chapter seventeen
IT’S BELLS LATER WHEN SENIIA and I make our way through the winding roads of Caelen. Vilder is occupied with the evening service all Accepted have to suffer in turn, but Seniia—whom I’ve barely seen the past week—has the evening off.
“So, how is it to be an Accepted?” I say.
“I can’t really describe it...” She brushes the silk of her midnight-blue robe. “It feels... right.” She nods to herself. “Yes, it feelsright. Like I’ve come home.”
There’s a pang in my chest at the mention of feeling home somewhere. The closest I’ve come to feeling home anywhere is in my dreams with Aster, which only intensifies the hollowness of my waking existence.
“I’d like to stop by the healer’s store,” Seniia says as we enter the main square of the city.
I nod. “Sure.” I trail after her as she enters the shop on the corner of the street with a sign readingBriah’s Apothecaryabove the door. As I turn to close the door, a tall moving shadow across the street catchesmy eye. A chill shoots down my spine, freezing me in place. My hand instinctively grabs the hilt of my dagger, but before I’ve had time to unsheathe it, the blond male from the ceremony this morning emerges from the shadows. A wave of relief washes over me, and my shoulders drop. The lingering thought of another umbra keeps my heart pounding. Has the minister found out about the one I killed yet? Giving the door a firm push shut, I turn to Seniia.
“It’s amazing what they sell here.” Seniia’s eyes glow with excitement. “Caelen has the most potent potions and salves in all of Rea. Better than Althëa, even, which is the city with the most healers in Rea.”
My gaze travels up and down the shelves of the apothecary, lined with countless potions and tinctures. Some glow with an iridescent luminescence, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. High on one of the top shelves, a row of peculiar jars catches my attention. Inside, contained within the glass, are what appear to be spheres of dark matter, each pulsating slowly with a faint internal light—like dimly lit black hearts beating with a rhythm of their own. I tear my eyes away from their hypnotic allure and walk over to Seniia, my attention drawn to her precise movements. She uses a long, delicate glass pipette to carefully extract five drops of liquid from one of the seven cauldrons bubbling over the crackling fire. She adds the drops to a small brown glass bottle, then adds two more drops from a second cauldron, this one containing a vibrant blue liquid. Finally, she measures out ten drops of a rich red liquid that emits a surprisingly sweet, syrupy aroma.
“It’s all about the way they are mixed,” she says. “With these seven bases, it is possible to create an infinite variety of healing potions, tinctures, elixirs, infusions, salves, lotions... It’s amazing.” She beams with excitement.
“But if you can heal with your magic, why do you need this?” I gesture around at the many jars lining the walls.
“Because it’s infused with elen,” she says. “And here in Caelen, some of thestrongest C’elen to ever have lived have contributed to the creation of the strongest healing remedies on Rea. Besides”—she lifts a finger into the air—“I cannot heal myself. But a tincture can.”
After adding a final drop of green liquid, she tightly seals her bottle with a cork stopper. “It is possible to make potions and salves so strong that no hands-on healer is needed.” She hesitates for a moment. “Would you like me to find a salve for your scars? I know something that can make them disappear, like they were never even there.”
I consider it but quickly decide against it. I need those reminders: That evil still exists in this world. To not let my guard down. But most of all, the reminder that I’m a survivor.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I can tell from the look in her eyes that she understands.
Seniia walks over to speak with the attendee of the store, then turns toward me. “You all right waiting here by yourself for a moment?”
I nod, and she disappears with the attendee through a door in the back.
Strolling around the store, I study the many jars and read their labels, but most of them contain ingredients I’ve never heard of. I stop by the floor-to-ceiling mirror lining the wall at the end of the shelf, taking myself in. My cheeks have more color to them now, and I don’t look as malnourished anymore. Still, I’ll never be likethem. Vibrant. Strong. Otherworldly. I will neverreallyfit in. Not here and not with the humans. I’m a misfit.
Stop complaining,Laïna, I chide myself.You have food, shelter. More freedom than you could ever have dreamed of.
Then why do I still feel so... off? I shake my body the way I’ve seen Seniia and Vilder do, but the hollowness still sticks. Chewing on my bottom lip, I stare at the pulsating black matter.Whatarethose things?Noticing a stepping stool by the wall, I bring it with me to get a better view. I reach toward one of the jars.
“I advise you to stay away from that.”
My hand drops as footsteps cross the floor behind me. I peer over my shoulder from the top of the stool. A mature Rean female with long pale lavender hair divided into a thousand small braids, each one secured with a small white pearl, stands behind me. I frown. From my vantage point on top of the stool, I can see both the entrance and the door Seniia went through, making me wonder where she came from.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Death,” she says, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
My stomach tightens.Death. I glance back at the jars, suddenly aware of how close I’m standing. Still . . . my gaze lingers. There’s something mesmerizing in the way the black matter swirls and pulsates.
The lady clears her throat.
I tear my gaze away and step back down, turning to face her.
Before I’ve had time to blink, she takes my chin in a firm grasp. It’s impossible to see the pupils in her black eyes. Leaning back an inch, she narrows her dark eyes to slits as she studies me intently. “You are fractured.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Fractured?” I try to pull out of her grasp, but she’s holding on tight.
She turns my head this way and that, examining me like goods at a market. “Maybe ‘fractured’ is the wrong word,” she says after an eternity of scrutiny. “More like something is...missing.”
