Chapter 44 Nostalgic, Yet Horrifying
Nostalgic, Yet Horrifying
“No man, nor giant, could hope to climb the obsidian walls.”
— A Modern History of the Realm, by Jon Harvington
The passage across the Sea of Blades went by faster and smoother this time around. I wasn’t as sick, and the weather was far more pleasant.
I spent my nights reading Castivian histories in my room or playing drinking games with Beck, Amzee, and occasionally, Riven.
Ansel never indulged in such activities, at least not with us. He did, however, require my presence during the day.
Amzee, Beck, and I stood at the rear of the ship while Ansel carried on with instruction.
Every morning for weeks, our small group trained.
We never bothered with blades, only honing our Natures.
Ansel insisted if I were to be getting off this ship with them, I should at least be able to wield my Nature within reason without becoming sick.
We each practiced forming orbs between our hands, strengthening them until they reached the size of a dinner plate, then shooting them out to sea.
As we faced the ocean, Ansel stood behind us, reminding me to lift my elbows or complaining about Amzee’s improper form, as her orbs often took on the shape of a heart.
Ansel insisted that forming them into anything but a sphere was a waste of time and energy on the battlefield, and she needed to break the habit.
Once she’d started aiming for circles, they became tube-shaped.
When I pointed out the drooping length of her orb, she was taken aback.
“Well, Elora, yours are too small. Try making them this large and see if they don’t misshape. The weight is heinous, truly.”
She was right. Mine were the smallest out of the three. Any larger than my thumb and they became ovalish.
Amzee threw another red flaming droop out into the ocean as I tossed my petite oval of poison. Meanwhile, Beck hurled a sphere of smoke.
“Oh, that splash was fantastic!” Amzee mused.
“I thought so myself,” Beck bragged.
My orbs needed work, but my stamina was increasing. It took far longer for the sickness to hit, and even longer for me to actually vomit. Ansel tested the limits often, which, as unpleasant as it was, was helpful.
I’d asked to use Singer for the exercises, but Ansel refused. “What if you misplace it?” he’d lectured. “Or if it’s taken? Don’t cheat yourself.”
I had no choice but to accept he was right.
While the training wasn’t enjoyable beyond a few small victories, it became easier with each passing day. It was invigorating to know I had some means of protection. I never wanted to find myself at a Sapphire's feet again, vomiting and helpless.
Outside of training, the most challenging feat was attempting to distance myself from Riven.
There were too many lingering eyes on the ship to risk rumors that my marriage was illegitimate.
Aside from the occasional glance, it was best I avoided him unless in a group setting.
He was busy with planning anyway. For what? I didn’t know.
Even knowing it was best to stay away, I often found myself sneaking into his room when all but the night shift sailors were asleep. Every time, without fail, Riven would be out of bed in an instant, locking the door behind me.
One night, he pressed me against the door as he kissed me, before carrying me to the bed. On another occasion, the waves were so rowdy that he just tossed me onto the mattress before lifting the back of my shirt and biting his way down from my neck.
Every time he fell asleep holding me, as if I were his to keep.
He always woke first, dressing and disappearing for the day without a sound. We had very few actual conversations, which was probably best for both of us.
Amzee cleared her throat. Everyone was staring at the blob between my hands, waiting for me to toss it.
“This is a bad one,” I admitted, frowning at the wobbly, violet orb. I threw it and it sizzled into the water.
Ansel had his hands in his dark cloak pockets, glancing around.
“We will make landfall early tomorrow. Meet me in the planning room after dinner. Make sure your things are gathered.”
Amzee lit up at the news, while Beck gave a respective nod. I followed suit, trying to remain confident as the reality hit.
We’d be back on Drakington soil in less than a day. A kingdom where I did not have any rights. More so, I was going back into the cage. Voluntarily.
I swallowed. There was a very real possibility of not making it back out.
A gentle zap hit my shoulder, bringing me back to the moment. I snapped my head to Ansel, who had already dismissed the others.
He came closer. Thin, loose strands of his hair billowed in the wind.
“Worst case, we fail,” he said sternly. “Best case, we bring the entire Southern Waywards population back to Castivian.”
I rested my forearms on the edge, admiring the horizon. “Much worse could happen.”
His elbows next to mine, he leaned his tall frame down until our faces were level. “You will make it back home.”
Fear knotted in my stomach. “How could you know that?” I asked quietly.
He stared for a moment, his eyes somehow becoming icier. “If you weren’t to make it back, I would have to be dead. And I have no plans of dying in the Waywards.”
He gave me one last piercing glance before walking off without another word.
Chills ran through me as I once again thought of the worst.
No one ever planned to die in the Waywards, yet they did.
My appetite was entirely shot. I sat at a long table with Amzee and Beck, who were in the middle of a drinking game.
They both scarfed down rolls and ale, formulating the most diabolical belches I’d ever encountered.
Amzee had the giggles so bad at one point, I thought she might’ve had a hard time breathing.
They were truly celebrating our impending arrival, while anxiety had completely ruined me.
I’d asked to be here. I wanted to bring the Witchlords and Drakers crumbling down, and to bring the people of the Southern Waywards back to Castivian. Why was I overcome with this terrifying feeling?
I sat in silence with my arms crossed and feet propped up on a dining chair while Amzee and Beck continued their festivities. Riven showed up after a few minutes, and then finally, Ansel.
The lantern-lit room was just barely big enough for the table, with only a few decorations, including a map on the wall.
Riven sat next to the chair I’d propped my feet on. Ansel directly across from me. Riven kept his eyes on Ansel, as if to deter him from glancing my way.
“The marked map,” Ansel requested, holding a hand out.
Riven silently passed it over.
Ansel unrolled it, placing Amzee’s glass on one corner and a few coins on the other.
He leaned over the table to point to the Southern Waywards. “We need to get here, then, we will port…” He slid his finger across—“here.”
“Hm. Not too far, huh?” Beck said, nodding in approval.
Ansel shrugged. “Only a day’s distance, maybe less. The ships traveling behind us will be porting right outside of the Southern Waywards. If we fail, not only will the people of the Southern Waywards suffer, but the fleet will be at risk.”
Lord Avan’s father’s fleet. We needed those ships for the coming war, not just this.
I turned to Ansel. “Then what's the plan?”
“Once we make land, Sir Riven will meet with his contacts and enter the Southern Waywards posing as a Draker. He should go unnoticed while wearing his mask.”
Beck nodded as he listened. Amzee scanned the map while Riven flipped an unlit smoke between his fingers, surely awaiting the moment we could leave the tight, windowless room.
Ansel continued, “I will be in Witchlord attire, as I still have my pin. We will arrive at the gates of the Southern Waywards with the three of you bound as any Dark Natured captives would be. I will claim to be a Witchlord from the Northern Waywards, meant to be on leave for the spring traveling down south, when I found the three of you criminals. Of course, I’ll need to include that my travel plans have been ruined, and I’m not expected back at the Northern Waywards until Summer.
Thus, I’ll be seeking residence for two weeks before returning north. ”
I lifted my brows, impressed.
“Wow, you know how to come up with a lie,” Amzee beamed.
That he did.
“It’s only a good lie if they buy it,” Beck pointed out.
“Then I suggest you three prepare to be believable prisoners.”
He wrapped up the meeting, instructing us to be ready before sunrise and to pack light. We wouldn’t be able to bring anything into the Waywards.
I chose not to spend the final night on the ship with Riven. He needed rest. Instead, I tossed and turned in my own bed. It was as if the closer we came to returning to those obsidian walls, the more my mind and body rejected it.
Just as Ansel promised, we made landfall before sunrise.
All day we travelled through the spring woods.
Every so often, Amzee would ask Beck and I about what it was like in the Waywards.
She could probably tell it didn’t help either of us to talk about it, so eventually, we all got used to walking without conversation.
Riven had set off on his own path hours prior. We could only hope to find him within the Waywards.
The closer we got, the worse my anxiety became. At nightfall, we stopped only for a few hours to sleep in the woods. We had nothing to use for comfort, and didn’t bother risking a fire. I attempted to sleep with my head pillowed on my arm, but failed miserably and volunteered to keep watch instead.
After the brief rest, we continued on until the ever dreadful walls peeked through the woodline.
“Ah, Amzee, love. Remember when you asked how tall the walls are?” Beck asked.
“Yep.”
“That tall,” he said, pointing ahead.
For the first time, Amzee looked nervous, her face losing its usual glow. I tried giving her a reassuring glance, but we both knew there were good reasons to be afraid.
Ansel however, spared no time for fear. Instead, he pulled rope out of his satchel and winked at me. “Ready, prisoners?”
He was shockingly good at tying knots, having the three of us bound within minutes. The sky darkened, and the last opportunity to return to the ship had passed. We were nearing the gate, and had surely already been noticed by Drakers.
I kept my head low as we arrived, my palms shaking.
A Draker stood guard, face hidden by his mask and hood.
“You’re early, Lord Zaren. We weren’t expecting you for a few more weeks,” he said, sounding too jolly for the Waywards. “You’ve brought prisoners with you as well?”
I swallowed. We hadn’t planned for Ansel to impersonate another Witchlord.
Ansel, legitimately annoyed and exhausted, rolled his eyes. “I’ve had a long day. Get these animals processed and get me the keys to my house.”
The enthusiastically foolish Draker moved promptly to open the gate. “Of course, of course, Lord Zaren. Welcome home.”
I held back a smile as the gates dragged open. Ansel was unsurprisingly good at improvising.
He walked freely through, while Amzee, Beck, and I were herded to a crumbling grey building off to the side.
Processing had been degrading the first time I’d done it, and the second time was no different. They stripped us bare, checking for weapons and contraband on or inside of us. I kept my head forward, face resting naturally in a glare.
The Drakers examined Amzee and me beyond necessity.
As one of their gloved hands grabbed the curve of my hip, my nostrils flared.
“Angry one, isn’t she?”
Another laughed, turning his attention to Amzee. “Hey, Flamecastor. You’re a big one. Soft belly, lumpy hips. You’d make a decent wage at the brothel down the street. I’ll make sure I come visit you.”
Amzee didn’t cower, nor did her face flush. She smiled, eyeing his crotch and biting her lip. “I wonder if it would… melt off in the heat of the moment.”
He drew back a step, disgusted. “Send them out. Enjoy the shithole, inkweeds.”
They kicked our piles of clothes out the door, not even allowing us to dress in privacy. Amzee cackled as we grabbed them and ran behind the building to get dressed. Beck immediately shadowed us, allowing us some modesty.
“What a bunch of masked freaks,” Amzee said.
I nodded in agreement.
Once we were dressed, Beck took the lead on finding Keeper’s Street.
It was nostalgic, yet horrifying to walk through the Waywards.
Bars, shops, brothels—all marking which Natures were allowed. Children, frail with dark circles under their eyes, scanning the meandering pavements for things to collect or sell. Dark, gloomy, deteriorating buildings stacked on top of one another lining the overcrowded streets.
An hour went by before we found Keeper’s Street. It was like a cheap version of the Silver Circle. The loop of houses with bulbous black and gold roofs was freshly maintained for the Witchlords, and Ansel was inside one of them.
“The one all the way to the right,” a familiar voice said. I turned around, grinning at the Draker. It had been some time since Riven had worn the uniform, but I’d recognize his voice anywhere.
I nodded to Beck, and he quickly shadowed all of us, including Riven, as we hurried to Ansel’s assigned residence.
The door was unlocked. As we entered, Ansel was sitting in a brown leather chair, smirking. We each picked a spot in the spacious living room, Amzee and I falling onto either side of the couch.
We’d made it. Part one of the plan was complete.
“I do love a full circle moment,” Beck mused, propping his feet on the oak coffee table.
“The full circle,” Ansel said, “will be when we return home.”