Chapter 45
My eyes shot open.
They met Marshen’s wide celeste stare as he knelt beside me, imploring me to wake up. Strands of platinum-white hair clung to his wet, pallid face. Marshen drew his interlocked hands away from my breastbone and sat back, breathless, his palms planted at his sides.
I coughed up salt water, a necessary reflex that agonisingly delayed precious seconds for my lungs to gulp down air. And once they did, they couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop. I hyperventilated, each gasp compensating for the many breaths I’d been denied.
I managed to choke out the words, “You—you saved my life. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Marshen said, shrugging his shoulders.
I touched my forehead and winced. When I lowered my hand, my fingertips were stained with blood. I propped myself up on my elbows, slowly adapting to my existence.
“We made it,” I breathed. I wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question.
“Yep. We’re on Mistgeil Island,” Marshen replied. “Who needs a bridge, right?” I lifted my head towards the partly cloudy sky.
“Shit!” I scrambled to my knees. “We have to run,” I rasped, trying to stand and failing.
Marshen pulled back his hair. “He’s been soaring like that for minutes. If he wanted to come for us, he would have done so already.”
“You don’t understand, that’s—he’s the Phoenix. We need to run!”
I finally managed to get on my two shaky feet, unsure if it was my head or the rocky ground beneath me that swayed.
The concurrent sounds of whistling wind and crashing waves were also interfering with my balance.
I tried to force my faltering legs to steady themselves—to move.
But then I flinched and froze. My head snapped towards the sudden voice.
“He cannot see us from up there.”
In a heartbeat, Marshen was on his feet, like a soldier—steady—whereas I was still struggling to compose myself.
A middle-aged woman emerged from the glade, curious but wary.
She slowly approached us, a young man following close behind.
Then, from the edge of the clearing, more appeared—two, ten, dozens—until they coalesced into a crowd of a hundred.
People of different ages, all staring, all murmuring garbled words that saturated our surroundings.
“Boreas fucking freeze me,” Marshen mumbled. I looked at him with furrowed brows.
Then I remembered—the Phoenix.
The godsdamned Phoenix was hovering above our heads and not one of them seemed to acknowledge the peril we were in. I looked up, my face tense in concern.
“I assure you he cannot see you,” the woman repeated.
My perplexed gaze shifted to her and I asked, “How?…How are you here? And who are you?” The woman held an impassive stare despite the contrasting reactions from the hundred at her back. Some laughed at my questions, others swore.
“No, you tell us who you are first—after all, you are the ones visiting uninvited,” the young man, who mirrored the woman’s sharp nose and chestnut eyes, demanded.
I couldn’t help myself, I kept glancing up into the sky.
“I am Marshen Deucane from Silch, and this is Delia Wildheart, from Ramel.”
“Why can’t he see us?” I asked.
“Why are you here, Marshen Deucane?” the young man pressed.
“The king. King Ryvar Hailin”—Marshen’s voice was so loud. I’m going to fucking kill him. If the Phoenix heard that name!—“he sent me here.”
“Do not shout,” I snapped, through gritted teeth. And why was he telling them about his secret mission?
Marshen probably didn’t hear me as the crowd gasped and mumbled at the mention of the king’s name, their hushed murmurs reverberating.
I was expecting the Phoenix to dive for us and set us all ablaze.
But it seemed that the lady was right. He couldn’t see us, and I was almost certain he couldn’t hear us as well.
“Silence!” the woman bellowed. Yep, he definitely couldn’t hear us. Everyone stilled at her shout.
“Queen Akaterina Hailin is dead?” she asked. “King Rynn?”
Marshen answered. “Yes, Queen Akaterina and King Rynn both passed. They appointed King Ryvar as the new Ice ruler before passing into the afterlife together.”
Despite never meeting them in person, the out-loud mention of their names, their deaths, reminded me too much of him.
I remembered Aegir telling me about how his mother had selflessly forfeited her immortality so that she could bind herself to her mortal soulbound.
I thought nothing was more beautiful. My heart ached—it ached every time I was reminded of him, which was pretty much all the time. I blinked back to reality.
“You’re Hydrans—people from Ilma, aren’t you?” I dared ask.
“Yes,” the woman replied, tucking a lock of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear.
“No!” the young man exclaimed. “We are the forgotten people of Ilma.”
“We searched for you. Silchan shifters searched for you,” Marshen protested, his voice deep. “But you are forgotten no more, as I was sent here to find you,” he continued, performing an unnecessarily dramatic gesture.
I blinked at Marshen’s revelation—his mission. And was I part of this, too? Were my answers truly here, among these people?
“Come with us. You two look like a mess,” the woman said, lifting her worn skirt and turning around. The crowd parted for her as she guided us into the stretch of small trees.
Trees.
That’s when I took a moment to take in my surroundings. Behind us was a low cliff with a rocky descent. Salt water crashed fiercely against its boulders and large pebbles. In front of us, leafy trees were scattered across the rolling hills of green.
We followed the woman, Alma, and her son, Blake.
I restrained my hands from going to my sash, forcing them to stay at my sides. I didn’t want to attract attention—not that their attention wasn’t already pinned on us. They all stared.
As we walked deeper into the green woods, olive and cypress trees gave way to plots of produce. Rows of vegetables rose from the fertile soil. The smell of manure drifted through the fields. Cattle.
This did not look barren to me; this was not a wasteland.
Small wooden houses dotted the undulating hills, leading us into the heart of an unnamed village.
People gawked at us, gasping as we walked through their land.
Some nodded, others hid their curious little children behind their legs.
At the centre of the village stood a hut made of grey cobblestone.
Most of its facade was covered with green moss and vines that climbed and trailed its uneven walls.
I expected Blake to take us there, but he only walked past it. We followed him downhill.
A weird smell clung to the air. I looked around. “Where are you taking us?” I asked.
“Right there,” Blake said, pointing towards the jagged mouth of a cave. “Take the first turn to your right and you’ll find the thermal baths. The smell is normal. I’ll send someone to fetch you dry clothes. Oh, and some salve for your head,” he added, pointing at my forehead.
My hands went to my waist the moment Blake turned on his heel. I exhaled in relief. I could make out the surface of each precious item. The pocket flame, the bag of coin, the compass, the green box.
Then needles prickled the whole of my skin. No.
I hurried inside, falling to my knees near the natural bath’s landing.
I hastily took out my items, my fingertips desperately grazing the insides of the hidden compartments.
It wasn’t there. A heavy lump rose in my throat, choking me.
My hand went to my chest, my index and middle fingers finding their usual spot by muscle memory alone. A long exhale left me.
My necklace was there.
I’d completely forgotten that I’d given in and worn it the day before. Thank the gods, it clung on far better than I had.
I reached for the silver pocket. I was sure the flame would be immortal no more, but when I opened its warm casing, it relit. I let out another shaky breath.
I pressed my face into my hands, collecting my scattered thoughts. And despite having just spent my fair share of time in deadly waters, being ensconced in the warmth of the natural bath was just what I needed.
The hut was empty.
Not empty in terms of furniture or items, but rather in terms of people. The young lady who escorted us asked us to wait inside for Alma.
I paced around the hut, in this one big room, no doors other than the front one. Two large windows flanked the door, letting in the afternoon light. Various herbs and plants thrived on their sills.
A pot of what smelled like fish soup bubbled quietly on a wood-burning stove. Its hearty fragrance made my stomach grumble. The hearth opposite the stove suffused the hut with warmth.
I stopped in front of a brassy ornate frame. A portrait of a beautiful dark woman with full lips and decorated brown locks. We stared at each other. She resembled the woman I saw in Memoirs of a Dark Woman. It was burned now, along with the rest of my less-important belongings.
I sauntered towards the desk, closer to the shelves stacked with books.
Even from afar, I could sense them to be dark and ancient.
Compelled to move closer, I reached for the thickest one.
Every page I flipped felt archaic against the skin of my thumb and forefinger.
The language it was written in was strange.
The unification of the five nations forming Lyrantheia, which was millennia ago, gave birth to a shared language—the common tongue.
No dialects, no distinction, just one shared vernacular.
That resulted in the five national languages becoming forgotten by most over the years.
The Sand Priestesses opposed the thought of the Earthen tongue becoming extinct, and for that reason, I could read and speak Earthen fluently.
We were also taught a few words and phrases from the other near-dead languages.
These—the writings in these books—were written in some language I couldn’t understand. The letters appeared almost symbolic.
“You do know it’s very rude to snoop, right?” Marshen said, casually sprawling himself on the bamboo sofa.
“Not as rude as keeping me from knowing why King Ryvar sent you here. Nor keeping me from knowing that you could shift.”
I moved away from the books and made my way towards the other cluttered shelves. Small glass bottles glimmered in a spectrum of colours. I shivered at the sight of a small onyx vial.
“Says the woman who shares all of her secrets with me. Who told you to come here?”
How was all of this here?
I paced in front of the windows, admiring the assortment of herbs and small plants on the sills. They seemed well-kept, happy. At the very end of one sill, sat a carnivorous plant with spiky, toothlike edges—green on the outside, tempting red on the inside.
I stared at it—an unbidden reminder—as memories flickered through my mind.
Us, lying on the carpet at the inn, glimpsing each other from beneath the bed frame.
He wanted to ask me something that night.
He wanted to ask me if I wished to be freed from him—for Mounir to replace me as his servant.
But he didn’t, and he never told me why.
My answer would have been no. I no longer wanted to stay away from him…
if anything, I ached to have him close. I was so lost in thought, I didn’t even notice Alma coming in through the front door.
“Dionaea muscipula. Also known as the Venus flytrap. Beautiful, isn’t it? Despite its deceptive intentions,” Alma said, from behind me.