Chapter 26
Elysia sneezed. The powdery scent of herbs and dried flowers from other lands kept tickling her nose. Crammed into the back of a traveling wagon, there wasn’t a breath of space between her and Jessa.
“Why is it so hot in here?” Jessa grumbled, shoving up the sleeves of her thick, boxy sweater.
Elysia tried to give her space, but her shoulder hit a clump of plants, causing them to crumble onto the dusty wooden floor.
“Shit.” She stepped backward now, only to knock into Jessa.
“Watch it.” Her gruff voice held no real bite as she stabilized Elysia and kept her from taking down the entire caravan’s worth of herbs.
“Why couldn’t we have waited outside?” Another sneeze was building and her eyes were watering too.
Jessa bumped into her now as she tried to duck around a bundle of hanging flowers to stand closer to the door.
“By the fucking gods.” She glared at the wagon and all its plants like she wished she could blow the damn place up. “Because these were the instructions.”
Jessa bent awkwardly, avoiding damaging even more plants as she combed her hair back into a high bun and secured it with pins she pulled out of her pocket. Mouth still full of hairpins, she recited the instructions. “Be inside the wagon by the desecrated temple of spring’s fair maiden at dawn. Not outside, inside.”
“Sounds like a trap,” Elysia muttered. Patience worn thin, Jessa scowled at Elysia, her mouth shriveled and eyes a little wild. Elysia examined the dried flower in front of her. “Sorry, sorry.”
Their friendship was not off to the most glowing start, she supposed. Mari had mentioned Jessa being in love with Syren Herrin, so Elysia assumed that reluctant assistance was about as good as she could expect. Especially when her almost betrothed had been the reason why so many more of Jessa’s friends had met their deaths. There was a cloud of death clinging to her and she couldn’t blame the woman for likely hating her guts.
Elysia gently brushed her fingers over a faded flower. Leaving her to die at the hands of his father’s men counted as a breakup, didn’t it? She hummed, picking up a new flower to inspect. Who had time to sort through those kinds of questions?
She paused, brow furrowing on a strange, unwelcome thought. She wasn’t sure she had ever met a couple who loved and trusted each other in equal measure. If that sort of love existed, she’d never seen it. The gaping wound festering in her heart made her question if maybe, in a different life, that could have been something she wanted.
The wagon door banged open, coming close to crushing all the precious herbs and flowers on the wall behind it.
A wide, unsettling smile spread across the weathered face of the thin old woman who entered. Wrapped in a fiery red shawl, her bird legs stuck out beneath in soft cotton pants. Silently, she circled them, dipping in and around each woman, and examined them both to the point of discomfort.
Elysia and Jessa could barely keep up with this new dance, neither wishing to have the old woman’s sharp nose in their face or to wreck her property as she looked on. Huffing, Elysia felt sweat blooming on her nape. Back where she started, the woman slammed the caravan door shut, clicking all the locks into place with bony fingers.
Anxiety brought Elysia’s hands to rest over the top of her weapons. She’d worn warm, winter friendly trousers that she now regretted, with a belt made for securing the two daggers she had today. She remained unconvinced that Jessa needed weapons. From what Elysia had witnessed, she was more of a use what you’ve got type of fighter, carrying a confidence that even after years of training Elysia had never mastered.
The old woman clucked, tossing her red shawl over one shoulder and sashaying in close. “My, what an interesting pair we have here. Now, how did this come to be?” One hand shot out to grasp Jessa’s cheek, the other to pinch Elysia’s chin. Her eyes squinted as she gave a good sniff.
Elysia felt her body go ramrod straight. Why do the elderly believe they’re entitled to do whatever they want? Falling back on her court training, she pointedly ignored the old woman’s firm grasp and warm breath. Jessa did no such thing, her seemingly permanent glare melting into disgruntled disdain.
The tavern owner didn’t mince words. “Sniff me one more time like some kind of dog, meela, and we’re going to have a problem. Understand?”
Elysia blanched. Meela was the Bellian word for wise one—often used in place of the more formal title of priestess.
Her mind instantly brought her back to all those years ago. Escaping the castle, watching the Ryspurian priestesses with their faces painted like death. How they had danced and moved to death’s silent song until the main square ran dark with their blood.
As an adult, she’d always wondered what had motivated them to embody such zeal—and if she was honest, such stupidity. Bellians were cut off from their magic just like anyone else who ventured into Kava. Those priestesses had been magicless and vulnerable, yet they chose to spit on the cornerstone of Kava’s culture in the capital’s main square.
The Kavian’s were a godless, magicless people. And yet the priestesses had danced and sang in honor of an ancient holiday, stirring memories and longing in the hearts of the people willing to remember. As someone who had spent her entire life fixated on hiding in order to survive, she just couldn’t understand what drove those women to such actions.
Whatever their reasons, the king’s justice had been swift. Their deaths acted as a necessary reminder to his people that Kavians would not fall into such antiquated religion or be led onto false paths filled with unnatural magic. They would rely on themselves as was only right, undead gods be damned.
The meela paid no mind to Jessa’s threats, instead smiling knowingly at Elysia.
“You,” she barked.
Elysia’s eyebrows went up. “Yes?”
The old woman grabbed a polished wooden cane from the corner of the wagon. “How long has it been, then?”
Perplexed, she looked from the woman to Jessa, who just threw up her hands like she couldn’t be expected to understand the woman’s nonsense.
“I beg your pardon, but I don’t know what you mean.” Uncomfortable, her court mask remained in place, stiffening her words.
The woman harrumphed and smacked her cane against a cupboard, causing both Elysia and Jessa to flinch. She grumbled unintelligibly before flinging her bony arms and hands wide, the red shawl slipping down her shoulder. “Don’t be daft. That you’ve heard death’s song, of course. What else would you be pestering me about? I might be forced to live like a mundane slug while in this godsforsaken land, but I can still recognize the magic I’ve studied my entire life when it barges into my wagon.”
Elysia’s thoughts and fears jumbled. Her voice was a scratchy thing, caught like a bird in her throat. “No, that can’t be right.” Her words became faster. “Are you sure? Because really, I’m just good at finding secrets. Practically a professional gossip. Not deathlike at all.”
Jessa stared at Elysia like she’d lost her mind, crossing her arms in annoyance. “What are you talking about? Tell her about the dreams. I’ve got to get back to the bar, so—” She motioned for Elysia to get on with it.
The meela laughed knowingly. “You don’t want to talk about death. No one ever wants to talk about death.” She chanted the words rhythmically. Poking her cane in Elysia’s direction, she continued. “Okay then, child, tell me what brings you to my store? Herbs for money? Love? Lust? I hear the prince knows how to delight, if you know what I mean.” She cackled and made a thrusting motion with her hips.
Jessa cringed, and Elysia found herself looking anywhere but at the small, gyrating grandmother in front of her.
“Fine,” she spit out, just wanting the woman to stop before she lost her breakfast. “I met priestesses from your land as a girl. They told me I’d been marked by death, and I never thought twice about it until now.” The formal rigidity she’d slipped into in her discomfort had disappeared in the face of such strange, lewd behavior.
The meela gripped her cane. “Go on.”
Elysia rubbed her dust-irritated eyes. “In my sleep, I travel to a land that I believe is where your god resides, and yes, there is a song. I need help with traveling there.”
“Pfff, you’re doing just fine if you’re managing to dream travel at all while living in this festering excuse for a kingdom.”
Elysia frowned. She looked at all the dried flowers and herbs, muted but still beautiful, wishing she was trying to go somewhere that could actually grow something for once. “Okay, I need help staying there. I want to stay and explore. I need to find your god and speak with him.”
The meela made impatient noises. “So do it then. Stay, wander, talk to whomever you wish while you're there.”
Jessa butted in. “She never makes it more than a few steps and she’s waking up. Same thing happens every time.”
Her eyes became unfocused as she considered the problem. “This soil curses you all. But yes, we can fix this. You’ll be right as rain.”
Elysia felt her shoulders relax. She tossed Jessa a grin—finally, progress.
The grandmother began to sing an unfamiliar song to herself. While Kava itself was godless, Elysia wasn’t completely uncultured, and she thought it might have been a hymn. Both women watched as the meela set to work chaotically tearing, ripping, and crumbling plants into an oversized glass jar. Her short body moved to and fro within the small caravan, her cane tapping and smacking as she went. Jessa and Elysia once again became a mess of limbs and elbows, trying to dodge both the old woman, her cane, and the plants.
Jessa’s shoulder rammed into one of the plant-covered walls, and she was rewarded with a hard swat to the rear from the meela’s cane.
“Watch the merchandise, girl! Practically gold in this land.” The meela tutted and raised her cane warningly before returning to her work.
Elysia bit back a laugh, her shoulders shaking at the sight of Jessa silently fuming, nostrils flaring. “You can’t beat up a grandmother, Jessa.”
Jessa shot her a look that said otherwise.
Unlabeled liquids were grabbed from the small wooden cupboards. Measuring with the reckless precision of someone who has been practicing for damn near a century, the meela slopped what smelled like alcohol into the jar until it covered the plants. Elysia watched in fascination as the grandmother eyed the mix of herbs, flowers, and liquid. She grumbled to herself before tossing in a few more pinches of plant dust. As far as Elysia could tell, the concoction hadn’t changed, but the woman seemed satisfied now. Screwing on a tight lid over the top of a black cloth, she shoved the jar at Elysia.
“You must wait at least a month. Take no more than a thimble at one time. Have this one”—she jerked her head at Jessa—“watch over you as you travel.”
Elysia stared into the jar, the liquid already turning a murky purple-brown. She gave it a little shake, watching all the petals and leaves and twigs swirl before settling once more. She was going to be able to follow the song. That haunting, enchanting song she was half convinced was designed to lure her to her death.
“How long will a thimble give me?”
The meela shrugged, tapping a long fingernail on the jar’s lid. “Eh, hard to say. Your magic is crippled, but not lacking.”
“You have no idea how much time this will grant me?”
The woman hemmed. “Ah, well, you know how it is with these things.”
Elysia’s face flattened. “No, no, I don’t.”
“The tincture will simply smooth out all those pesky gnarled bits of your magic.” Her face brightened. “Like ripping the brakes off a carriage.”
With those words, a new fear took root within Elysia. “If the brakes are gone, then how do I come back? I do need to come back.” She looked down at the jar in her hands. This lady is going to get me killed.
The meela’s shrug was a little more infuriating this time. “Magic is like breathing, but how am I to say? This land has turned you all inside out.” She gave them her back, apparently done with the conversation, and began cleaning up the remnants of herbs covering the floor.
Elysia caught Jessa’s eye, who looked back at her with an equally frustrated expression. Like it wasn’t dangerous enough to seek out a god . She could practically hear Rollie squawking away at her, telling her what a blazing idiot she was for this.
Tucking what sounded an awful lot like it might just be a party drug gone wrong beneath her cloak, she turned back to the meela.
“Meela, how can I pay you for this?”
She pulled a handful of coins out of her pocket. It wasn’t much, but it was what she had leftover from last month’s rent.
The old woman fussed with Elysia’s cloak and touched her cheek, suddenly sweet instead of a wizened terror. “There shall be no price. I do this as a gift to my god and the women who raised me.”