Chapter 11 Into The Lion’s Den
It is said that the original line of nymphs tamed and rode Draga: scaly winged beasts from the far north that breathe fire or ice. Draga were created by the trickster god, Harial , who was determined to torment humanity to spite his father Ireus' fondness for them.
–Excerpt from 'A Slavers Guide to Aurorae', by Crismund Burke
Another two days pass before we reach the outskirts of Vireloche, a sprawling harbor city. I'm really starting to question if Rhyland Crow and his crew sleep at all. We've made only brief stops to relieve bladders or feed and water the horses.
I'm woken to the sound of something slamming into the wooden floor beneath me. I crack my eyelids to find it's Sabre and a round bucket, sloshing with water.
"What's going on?" I ask groggily, shifting upward. I'm furious with myself for having caved to a few hours of sleep after working so hard to stay awake.
Rowan's curled up beside me, some color returned to her face since drinking Crow's potion. Her round brown eyes flit between Sabre and I.
The blonde woman lets out a quick huff. "You can't go into the city looking like this." She gestures at me. "The Crusaders would swarm us."
Crusaders, the Magistrate’s war force…meaning we must've passed over the border into Triel at some point, seeing as how only imperial officers patrol Ethirya while the Crusaders are sanctioned toward areas at or near active battle.
She reaches down, gathering a pile of clothes to toss at us.
"Wash up and change. Quickly." Without another word, she jerks the flaps of the wagon canvas down to offer us a fraction of privacy.
More than we've gotten in days, seeing as a crewman’s stare seems ever present.
Crow's overly cautious—I might even accuse him of being paranoid if I didn't know my own intentions to run at the first chance.
Rowan gazes down at the pile of fabric in between us and something inside her seems to fracture at the sight.
"What is it?" I wince, peeling away the shirt that’s crusted to my skin by dried blood, before reaching tentatively into the bucket for a rag. The water’s delightfully cool as I use it to start scrubbing, face first, and then down my neck, chest, arms. Everywhere.
Rowan frowns and shifts, a movement that knocks a dark covered book off her lap.
It’d been obscured by a ratty brown sack she’d been using as a blanket.
I stare at it, lifting an eyebrow before opening my mouth, but she interrupts me before I can ask where in the Hel it came from.
"We aren't getting away, are we?" She reaches down to twist the knotted rope around her waist, as though hesitant to part with it.
“We will.” I lower my voice. “The city will be the perfect place. Busy. Easier to slip off.”
“If I’m not back before the anointing ceremony, they’ll never accept me into the Sisterhood—”
“Don’t,” I say quickly. “Don’t torture yourself with worry.
We’ll find a way out of this.” I’m grateful they’ve given us shirts and trousers to wear as opposed to dresses, though I doubt it was a conscious decision on their part.
Rowan clearly doesn’t feel the same. She eyes the men's pants like they may bite her if she gets too close, and then hugs the book close to her chest. I glance at the title on its deep brown cover. The words are curved and gilded, almost difficult to read, but when I squint hard enough I can make them out. ‘A Slaver’s Guide to the Nymphs of Aurorae’ by Crismund Burke.
“Where did you even get that?” I gesture toward it before shimmying into the pants. They’re loose, but there’s an adjustable rope waistline I use to cinch them tight. I'll have to roll them to keep from tripping.
She glances down at the book clutched in her arms and blushes.
“Oh, it’s actually quite horrible, but the ride was so long and you were sleeping.
I found it in a bag of things. I think it might have been Harlow Black’s.
” The edge of her lower lip catches between her teeth when she gestures to a crumbled leather sack at the foot of the wagon.
“They truly don’t view nymphs as people at all, but rather animals or objects to be bought and sold.
This man, Crismund, is a monster. A dreadfully awful human being.
But I do wonder…." She trails off for a moment, the tips of her ears tinting red.
"I wonder if the nymphs themselves had access to what he claims as 'tips', might they better defend themselves and learn how to avoid capture?”
I reach for it and she passes it to me without hesitating.
It’s a heavy thing, worn and dog eared as though either very old or very well used.
Probably the latter, if it really did belong to Harlow at any point in time.
My stomach feels sick simply holding it, and I quickly pass it back to her.
“It might help, but who would get the information to them? Certainly not you, if you’re headed to the citadel to live out your days as a Sister of Silence.
Most nymphs can't read the continent's native tongue. How would you tell them?”
Her blush deepens. “I was thinking I’d take notes and you could tell them, once you get back home.” The last words are tentative, whispered. She doesn’t look at me.
“A nice thought, but they wouldn’t listen to me.
” I don't look at her either as I begin stuffing our soiled clothes into a burlap sack Sabre left for us. “There’s a reason you won’t read about fiernaids in that book or any other.
Why you don’t hear us sing about songs of old.
Why you won’t see us bound in chains on the streets of Helgate, or anywhere else for that matter.
” My mind drifts to far off places. Places that feel lifetimes away. “Why I can’t go back without Màma.”
She shifts, sitting straighter. “I don’t understand.”
There’s so much I didn’t tell her. So much I had refused to burden her with. She knew the basics, the story I’d first recited to the Mother’s Three and the Sons of Serenity.
“The rest of the nymphs hate us. Fiernaids are destruction with our unpredictable and chaotic power, surrounded by the other nymph’s trees, and groves, and meadows.
We—well, most of us—come from the eternal flame in the heart of Aurorae.
Young fire nymphs are taken from it and nurtured by the older ones until they breathe life.
It’s how they’re born, formed, whatever you want to call it.
” The words are bitter as yarrow in my mouth.
“But that wasn’t the case for you. Your father, he was a man, right?
” Her fingers twist and tighten around the crumpled slacks in her hand.
If I didn't know better, I'd think she was stalling for time. Desperate to avoid donning them. Actually, I’m pretty sure this is the case. I’ve already told her a variation of this, though maybe not in quite as much detail.
It hurt, to say it all before. Still, I indulge her.
Talking freely is a luxury I have not had in a long, long time.
After our initial meeting, and a slew of intrusive questions, the Mother’s three had forbidden me to speak about my past. I was to conform, to be rehabilitated.
I didn’t even dare whisper more than a sentence or two about my home or the crown into the dark with Rowan, for someone was almost always listening.
Mostly, I’d buried my past like a creature lain dormant for the brutal winter.
Four years wasted at Blossom House. My search for the crown had halted.
Aurorae was all but forgotten. After my escape from the orphanage, life had largely become a struggle just to survive and stay safe.
The only connection left to the past were strange dreams from the trickster god. Warnings. Urgings. Threats.
A grim line claims my mouth. “Right. My three elder sisters were born from it, but Màma broke a sacred law when she conceived me. The everflame offers protection over the heart of the island, but only the fiernaid can cross the boundary, another reason the others hate us. Whatever power it holds shields us from slavers, but not them. If we stay inside, we’re safe.
Màma left the boundary and found my mortal father washed up on the seashore.
You can guess what happened from there and then…
well, I came about. An oddity. Weak magick.
No ethereal beauty.” Absently, I brush the tip of my cropped ear and think of the monthly tonic Móeir gave me to keep mortal sickness at bay.
Her fragile halfling child. A pain shoots through my stomach at the thought—a reminder.
I'm due for the tonic any day and if I don't take it on time my stomach begins to cramp and cold sweats come in waves. I’ll end up weak and feverish, just like the day we first met.
I cough, covering the small groan when I realize Rowan's waiting for me to finish my explanation. “The Elders said they could read every destiny in the evening skies. The night I was born, a single bright star hung close to the horned moon, which reads disaster—the worst sort of omen. The same omen painted the sky the night that storm swallowed Harlow’s ship.” Blinking, I come away from the memory.
That bitterness sweeps my mouth and the back of my throat, but I try for a smile and my softest voice when I tell her, “You’re going to have to put those pants on. ”