Chapter 3
A deadly dream, deceptively sweet;
take one bite, find wakeless sleep.
A poison so potent, it’ll show you to your grave.
Beware the dream berry
‘less it's death that you crave.
—'The Eternal Dream of Aurorae', a children's rhyme
The journey to Red Water cove is a surprisingly quick one, though I haven’t been here since the storm ripped apart the slaver ship I was taken captive on.
Freshly fourteen, too curious for my own good.
How many times had Móeir warned me to stay away from the coast?
I lost count, and yet I still went down to meet him, got myself caught, forced into the hull with twenty others.
He is my greatest shame, the bastard Black.
I’d never met a human, let alone a man, and the day is carved vividly in my mind.
Him, sitting in a little clearing as he drank from a canteen.
How he closed his eyes and leaned back. How I watched, fascinated by the way he savored the rays of sun on his tan skin.
He’d looked so peaceful, so handsome. I’d been frightened of course.
The only thing I knew of men were that they came and pillaged and kidnapped our cousins.
But I couldn’t imagine him doing anything like that.
He’d looked tranquil—kind even. How naive I was.
I’d slipped away that first time, but made a point to go back to the same spot the following day.
He was there again, washing in the fresh river water that empties over cliffs into the sea.
I watched for a bit, trying to understand him, but when I went to slip off a second time he called out to me.
He’d known I was there the day before. I don’t know where the courage came from—maybe borne from the stupidity of youth, but I went to him.
And came back each time he said he’d return.
He’d told me he dealt in herbs, that his company came to harvest the magick laced plants that could only be found on Aurorae.
That he disagreed with what the slavers were doing and how the plants he took saved lives back in Helgate, especially the nymphs who didn’t have access to such things otherwise.
Like an idiot child, I believed him. We met, again and again, for months, until the night he betrayed me.
By some wicked twist of fate Móeir had chosen that evening to follow my trail and been captured, too, trying to save me from them.
From Harlow and his crew. She couldn’t even comfort me, wrapped in chains of braided iron, trapped in the dark, rank underbelly of the ship for days.
No food, only sea water that leaked in through the boards and soaked our feet until they cracked and bled.
And then the storm hit.
It was utter chaos—the hull filling with icy salt water, slavers above screaming and cursing as the gods shook the sky.
Around us, the wood groaned and fissured and finally split.
I washed up in this very cove. The sandy shore is the same pale white stretch, surrounded by high cliffs on each side, except the one that opens out to the unending Dread Sea.
Unlike when I woke up then, the waters now are not its namesake red.
I remember the panic I’d woken to, memories nothing but a blur, drenched in the dark red waves that lapped the shore like blood, staining my clothes and skin and hair.
Later, I found out from a drunken botanist passing through East Slag that it’s an algae that sometimes colonizes the waters, protecting the ecosystem from Helgate’s scorching summer heat.
A soft blue paints the bay now, and melds flawlessly into a pale green with white foam washing the sand.
Low tide, indeed. I can see where the water line usually rests along the base of the cliffs; they’re still mildew slick, darker than the stone above them.
Rocks crest out of the water like jagged teeth.
I look to the map, try to orient myself in comparison to its rough etchings.
They seem to depict stones that form a pathway leading out to the cliff face.
The sand’s hot, but I kick off my boots anyway, peel away my socks to stuff inside, and then hide them in a nearby bush next to a shady patch of trees where they won't be easily spotted.
Their tread is so worn down, I'm better off barefoot and it's best not to be waterlogged if I slip.
A tremor shoots through me when the water laps my toes.
The cool bite of it threatens to send me back to the depths of my panic, to the long days and even longer nights aboard Harlow Black's ship, but I grit my teeth and step onto the first rock, its craggy peak like a dull blade pressing into the pad of my sole.
Deep breath. Forward. Come on. Again, breathe. Leap.
Overhead, a gull cries out, circling me, its beady black eye fixed on my movement.
Maybe it’s hoping I’ll slip and fall, hurt myself badly enough I can’t fend it off as it pecks at my soft bits.
The dark thought roils my stomach, pushing up the acrid taste of meat and heavy gravy from the Muddy Crow. I swallow it down.
Almost there.
Now that I’ve made it out a few paces where the cliff starts to curve, I see the entrance to the cave.
Dark, slightly foreboding. The lines where the water rises indicate that at high tide, it’s nearly submerged.
My next jump is considerably further than the others.
I balance, bending into a half crouch before springing forward with a fair amount of effort to land, barely, on the edge of the slick rock.
I almost lose my footing, and throwing myself forward, I fight wildly to counter my weight back and grasp for the far half of the stone so I don’t plummet into the shallow surf.
Water and I are not on good terms; we haven't been for quite some time. Not since that storm.
With a small noise of relief, I find my footing again and clamber up to make my final leap where the mouth of the cave awaits, wide and hungry.
It’s both a victory and a curse to pull myself inside.
A pool of standing water encases my hands and feet up to my ankles, provoking a gasp of fear that echoes around me as I race for the drier up-slope leading further in.
Already, gooseflesh has risen to both my arms and pricks along the back of my neck and spine.
It’s dark, so eerily dark, that I have to slide my hand along the wall to find my way.
I want to call for the forgotten power within me, the heat, the flame, but years have passed since I last tried.
I’m not sure I could do it anymore, and I was no good at it to start.
My most successful moments have been times of pure rage, and even that usually wasn't enough for more than a spark or two.
Further ahead, small shafts of light peek through the ceiling that’s thick with stalactite formations, creeping down like blunted fangs.
The soft glow riddles the cave roof through naturally formed holes that give off just enough light to guide me up until the floor plateaus, where I’m convinced I’ve reached my destination.
From what I suspect is the rear of the cave, a soft and continuous roar lingers, like churning water.
I fumble for the map again, ready to reread the passage inscribed on the back.
"Choose a dark and poisonous treat.
Some to save, some to eat.
Through the deadly weeping veil
My secrets hide beyond the trail.
A path both treacherous and steep,
What the seeker claims, the seeker reaps."
I read aloud, slowly, clumsily. I haven't opened a book since running from the Sisters who teach all the orphans so that we can read scripture. Purpose fills each spoken word as I strain to decipher their meaning.
The deadly weeping veil? My eyes take note of the cavern around me and come to rest on the source of the sound filling it.
A waterfall spills from the cave ceiling to empty into a thin chasm that splits the ground.
I step forward, weary but thoughtful in my inspection of it.
At a glance, it's nothing magnificent or un-ordinary.
Just a fall, its water clear and misting.
Weeping veil. My fingers rise to adjust the flat cap on my head.
Beneath it my hair is damp with sweat again—maybe it was never dry.
I shift the strap of my satchel bag that’s digging into the side of my neck and inch ahead.
Water has been used as a veil in many of the tales of old.
The way it falls from the ceiling, like tears slipping from the rock.
Like the cavern weeps. I haven’t been tempted to touch water in years except for bathing—a tortuous necessity— but my hand twitches, yearning to brush the distorted stream.
My fists ball, fighting the deep urge as the most important word of the passage echoes in my head.
Deadly. I squint, trying to see to the other side of this so-called veil with no luck.
There’s more to this, has to be, otherwise any fool worth their salt could have waltzed it here at low tide and claimed their piece of the Midnight Crown.
I scan the room once more, this time scrutinizing everything, not just the bigger picture but each detail, every crack in the wall and rut in the floor. It’s largely empty, save for the waterfall and two bushes growing on either side of its base.
Choose a dark and poisonous treat.
They give me pause and I lean in as close as I dare to study them. I’ve seen these before; like a long lost fever dream, the memory resurfaces.