Chapter 6 Durvla
Durvla
The stench of urine and feces forces me back into consciousness.
My eyes fly open to darkness, and a band of panic wraps around my chest as the memories pour into my head.
Gut roiling, I push myself upright and reach out, grasping for anything.
Something dry and gritty grazes my fingertips.
Where am I? I push myself backward on my bottom until my back meets something solid that feels like bars.
Slowly, I adjust to the dark, to the hay scattered beneath me along the wooden floor of the horse-drawn prison wagon.
There seems to be others within the metal bars, but I can’t make out more than their silhouettes.
Riders in black uniforms that blend into the night surround our wagon on horseback, their faces distorted from the undulating shadows cast by their torches.
My stomach churns, sending spasms up my throat. I swallow, and immediately, my stomach twists again.
I need to calm myself.
A shallow breath later, I try to gauge my surroundings. Outside the wagon are small, unkempt altars, and textile mills amongst scattered houses. Not much else is decipherable, but I’m certain we’re in Ballybaeg.
My back pressed against the bars, I close my eyes and try to force coherent thoughts into my mind.
Between my unpredictable body and my pitiful lack of athleticism, I would never get far, even if there was an escape.
If my very scant geographical knowledge serves me right, Mainland is about two days away.
Growing up, we all heard stories about Mainland.
About the overindulgent banquets upon the tables of the nobles, the colorful garments of silk and lace, and the jewels that bedazzle their entitled necks.
They have easily accessible healers and more efficient medicines—even a cure for the outbreak that wiped out so many people years ago.
Their luxuries are unattainable in the Grounds.
My heart lurches as the cage rocks hard enough to throw me onto my side. I squint against the glare of the sun as I push myself upright against the bars again.
I must have fallen asleep.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth; I swallow repeatedly in hopes of chasing the dryness away.
A massive hole in my sock allows my big toe to peek out, my feet growing stiffer and tingling painfully.
The icy breeze that permeates the thin fabric of my clothing does nothing to help, even as I tuck my feet beneath my skirt and wrap my arms around my torso.
As much as I try to ignore the others, I’m still aware of the elderly man across from me, a mother with her arms protectively around a sleeping toddler, and an adolescent girl sitting on one end with a perpetual scowl on her face.
I count four others present. What have any of these people done?
Or rather, what have they been accused of?
Beyond the bars, the dirt road bisects open pastures, and the houses are farther apart. Shaggy cows graze in the fields, and behind a fence to our left, fat pigs bask in the sunlight.
This must be the livestock region, Ballygort. I’ve come here once before with Da. That was a long time ago. Sadness whispers through my memories, paving the way for Taig’s adorable face to infiltrate in my mind. Osheen is with him. He’ll be fine. Right?
It isn’t the norm that Osheen looks after Taig for an entire day; does he know the cues when Taig is hungry? Or overwhelmed?
Having a brother who cannot verbally communicate, I’ve figured out creative ways to tap into his fascinating mind. I can decipher his grunts, headshaking, and hand-wringing. Can Osheen?
My heart races and it’s suddenly hard to breathe.
I’m not hungry at all, but my stomach is determined to gnaw on itself.
The cage grows more putrid by the minute.
If the stench doesn’t kill me, the embarrassment that grips me each time I contribute to the reek certainly will.
Restlessness swells among the captives as the day drags on and the sun dips out of sight.
No one is familiar, and most just keep to themselves.
Every now and then a Forayer offers ladles of sullied water through the bars, pouring directly into our desperate hands.
Another night passes, and by midmorning, almost everyone clambers to their feet like eager children. I’m the last to stand, taking a moment for my vision to clear and my body to stabilize.
I squint at the view up ahead: a grand bridge with lattice sidings of wood and metal. On the other side of the rushing river, the grass is so green that it resembles a painting. Larger, more colorful houses and taller buildings line the streets.
Mainland.
It’s about another half hour before we leave behind the jarring gravel roads of the Grounds and cross the bridge into Mainland, where the wheels of the cage wobble only slightly over brick paving.
Mainlanders stroll about, some in woolen dress coats tapered at the waist, and others sporting luxurious tweed jackets that look so warm I want to crawl into them.
Many stop to stare and jeer at us, their faces twisted with animosity.
A young boy around Taig’s age strides forward. His cherubic face seems to have hardly seen the sun, and wisps of platinum blond curls tumble out from beneath his tweed cap. He stops to pick up a small rock and, sneering, flings it—
Oh gods.
I duck, my vision wavering. The stone flies right through the bars and over my head.
It strikes an older man on the other side of the cage.
Blood spurts through his fingers as he presses them against the wound above his eye.
Sickening guilt grips me. The Mainlander boy is now doubled over at the waist, guffawing at the man’s expense.
A throng of other children gather around him, pointing their little fingers and taunting us while their guardians observe, unperturbed, from a distance.
I’m grateful when we leave that part of the city behind.
Time drags on, but eventually we’re moving alongside a loch, its dark waters sparkling in the sunlight.
Ahead, an ominous iron gate looms, an impressive metal work of intricate whorls depicting a partial sun intersecting a crown turned on its side.
The royal insignia. The gate opens to a vast expanse of patchy grass surrounded by stone barracks.
Cannons, a host of other jail wagons, and varying structures unfamiliar to me fill the space.
Soldiers rush about, all appearing busy with different tasks.
A green plateau—Paramount—looms above the barracks, and at the apex, a stunning fortress of grey stone eclipses the sky.
The Fortress.
Even from this distance, it’s foreboding. I gape at the castle’s silhouette before my attention drops to the ground.
At the farthest side of the encampment, nestled in the shadow of the Paramount plateau, is Fiada Purlieu.
Great Rhianu, have mercy. Even us Grounders know that lush forest is where the Veil resides—the separation between our world and the Otherworld.
It’s also where the Veilguards, ordinary citizens from the Grounds who are conscripted by the crown, serve as the first line of defense from Otherworldly onslaught.
I didn’t expect it to appear so … ordinary. It’s hard to believe that monsters and other beings not of this world can allegedly break through said Veil.
Very hard to believe.
I’m so caught up in my own thoughts that I don’t notice we’ve stopped moving for a while.
My head jerks toward the Forayer speaking from the open gate of the cage, but I’ve already missed half of what he’s said.
“—May the Great Father Lierwen bestow his favor upon you and Lugda have mercy on your souls.”
We stumble out of the cage. My muscles are stiff from sitting for so long, and dirt filters in through the holes in my socks, but I keep moving.
The captives are sorted into lines within the encampment, all heading toward barracks where a mixture of Forayers in black and other soldiers in charcoal gather.
Nausea seizes my gut. I could die here … On what basis was I apprehended? Does it demand my death? With luck, I’ll serve as a Veilguard. At least it’s not an immediate death sentence. Still, fear latches onto me.
As soon as I step away from the cage, falling into a line of other captives, someone seizes my arm.
I flinch and face a woman in a charcoal uniform with a royal insignia pin and a couple of badges over her heart.
Her impressive height and breadth obscure my view, and the coppery streaks in her short brown hair catch the sunlight.
One of her eyes is deep brown, but the other is cloudy and devoid of pigment.
A jagged scar runs from above the eyebrow on that side, down to her russet cheek.
Her unnerving gaze nearly has me wilting.
My focus darts back and forth between her eyes and her lips, terrified I’ll miss something or be too suspicious.
“State your name, girl,” she says.
“Durvla Garrick.” My throat aches from the utterance.
The woman nods sharply. “I’m Sergeant Angharad. Come with me.”
I struggle to keep up with her long strides as she marches across the compact dirt toward a building that overlooks what appear to be training grounds. Most of the other captives are being led in the opposite direction.
My brows furrow. “Where am I going?”
She keeps her pace, and my chest tightens as I’m unable to read her lips. “Pardon?”
Her head snaps to me. “Do not speak.”
My heart hiccups and I press my lips together, rapidly nodding.