Chapter 2
T he library, although small, makes the most of its space. Books pile high on every surface, including most of the floor. The air is laden with the pleasant musk of paper and ink. People rarely visit anymore, and when I arrive, only my aunt sits in the corner.
She rests on a small stool, her back against the wall and her legs propped up on a low shelf. One of her legs, made of smooth, polished wood and decorated with intricate purple patterns, pokes out from beneath her skirt. She jumps when I enter but relaxes when she sees me, sagging back against the wall.
“Oh. It is only you, Shivani,” she breaths, hand on her chest. “You frightened me.”
“Apologies, Auntie.” I smile sheepishly. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
She closes her book and waves a hand dismissively.
“Nonsense. You know full well you are welcome here anytime.” Her eyes glance over me. “What is it?”
“What is what?”
“Do not play the fool with me, child,” she says, standing and dusting herself down. “Not that good-for-nothing father of yours, is it?”
The question is rhetorical. It is always my good-for-nothing father. I sigh heavily and sit down, placing my book on another stack of books.
“He has gambled my savings,” I say miserably. Anger bubbles beneath the surface of my skin. “The fee I need for Frostalm House of Learning…it is gone.”
Aunt Meena sits back, her eyebrows knitted together.
“Oh, Shivani…” She reaches across to place a warm hand on my arm. “An absolute wastrel, that man is. A wastrel and a fiend.”
Fury and sadness rise to the fore of my mind as hot, angry tears spill. My ophid thrums.
“I…I do not know what to do,” I say, and my voice breaks.
Aunt Meena sits quietly with me until the tears dry, her arm around my shoulders. She smells of books and spiced tea. I inhale deeply, finding comfort in the familiarity.
“You will keep studying,” she says when my breathing slows again. “You are far too smart to stay here with your rock of a father weighing you down. And…” She trails off but the unspoken wo rds hang in the air, dangling like a noose. Mossgarde is a village that eats women. Without a job or resources, acceptance into a House of Learning far away is my only means of escape.
Frostalm is known as the Roaming City, a beacon of ingenuity and riches, a civilisation built on the largest ship in the realm. Sirens do not take kindly to the implication the ship is enchanted – it is their greatest feat of engineering, in fact. Frostalm traverses the Three Great Oceans and only truly docks once every five years, at Saltrock Bay. Otherwise, visitors and traders must wait for them to arrive near one of the larger ports and ride a small boat out. If I impress during my exams, they will pay for my travel, my boat, and even house me in the student’s quarters.
“But…the fee. They will not accept me, no matter my score, if I cannot pay the entrance fee.”
“Fret not.” Aunt Meena smiles and tilts my chin up with one finger. “The Bazaar is in a few days and the merchants are due to arrive before then. I am sure I have some valuable texts around here.”
“Your books?” I blink at her. “You cannot part with those!”
“I certainly can. Now dry your tears and let us continue with your studies.” Aunt Meena’s eyes have that familiar steel in them. “Or will you succumb to pity? ”
I sniff and take a deep, ragged breath.
“What…” I feel another sob coming and falter, inhaling a fortifying breath. “What are we looking at today?”
Aunt Meena smiles at me and gives my shoulder an encouraging squeeze.
“Today, we are reading about dragons.” She stands and rifles through a pile of books behind her.
“Dragons? But we have covered so much of them,” I protest but search for some paper and ink regardless.
“Oh? Is there something else you would like to read about instead?”
“What about witches?” I grin at her. She gives me an unamused look.
“You have learned much about our kind,” she replies, pulling books out and putting them back again.
I glance at her wooden leg. She puts on a limp for show—the leg is enchanted. The beautiful lavender carvings are more than simple decoration. The wood moves as if it is her own limb, as it always has done, and it always will until Aunt Meena passes away or the wood is broken.
During my early studies, I once asked her why she did not enchant her other leg as well. She had laughed and told me witches cannot enchant living things. We have a great power over the inanimate, but even plants are immune to our au’mana. After learning this, I abandoned any attempts at enchanting my father and began focussing on my collection of lost items instead.
“I stripped the rust off a bucket today,” I tell her.
“A small thing for someone like you,” she replies, finding a shiny book and pulling it free. “Once you are in the House of Learning, you will have many projects to work on, much larger than a bucket.”
“Like a library?” I smirk. One of the reasons the library stands so sturdy is because Aunt Meena enchanted the building long ago. More accurately, she enchanted a single plank of wood in the wall, allowing the whole building to fall under her spell. Hold fast , she told it. And so it shall.
“Exactly right. Though I imagine Frostalm has libraries much grander than this.” She smiles and pulls out a second book. “Regardless, we have done plenty on witches for now.”
“Alright, well, please, no more dragons?”
“How about dragons and witches?” she offers, hauling the two huge books over to my table. “You will need to brush up on reading the two languages. I am certain Frostalm’s linguistic exam will have questions about them.”
“I can already read them both.” I roll my eyes but turn to the dragon book regardless. I run my hand over the cover.
Dragons do not often write their stories down as they prefer to tell their tales verbally or through patterns and drawings. And so the few books they have written are works of art. The paper is bound by two thick slabs of sandsnake leather and carved with large, ornate designs. One word in dragon text is embossed on the cover.
“History,” I read it aloud. Aunt Meena nods approvingly before pointing to the other book.
Witch books are plentiful as we enjoy reading and passing information in written language. As our strength lies in the inanimate, even our plainest books give off an ethereal purple glow, turning them into something beautiful. The scent of au’mana, like salt, supposedly lingers around it. I sniff the air to try and catch it, but all I smell are the books themselves. A sprawling title in witch tongue is written across the cover.
“A short history on the art of enchanting building materials for the use of homes and other construction,” I read.
“Very good,” Aunt Meena compliments. “Many people mistake the two languages as one, but once you see the differences between them, it becomes rather obvious which is which.”
“And which is witch.” I beam. She rolls her eyes but the corners of her mouth tug up, betraying a smile.
“Let us open the books and begin reading,” she says and I oblige, turning the cover of the dragon book first.
We read until the last of the sun filters through the trees and the moss crickets start their evening chirp. By the time I leave, my head is full and buzzing with knowledge—it is exhilarating and exhausting all at once. Moonlight seeps through the canopy in thin sheets, casting tiny silver pools across the dark wooden platforms. In the distance, the glow of the firebugs is stark against the gloom of the swamp as they dance hypnotically above the water. I fill my lungs, the air only slightly less stifling at night, and steel myself for what awaits me once I return home.
I cross the network of bridges without incident, keeping to the most well-lit paths. The public house is busy but the noise is muffled. The windows are alight, the yellow glow harsh against the purple lanterns outside. I briefly watch the silhouettes through the window, relieved to see there is no one loitering outside.
Just a few platforms away lies the deserted village square. I avert my eyes from the red-stained chopping block. When the first girl stepped up to volunteer, it was celebrated. The village square was decorated with moss garlands and delicate white flowers, and all our resources were pooled to create a huge feast. It had almost been a competition for the first girl to be allowed to volunteer. They lined up to show off their talents or their beauty or both. Everyone wanted their daughter to be the one who broke the curse.
But none of them did.
The king paid their families, as promised, but their daughters' heads were forfeit. An incentive, he had called it. And when no one volunteered, women were taken by force. I am told Mossgarde used to be a town, but now it is a village. A village full of angry whispers and growing dissent.
After eighteen years of greedy taxes and five years of dead women, Mossgarde refused the king’s call. Daughters, wives, sisters, friends—they were all hidden and defended when the guards came for them. They wielded what they could—kitchen knives or broken table legs—and said no . The guards were ready to rip a woman from them, no matter the bloodshed.
And then the king had stepped out.
It was the first time I had seen him in person. Imposing was the word which came to mind. Something like rage simmered beneath the surface of him, like a pot ready to boil over. But there was something else there, too. I could see it in the slight curl of his lip, the dismissiveness in his eyes. We were not people to him but prey. Something primal in my mind warned me I was in the presence of a predator wearing the face of a man.
He took his place on the elevated platform in the village square and waited for us to pay attention .
“Good people,” he called out. Flattering words but I could see the sneer beneath it, like a croca gliding under the still surface of swamp water. “I know how difficult it must be to part with your loved ones. I, too, must part with my son each time he turns into his beastly form. Cursed though he is, I love him dearly.”
There was not a word that fell from his lips that I believed.
“But he is larger than when you last saw him. He was a babe then but is quickly becoming a man. Stronger. More…violent.” The king’s voice turned sharp and low. “If no one volunteers to break his curse, he could become rampant. I dare say he could tear through this entire village.”
He waited for us to absorb this before continuing, a carefully placed pause.
“Do not forget I keep him locked in Mossgarde Castle for your safety. If he should get loose…well, it does not bear thinking about.”
I shudder at the memory. The cool, strategic way the king took back control of Mossgarde. Like a hand around our neck, allowing us an inch to breathe only to remind us that he could close his fist at any time. I walk briskly away from the village square. Away from the chopping block. Despite knowing my father is at home, I suddenly do not want to be outside alone.
I cross another bridge and then another, steeling myself for home.