an empty lot squeezed between two storefronts, where we unhitch the wagon. “I will return shortly with sweets. Any requests?”
Harper pushes to the front of the group. “Sugar cookies, if you please.” She scans the group expectantly, as if anticipating a challenge. A few women drop their eyes to the ground.
Mother Mabel nods, somewhat distracted. As soon as her attention moves elsewhere, Harper’s expression presses into disappointment.
“I will see if they’re available,” The abbess says. “Anyone else? Brielle?”
Though I’m partial to the raspberry tarts, I merely say, “No, thank you.” I’ve little inclination to stir Harper’s ire, and my preference feels too trivial to voice anyway.
“Very well. Fiona, if you will accompany me?” She gestures to the fair-skinned youth, and off they go to the bakery.
Harper’s eyes narrow on Fiona’s back. The loathing twisting her features needles my spine, for I have seen that expression directed at me before.
The novitiates talk. They claim Fiona will be next in line to undertake the calling of a vowed life. I sincerely hope otherwise. Ten years I have studied and prayed, all to one day accept my appointment as an acolyte—a shepherd of the Father. Due to the exhaustive instruction required to train new acolytes, only one novitiate may ascend each year. Yet again, I worry I will fall short in the abbess’ eyes. Does Mother Mabel not see how deeply I desire to serve the Father? It must be me. It must .
My back twinges as I haul the crate of knives from the wagon to my table. Prying open the lid, I remove a bolt of white fabric and begin to unfold it.
“Give that to me.”
I glance up. Isobel looms over the table, her hand outstretched.
The cotton crinkles in my fist, and I frown. “I need it for my knives.”
“And we need it for the wine.” Harper appears at Isobel’s side. Both wear their trinity knot pendants, which we must never take off. Mine rests beneath the collar of my dress.
“You already have a tablecloth,” I say. Two, in fact.
Isobel grins rapaciously. Her teeth gleam like rows of pearls against her dark skin. “We want this one.” Striding forward, she snatches the fabric from my hand, pivoting so fast the cotton whips my legs and her numerous coiled braids nearly whack my cheek. Together, she and Harper drape it over the table where they’ll sell jugs of wine.
My chest tightens with a feeling I know well. How easily they rile me. Today of all days, I seek clarity. Without a clear mind, I cannot safely move forward in handling my predicament, the mysterious stranger in my room.
Business is steady throughout the morning. The sun climbs, and my skin grows sticky in the heat. I sell four daggers and two kitchen knives before noon. When the crowds begin to thin hours later, a cloaked figure strolls our way, parting the lingering chaos like a river cutting through limestone.
My gaze tracks the limber motion. Beneath the raised hood, two dark eyes swallow the woman’s ashen face. They sit dull as rocks, as though someone plucked out her eyes and shoved smooth black stones into the sagging hollows instead.
I straighten, a hand drifting to the iron dagger hanging from my waist. Fair folk. How did one manage to slip through the iron gates?
As the woman halts at my table, Fiona darts off, hopefully to find the abbess, or at least to alert the authorities. I’m afraid of what will happen if I move too suddenly.
“I do not see a touchmark stamp,” she mentions in a low rasp, gesturing toward one of the daggers lining the table. Those stony eyes lift to mine. “Are you the bladesmith?”
“They were forged in Thornbrook,” I whisper. She is small, this woman, her body underdeveloped, bony beneath her long, sheepskin cloak. Her papery lips peel apart over oozing gums. Seeing this unsightly creature, it is hard to believe the fair folk once shared Carterhaugh with us mortals long ago.
“By your hand?”
I glance around to find that the market has all but cleared, awareness of Kilkare’s undesired visitor having spread. It is true: I coaxed the fire to life, commanded the hammer, yet the blade bears no signature identifying its maker. I’ve never had the courage to create a touchmark stamp of my own.
She purses her mouth. Beneath the cowl of her hood, shadows swirl, even in brightest sunlight. “I am in the market for a blade. One can never underestimate the tithe. I’m sure you understand.”
My palms dampen, the leather-wrapped hilt fusing to my skin. She dares speak of the tithe? Here?
“May I?” She reaches for one of the blades encased in its protective sheath, and I nod, watching her slide the weapon free of its casing, fitting the hilt to her palm.
“Ah!” A bark of pain, and the dagger slips through her grotesquely elongated fingers. It clatters against the table. I recoil from the sound.
The woman whimpers, clutching her hand to her chest, teeth gritted. Horror bleeds like a killing cold through me. “I’m so sorry.” I glance around in a panic. Harper hunches behind Isobel, who clings to another novitiate as the group cowers behind the wagon. “I can fetch you a healer—”
“It’s not your fault.” Her hand unfolds, revealing large white growths swelling on her streaked gray skin. “A mortal-forged blade would contain iron.” She closes her wounded hand, smiling tightly, and slips it into her pocket. “I should have known better.”
“You should not be here.” Mother Mabel speaks softly, stepping in front of the woman with her chin erect, dark eyes ablaze with the fury of a thousand suns. She presses forward, forcing the visitor into the center of the lane. “I will give you the opportunity to leave Kilkare freely. Otherwise, I will call the sheriff, and he will not be so merciful. Choose wisely.”
The woman looks to me. I flinch, yet hold my ground. Is that fear, or do I only imagine the emotion crossing her expression? Pulling her cloak tightly around her body, she hurries off, glancing over her shoulder once before slipping down an alley.
Mother Mabel turns to me, her mouth pinched with suppressed rage. “She did not harm you, did she?”
“No, Mother Mabel.” My voice wobbles. It must be shock, for my limbs buzz with a numbing cold.
Relief softens her face, eases those lines of worry. “Good.” She scans the area. “I do not know how that creature was able to enter Kilkare, but if one managed to slip through the gates, there might be more. It is best if we return to Thornbrook immediately.”
We have barely finished unloading the wagon before I’m hurrying to the dormitory, taking the stairs two at a time. I’ve ten minutes before the dinner bell rings.
My boots slap the icy flagstones. The wall sconces dance, teased by the moving air snaking through the vacant hall. I’ve nearly reached my bedroom when a shape snags the edge of my vision, and I falter.
Harper stands in a shadowed alcove, watching me.
The surge of fear is so overpowering I momentarily cease to breathe. How did she arrive here before me? When I left the courtyard, she and Isobel were deep in discussion, likely plotting how best to humiliate me, and at the soonest hour possible. It matters not that we are women grown. In their eyes, I am Mother Mabel’s pet. My very existence is a threat to their ambitions, for they, too, desire the acolyte’s red stole.
“Are you following me?” I ask, chin lifted despite my thundering heart.
Harper slinks into the light, no better than a fox in the brush. “What are you hiding, Brielle? What is it you wish to keep hidden from prying eyes?”
She suspects, but she does not know. It makes no difference. My door is locked. Only Mother Mabel and I have a key.
“I’m going to change for dinner,” I state with impressive calm.
She cuts into my path, blocking my way forward. “Do you think I’m blind? The others are oblivious, to be certain. Perfect Brielle, who can do no wrong. But I see beyond that.” One step closer and we stand nose to nose. She is so slight in comparison to me. “I see the truth.”
I’m shaking. The fury and the fear. “I do not answer to you.”
“No, you don’t.” Looking over my shoulder, she croons, “Good evening, Mother Mabel.”
“Good evening, Harper.”
My heart skips a beat. Harper’s smile reveals bone-white teeth.
Slowly, I pivot to face Mother Mabel. Hands clasped at her front, she strides forward, boots scuffing the ground. That heavy gold necklace hangs like a yoke around her neck. “You claimed the matter was urgent,” she says with thinly veiled irritation. “Well? What is so urgent that you would have me delay supper?”
Harper’s mouth pulls in obvious discontent. “I’m afraid one of our own has made a grievous error.” She gestures to me. “It is my belief Brielle has brought an outsider into the abbey.”
I cannot speak. If I open my mouth, I fear I will vomit.
Mother Mabel’s face grows pointed with displeasure. “That is a harsh accusation. Do you have evidence to support this?”
“I do,” she replies, head bowed, the image of pious humility. “I’d hoped it was untrue, but I heard something yesterday. A man’s voice.” She swallows. “ Groaning .”
There is a pause. All is still. “A man, you say?”
“Yes, Mother Mabel.”
No matter how hard I fight the blush, it rages red across my cheeks. Has the man awakened at last, then?
“Brielle,” Mother Mabel says, her black gaze drilling into mine. “Is this true?”
I think of our Seven Decrees, the bedrock of our faith. The seventh, the most inviolable.
Thou shalt not lie .
But I made my choice days ago. I chose this man’s life over Thornbrook’s safety. I hadn’t thought of what perils I might invite. I’d thought only of the unanswered questions, and above all, helping a person in need.
“Well, my dear?” The abbess stares at me, waiting.
My leaden legs shamble toward the door, which I unlock before stepping aside.
She crosses the threshold. I fist the fabric of my dress in my clammy palms. It is entirely possible I will be banished from Thornbrook. That is a decision I must live with, and yet, an overwhelming dread depletes my lungs, for I have risked all that I hold dear to save this man, who means nothing to me.
“Harper, can you help me with something?”
The younger woman saunters forward. “Yes, Mother Mabel.”
“Can you please point out this mysterious visitor?”
There is a pause. “A man was here! I am certain.”
“Then where is this man now?”
My heart lifts with tentative hope as I enter behind them. Torchlight from the corridor illuminates the bed where the man had lain this morning. But the cot is empty. The rumpled blankets have been smoothed. The spots of blood staining the floor have been scrubbed clean. It takes every effort not to gape in bewilderment.
My attention cuts to the window. Closed shutters, latch secured. The door to my room was locked as well. How, then, did the man manage to escape without notice?
“I heard someone, Mother Mabel, I swear it.” Harper’s blue gaze scours the room. “Brielle was acting oddly. I knew something was amiss.”
Mother Mabel turns, straightening to her impressive height. “The next time you decide to waste my time with petty games, you will know the sting of the lash. Am I clear?”
Harper’s dumbfounded silence is perhaps the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced.
“You will have latrine duty for a week. Think deeply on your actions and whether your values align with those of Thornbrook.” With that, she takes her leave, heels clicking down the corridor.
Quiet engulfs us. Harper’s stillness pricks at me, yet I remain motionless, a hind caught in an open field.
Slowly, I begin to retreat into the hall.
Harper snags my arm, fingernails gouging so deeply into my skin I’m surprised she does not draw blood. “I don’t know what you’re hiding,” she snarls, “but I’m going to find out.” Before I can shake her off, she storms past me, slamming the door behind her.
My hands tremble as I light my lamp. Then I sink onto the lip of my mattress, the bed frame groaning beneath my weight. I do not understand. A man cannot walk through walls. Neither can a man lock a window from the outside. Though the bloodstains are gone, my pillow bears the imprint of his head, and a springtime aroma saturates the room.
“Well, that was quite the scene.”
I whirl around, freeing my blade from its sheath and leveling it at the man’s sternum. He slouches next to the now-open window, a shoulder propped against the wall, completely unperturbed.
A pair of clover eyes take me in.
We stare at each other, neither of us moving. Red-edged panic recedes from my vision, and my pulse eventually returns to rest. It is the man from the wood. Strange, indeed, but not a stranger.
Somehow, he has managed to procure a set of clean clothes. A green tunic hits mid-thigh over a pair of form-fitting trousers tucked into boots of dark, supple leather. His shoulders are broad, though his physique, on the whole, is on the leaner side. He does not wear his cloak. My fingers twitch around the dagger.
“Do you agree?” the man asks, canting his head. An errant curl falls across his forehead.
“Excuse me?”
“Quite the scene, wouldn’t you say?”
Perhaps, if his countenance were not so distracting, I could focus on the conversation rather than his appearance. Though the swelling is somewhat reduced, he is still a sorry sight to behold.
There is no natural flow to his features. His nose appears broken, bent horribly out of shape. His skin stretches in uneven patches across a jaw far too wide and sharp to be natural. Only his eyes are striking, slightly translucent in color, a certain curiosity darkening his gaze as he scans me from head to toe.
“Is it you I have to thank for my swift recovery?” he asks in a low, musical tone. The weightless timbre of his voice seems content to drift until the end of time. It is too pretty for his mien.
“It is,” I reply.
“Then I thank you.” He dips his chin, and gazes at me with a forwardness that draws heat to my face. “This is a kindness I must repay.”
After some consideration, I lower the dagger from his chest. I sense no ill-will from him. “No repayment necessary, but in the future, I would think twice before startling a woman in her bedroom. I could have hurt you beyond repair.”
“I do not think that is likely,” he says, eyes bright with amusement, “but I appreciate the forewarning.”
My mouth twitches in irritation, and I retreat toward my cot to put additional space between us. If the shutters were locked, how could he have gained access from outside the window, and on the third story no less?
“It seems that I am in your debt.”
“As I said, repayment is unnecessary. You were hurt. Anyone would have helped.”
“So you claim.” I cannot read the intention behind his response. “Even so, debts must be repaid.”
The intensity of his focus briefly forces my attention back to the window. Darkness lies thickly over Carterhaugh. It is not my business, the why or how or what of his predicament.
“I can sense your curiosity.” He lifts a hand, studies it front to back, before sliding it into his pocket. “What is it you wish to know?”
My eyes drop. I take a breath, then another for good measure.
“What manner of creature gave you those wounds?” Peeking through my eyelashes, I catch an emotion tightening his facial muscles, too fleeting to read. Doubt maybe, or pain.
“The manner of creature would be my brother, unfortunately.” A shrug. “What’s done is done. I insist on repaying your kindness.”
“It was nothing.”
“A life is not nothing. Isn’t that what your teachings preach?” He gestures to the contents of my desk, the heavy tome that is the Text.
“You keep the faith?” Intrigue colors my inquiry.
He pushes off the wall, and I am taken aback twice in the span of a few minutes. Buoyant. It is the only way to describe his gait. A seamless floating of limbs, nothing but ebb and flow.
“You could say I was once quite devoted to faith. Now I am merely faithless.”
The bell tower tolls the sixth hour, signaling dinner. At the man’s approach, I retreat further, lifting my dagger in warning. Was I naive to think him harmless?
He studies my weapon yet does not come within striking distance. Perhaps he recognizes I will not hesitate to use the blade if I must. “That’s a fine knife,” he says. “Where did you procure it?”
“I am a bladesmith, sir. It was fashioned by my own hand.”
He merely blinks. “Well, that’s not something you encounter every day.”
Insult, or compliment? I cannot discern his intention. “Is the dagger your weapon of choice?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
He laughs, and my heart skips a beat. “No. I favor the bow. I have found knives to be an inconvenience. They force you into an enemy’s space, which I find disadvantageous.”
So he considers the dagger an inferior weapon? “Perhaps practice is needed. Maybe then you would not feel unprepared.”
He inclines his head, regarding me with those bright, bright eyes. If I am not mistaken, he accepts the challenge with an eagerness that borders on desire. “Perhaps.”
Distant footsteps inform me that the women are heading downstairs for dinner. Meals cannot begin until everyone has arrived. Someone will notice my absence. They will question my delay.
“I would ask for the name of the woman who cared for me,” he says. “Surely you would not deny me that?”
I look to the door. I should go, yet my feet remain in place. “You are fair folk.” Though he does not look like one of their kind, his insistence on repaying debts makes perfect sense. The fair folk will do anything to gain leverage over another.
“No,” he says harshly, his tone suddenly acrimonious. “I am not one of the fair folk. But much of my time is spent in Under. Now will you tell me your name, or do you insist on remaining a mystery?”
I consider this man, the information given. The fair folk cannot tell a lie. It is good enough for me. “Brielle,” I concede. Just a name. So why does it feel as if I am granting this man more than he asked for?
“Brielle.” My name unfolds in a single wave of warm curiosity. “A lovely name for a lovely woman. I thank you, Brielle.” He touches a hand to his chest. “I am Zephyrus.”
Lovely? He hardly knows me. But I keep the thought to myself.
The man—Zephyrus—glides to my desk, scans the various liturgical manuscripts. He flips open the Text, idly shifting aside documents as though he has every right to. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my dagger. Don’t touch that. But the words will not come.
“What is your station at the abbey?” He glances over his shoulder at me, green eyes keen.
“Novitiate.” I’ve dedicated every spare moment to the consecrated life: deepening my relationship with the Father, examining the faith, expanding my self-awareness, understanding the importance of community. It has been no small task.
Leaning back against the desk, Zephyrus folds his arms over his chest, one ankle tossed lazily over the other. Candlelight gilds the curling tips of his hair. “How old are you?”
This, too, I am reluctant to announce, though it shouldn’t matter. “Twenty-one.”
His eyebrows wing upward in surprise. “How long ago did you enter the abbey?”
“When I was eleven.”
“You have been a novitiate for ten years? Shouldn’t you have taken your vows?”
“I have. My first vows, at least.” I will take my final vows once I’m appointed an acolyte, my commitment to the faith set in stone.
Generally, a novitiate studies for five years, although there are always exceptions to the rule. Following the novitiate phase, a Daughter of Thornbrook is appointed an acolyte, a station she will maintain for the rest of her life, as long as her final vows remain intact. It is possible to climb higher in station, as Mother Mabel has done, solidifying her religious leadership over the region, but a woman may climb no higher than abbess.
“Why haven’t you taken your final vows then?”
“It is not up to me,” I say, more tersely than I intend. “Mother Mabel decides who is ready to graduate. Considering there is only one slot available per year, it is understandably a difficult decision. My time as an acolyte will come.”
There is a silence. The longer we regard each other across the room, the stranger the man’s eyes seem. He cannot be human. The green fires too brightly. “You’re certain of that?”
“I have worked toward this for a long time,” I state. “Mother Mabel recognizes my efforts. She will choose whoever is best fit for the position.”
“And if that person is not you?”
Steel snaps my spine straight. What is the purpose of his animus? To prove a point? To draw the red to my skin?
I’ve considered the possibility. I’ve seen it come to pass too many times. Still, I hope.
“That woman with the black hair? She is hungry for the opportunity as well.” A lazy, pointed remark. The corner of his mouth tucks into his cheek. “What will you do if she is chosen over you?”
“Your antagonism is unnecessary.”
“Is it?” he croons, sidling closer. “I merely speak the truth.”
His scent hits: moss and rain. My throat opens; my heartbeat spikes. I’m so blindsided by my body’s response I fail to gather an appropriate retort. Instead, I glare at him, and Zephyrus winces, a hand going to his temple, as though his head pains him. “I must leave you now,” he mutters. “But first, there is something I would ask of you.”
“No.”
Zephyrus merely arches an eyebrow. “No?” He appears intrigued by this, amused even, though I do not understand why. No is a complete sentence. “But you have not heard my request.”
Something about his presence fuels increasing alarm in me. His own brother wanted him dead. Why?
“You have been here too long,” I manage. “I must ask you to leave at once.”
The hallway echoes from another wave of departing novitiates. My eyes dart to the door. Zephyrus slides into my path, blocking my view of the exit. “You saved my life. I only ask that you hear my request and then decide.”
“Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”
“Oh, I think you’ll want to hear my offer.” He returns to the window. I have half a mind to yank him out of sight. Anyone peering up at the tower could spot him. “Haven’t you wondered why your abbess continually overlooks your accomplishments? Have you not questioned what might guarantee your ascension?” Lowly, silkily, he murmurs, “Come with me, learn what it is you wish to know, and my debt to you will be repaid.”
Whatever I wish to say— No, Leave, Go away —the declaration fails to emerge. For I know this feeling. The unholy desire to reach and grasp, and catch something solid within one’s hand.
A decade I have studied. How many seasons will pass before I’m selected to take my final vows, if at all?
“How?” I whisper. “If I am to learn this information, what must I do?”
“We will pay a visit to Willow,” he says with burgeoning delight, “and you will have your answers.”
I lower my dagger slightly. Willow. I’ve never heard of this person. “Why do you want to help me? Why can’t you accept that I want no repayment and be done with it?”
A little notch crinkles his brow. “There is no such thing as goodness of heart. There’s always a catch.”
Not from me.
“Is there somewhere we can meet tomorrow evening?” Zephyrus asks.
“Tomorrow is the Holy Day. Our day of rest.”
“Then the day after.”
I am likely going to regret this, but any advantage will outweigh the risks. Serving the Father is all I have ever wanted in life. To be known, embraced, revered? Only my final vows will grant me such privilege. But more than this, I wish to be proven worthy of them. “There’s a forge south of the main complex. It is empty in the evenings.”
“Excellent.” Zephyrus braces a palm on the wooden sill. “Light a lamp in your window two nights hence. When you see an answering glow, head to the forge. I’ll meet you there.”
Leaping through the window, he vanishes into the night.