Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet (3 page)

“And how did you get in, hm?” I ask, glancing at the closed window in the back room where I bake. I pinch a piece of dough between my fingers and crouch to offer it to the bug, but it’s disinterested and hurries for the crack between the bottom cabinets and the floor.

I press a hand to the floor in front of it. It studies me with its antennae for a moment before veering away, so I cage it between my fingers and hustle to the front door, which I open with my shoulder. A man on horseback rides down the lane, but as soon as he’s passed, I jog across the dirt road toward the canal. I step across the short bridge and into the small wooded area that separates the village center from the farmlands.

I kneel and open my hands. The roach scampers away from the salt of my skin, antennae twitching as it disappears between the long strands of grass.

It’s when I stand that I see him ahead of me, hovering in the grove of trees. Their leaves filter the sunlight into wide beams, but the bands of light pass right through him, as though he were nothing more than a shadow.

That strange sensation returns, quickening my heart, prickling my fingers.

Blinking to ensure I
do
see him, I step forward, careful to avoid the roach’s path. He has a man’s shape, yes, but strange wings stem from above either elbow. Narrower than a bird’s, they seem to be shaped from sunlit water rather than feathers. He hovers a few feet above the ground, yet the wings don’t flap, nor do they look large enough to support him.

His clothing is of a strange cut and almost entirely white—white lapels, white sleeves, white slacks and shoes. His hair is white, and his skin is quite pale as well. And yet—yes—he
is
translucent. The light passes through him, and I see a vague outline of the other side of the grove beyond his form. My breath catches. What sort of ethereal creature is this, haunting these sparse woods in the full light of day?

A sudden coolness runs through my limbs and pinches my throat. I take a step back. I didn’t think I made a sound, but he notices me then, and his eyes—I can’t describe his eyes. They are a color I have never before seen. I can only say they are pale like the rest of him.

Those eyes droop for half a breath before growing wide and round. He zooms forward so quickly I lose sight of him. I stumble back from the woods’ edge, my heart in my throat as he appears before me, his face close to mine. His hands jut forward as though to grab my shoulders, but he is as ephemeral as a specter, and they pass right through me.

“Your name!” he shouts, breathless. “Your name, tell me your name!”

I reach out to grasp something—anything that can steady me—but my hands meet only empty air. I trip over myself and drop to one knee.

“Please!” he cries.

I stare into those eyes, those strange eyes, and slowly rise. “I-It’s Maire,” I croak.

The ghost leans away. His eyes roll back as he closes them, and a breath I cannot feel escapes his chest. “You have not forgotten,” he says, his voice smooth and . . . I’m not sure. He doesn’t have an identifiable accent, but his voice is
different
nonetheless. “Thank the gods. There is still time.”

“Forgotten?” I repeat, and the yawning gap in my mind swallows me, freezing the blood in my skin even though my belly burns hotter than an oven. “You know my name? You know who I am?”

Before he can reply—before I can ask more—a blast of shrieking birds and breaking branches assaults my ears. I hesitate to break away from this man-spirit, from his strange words and the twisting sensation they incite in me, but the cries are sudden and coarse, dangerous. I sprint back toward the bridge and look out over the woodlands. An enormous murder of crows rises into the sky, raining leaves and feathers all about them, cawing and clawing at the blue.

The ethereal creature turns and peers west, but not at the crows. A frown twists his lips, and his hands form hard fists at his sides. He says something that sounds like a curse in tone, but I can’t pick out its phonetics.

“What?” I ask, my now-cold fingers clutching for my chest, though I’m not sure from where my heart is beating.

He looks at me, sorrowful, but with a hardness to his pale lips and eyes. He is more difficult to see now, as though he’s become more of a mirage than a spirit. “I cannot save you from this.”

I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

He says only one word before fading into the ether: “
Run
.”

CHAPTER 2

The crows fly overhead, turning into dark, fleeing specks. I rush forward to the space the ghost had filled and pass my hand through it. I feel nothing.

“Wait!” I cry, but no trace of him remains.

The heavy chimes of shrine bells ring, pulsing through my torso like a second heartbeat. I hold my breath.

Then I hear the screams.

My heart leaps into my throat as I run back over the bridge and to the lane, peering west. The mercantile is that way. Arrice. I sprint down the road, moving between the ruts made by wagon wheels. A few of the men in our small militia run from houses and storefronts half-armed. Beyond them a cloud of red dust grows as a storm, bolstered by the thunder of hundreds of horse hooves. People run before it, flying into buildings, falling to the ground.

My hands and face turn cold. Marauders. Bandits in Carmine.

I heed the ghost and run back for my shop.

The marauders ride horses. They pour into the village like water into sand, penetrating it from all angles. Their mounts are all colors and sizes, but every rider looks the same—dark clothed and bareheaded, black sashes tied over their noses and mouths. One of them gallops faster than the rest until he is nearly beside me. He draws a rusted sword from a sheath strapped to his saddle.

I gasp and trip over my own heels, but the earth
rises
to meet me as I fall. My palms slam into the packed red soil, which surges up like an ocean wave, rolling until the soil can no longer hold its shape. I fall with the dust and topple to the side of the street, dirt raining over me. Pebbles bite my hot skin, and I cough, desperate for air, and scrabble to my feet. My mind is gone. There is only heat and heartbeat and perspiration burning my eyes, and the thundering of hooves from every direction, echoing off buildings and trees and my chest. The rolling ground has blocked me from the first marauder, but more come, the thunder of their charge ringing in my ears.

I pick myself up and run, run, run until I reach the shop. I throw myself inside and slam the door. Race for a sack of flour and a cistern to barricade it, though I know it’s barely anything in terms of protection. My hands shake as I shove them into place. Fire licks my throat.

I flee to the back of the small space. There is no back door, only my countertop, stove, cabinets, and the window. I see brown-clad marauders through the pane, and their silhouettes sear the backs of my eyelids.

The air is too thick. The oven churns it hot. I can’t breathe.

The glass at the front of the shop shatters. I cry out. My body shudders as I drop to the cupboards beneath the counter and fling them open, pulling out pans and bowls until there is a space large enough for me to fit inside. I crawl into the opening and shut the door as best as I can. Shaking arms pull my knees to my chest, and tears soak my trousers. Another window breaks, and every shard of falling glass echoes on the underside of my skin. Sweat slicks my short hair to my face as someone’s fists pound at the door. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. Can’t breathe, yet maybe that’s for the best. I can’t scream if I can’t breathe.

I hear them inside my shop, overturning goods, talking to one another in harsh, clipped words. There are cries outside my windows. The scent of burning cake seeps into the cracks around the cupboard doors. I do not move from my space; I
cannot
move from my space. Not even when the marauders leave. Not even when they return hours later, ransacking whatever goods they haven’t already destroyed. They pillage my shelves, then open every cupboard until they find mine.

A man twice my size seizes my arm and drags me into the street. I fight him, screaming and raking my nails over his skin. He hits me with something—the hilt of a knife, perhaps—and my vision seesaws. He drags me to the village square, half by my elbow, half by my hair, tearing my trousers over rock and road the whole way. I try to wrestle away, but it rips hair from my scalp, and I see his sword in my face, feel its blade against the side of my nose. Fresh corpses litter porches and alleyways, militia and not. My stomach clenches, and bile burns up to my tongue and back down again. My vision grays and clears, grays and clears.

The marauder releases me in a cluster of other townsfolk just off center of the town square. I count them, desperate to identify familiar faces. None of them is Arrice’s. None of them is Franc’s. We total a baker’s dozen.

Four marauders, black from the bridge of their noses to their feet, surround us. They bear blades of different sizes and makes. One has a short spear fastened to his back, and another has a round weapon I’ve never before beheld on his belt. Somewhere behind me, a man screams a high, wet sound. I shut my eyes and cover my ears with my hands.
Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.

I know who it is, though, because the woman beside me screams and leaps to her feet, widemouthed, running to her beloved. I know she has no brothers, only a husband. The marauder with the spear strikes her down, and only my own tears save me from the full brunt of the murder. I bite down on my own scream, not wanting my blood to mingle with hers. Not wanting these men to kick me out of the way as though I were a broken doll, the way they do to her.

Three more marauders approach our huddle as the sun begins to set, throwing two more men into our ranks. Both look close to me in age. Of all of us, Barre—the man who runs the smithy near my shop—is the oldest at thirty-five. The youngest is—

The thought flees as I recognize the bloody face of one of the men and gasp. “Tuck!” I whisper, hoarse.

The spear-carrying marauder turns toward me, and I huddle down, hiding my face in my hands, waiting for a blow. I don’t hear it. Smoke wafts into my nostrils as the guards light torches. I lift my head to see Cleric Tuck lying on his back near me, his eyes closed, blood from his nose streaking his chin and cheeks.

I hold my breath, searching for his. Cry tears of relief when I see his chest rise and fall.

“Cleric Tuck,” I whisper, so quietly even I can barely hear it. I eye the two guards nearest me and inch forward on my knees, swallowing. I reach out a hand and touch his black hair. “Tuck.”

He groans. His eyelids flutter, but when he looks at his surroundings, there’s no recognition in his gaze.

Two rough, peachy-toned hands grab my shoulders and haul me back. A scream dies in my throat, and I kick out as the grip tugs me away from the group. I drop down to my knees, and a third hand shoves my head forward while a fourth and fifth tie fraying rope around my wrists, pinning them to the small of my back. The hand on my head shoves me onto my side, cracking my head on the cobblestone of the square, and two of the marauders go back to the circle for Barre. The blacksmith is larger than both of them but doesn’t struggle when they bind him. He doesn’t want to die, either.

Strellis, anyone, help us
, I pray, closing my eyes and thinking against the throbbing in my skull. My prayer feels weak and heavy, like it hits a glass wall not far above my beaten form.

They tie Cleric Tuck last. I keep my head down but peer through my hair to watch him. He’s conscious, but he’s been bloodied up more than most of us. The other marauders circle us like vultures, weapons drawn. They mumble to each other, pointing at one person or another. Cleric Tuck raises his head and meets my eyes, then looks away.

The men don’t sleep, if they’re even men at all. I don’t rest, either, though when dawn nears and more of the bandits arrive in Carmine, bearing with them loot and iron cuffs, I wish I had. They loose our ropes and cuff our wrists and ankles together, then bind us to their horses. I’m tied to a saddle with two other women. One is a farmer’s daughter, the other the governor’s wife. Cleric Tuck is fastened to one of the larger horses with Barre. He glances around, the blood on his face dried and sticky. He meets my eyes. There are words in his gaze, but I don’t understand them, and the warhorse stalks away, dragging Cleric Tuck with it.

The thieves do not speak to us, do not comment on the tears streaming down my face. Another woman tied to a different horse begins to wail. They do not kill her, but they beat her. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the shackles around my wrists make it impossible to cover my ears. With each heavy, fleshy thump, with each startled cry, I think,
Stop, stop, stop
, but they don’t, and I’m too much of a coward to voice the plea.

A bandit mounts the horse I’m tied to and kicks it into a pace I can barely maintain. The governor’s wife stumbles more than once. I try to offer my elbow, but she can’t get ahold of it. Not with the cuffs.

As we move, I glance about desperately, forcing myself to examine the corpses we pass, trying to peer into dark windows to see if any surviving eyes peer back at me, and there are a few. None match Arrice and Franc. I should be glad for it, at least as far as the dead go.

I glance back toward the stretch of woodland, where the white spirit told me to run. I pray to the gods for Arrice and Franc, then am forced to face forward or risk being dragged.

I know these men will not stop long enough for me to find my feet again.

The marauders move quickly despite the protest of the horses and their tethered load. The iron cuffs about my wrists dig into the base of my hands when my feet grow too heavy to keep pace, marking dark crescents of blood and blister. I’ve found that if I keep my tears silent and my moans quieter than the steps of the horses, my newfound captors don’t pay attention to me. I can’t always keep Cleric Tuck in view—his horse tends to lead the group, and the marauders are many—but he seems to have learned the trick as well. When I do spy him, I don’t see any new bruises or cuts along his body, minus the marks left by the cuffs. He hasn’t been beaten a second time . . . yet.

I wonder if the shrine on the outskirts of Carmine was one of the first buildings to face the attack, like the farms and my shop. If its stone walls weren’t sturdy enough to keep the bandits out. I wonder if Cleric Tuck was overpowered in a fight, or if he hid from them as I did. He wouldn’t be this bloodied had he merely surrendered.

I stumble again, hiss as the cuffs dig into the raw stripes of my wrists, and force my knees up. This is why the bandits only take those strong in body, I realize. Others, like Arrice, would never survive this trek. They wouldn’t be sellable.

My stomach sinks into my pelvis, and despite my thirst, new tears spring to my eyes. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before, but we’re to be made slaves. If I’m forced into slavery—if my freedom is forfeit—I’ll never be able to search for
them
. My missing family. My heritage. My self. I’ve searched for four years without finding so much as a clue, but if these bandits keep me in chains, I will
never
find one.

Except
, I think,
the ghost.

He knows my name. How? Who is he? He is insubstantial—a spirit, a specter, a shade—but perhaps I knew him before he died. I try to picture his face, his odd-colored eyes. Try to
remember
, but the vacant expanse beneath my skull only grows darker, and all thought disappears when the cuffs dig into my flesh once more.

I watch the peach-skinned marauders as we travel; they’re easier to behold than the other captives. They fidget constantly. They look over their shoulders and demand silence from us. My shoulders bear two stripes already for trying to reason with my captor. The farmer’s daughter who is tied behind me said the first stripe was for speaking, the second for sounding too much like a real person. She herself bears three stripes across her back and one down the center of her face.

When we finally stop, I pray that the marauder guiding me will situate his camp near Cleric Tuck, but he settles far away, leaving several campfires between us.

I don’t sleep the first night, despite my weariness. I hear the cries of women, many of whom I recognize, toward the center of camp. Cries of desperation muffled by grappling hands. Only women. I curl up beside the horse and pray for them not to take me next. I don’t know why, but the earth softens beneath me until I’m lying in a sort of trough: a cradle of soil and rock that keeps me half-hidden from the vile world around me. This is the second time the ground beneath me behaved as if alive, and I know with assurance that it has been no doing of mine.