The boy’s eyes flickered with hunger.
“This is not a life,” I said. “It is cushioned imprisonment.”
“Please.” Desperation crackled in the air alongside the static of barely restrained magic.
“I have a task I must fulfill.” I turned back to the mare and mounted.
The boy stood on wobbling legs, then fell once more. The mare stepped in place, clearly sensing the charge in the air as well. Despite her unsettled state, she didn’t spook or flee to the stables. I found myself surprised by her courage—or foolishness. The boy looked up at me from his hands and knees, the colors of his eyes shifting, his chest heaving.
A knot formed in my throat to see him struggling, fighting to control the magic that swirled within him. Though he and I were not the same, I empathized with his pain. He had not asked for this life. A quick death when he first showed signs would have been more a gift than what the Queen offered—the false hope for a life impossible to sustain forever. She had to see that. Even before I left. What was such a life truly worth when it came with the expectation of fulfilling any task, delivering any message, without question? When rebellion or the slip of control led to repercussions, led to her thrice-cursedlessons?
“Your hand.” I held my own out to the child, and he quivered at my closeness, teeth rolling his bottom lip. “Do not make me regret this,” I warned on a snarl.
His eyes flickered again, and he pushed himself to his feet and took my hand. Effortlessly, I pulled him to sit in front of me. The child was light, perhaps lighter than a boy his age should be. Whether that was due to this stress on his body from not feeding for so long and his fight to suppress his magic, or simply a lack of nutrition, I was uncertain.
As the charge grew, the mare stepped in place again, her ears pinning back.
Drawing my borrowed sword somewhat awkwardly with the boy in front of me, I held it before us a moment. To slice his throat, to release him from this life, would in truth be a kindness. I could free him from his inevitable suffering should Astraea learn he’d failed in his task to deliver me to her. Yet as he trembled in my grasp, my heart betrayed me. Cursing, I used the sword to create a shallow slit on the inside of my arm. Not at the wrist, for even with my hastened healing, I could not expect the child to restrain himself in this state. A slower, more controlled bleed was safer.
The body in my arms jerked, but I restrained him long enough to sheathe my blade. That done, I released my hold on him, and he took my left arm greedily with both hands, drawing the wound to his lips.
Cool ice spanned from his clasp through my body, but I resisted the shudder. The boy’s thirst was desperate, lacking any semblance of control he previously showed. I could not fault him for that, though.
“Easy,” I said, and the pull lessened, if only slightly.
The static in the air settled, and the mare settled, though her ears remained back.
While the boy fed on my blood, I watched the road, assuring no one was coming. The fire still held the attention of those in the field, and we were far enough from the fray that should anyone glance in our direction, they would suspect nothing out of place.
Thoughts of the old man, Evera’s mentor, came to me. Though he knew much about me that I did not know about myself, I did not believe he knew the full extent of my blood’s capabilities. It was an ancient and well-kept secret that the Alidian fed on us, that the blood of the gods sated them, gave them control over their magic.
Witches, blood drainers, the soulless.The Alidian had several names, or condemnations—slurs cast as a way to conceal the insecurities of those who feared them or didn’t understand them. It was ironic, for the blood of the general public held no value to the Alidian
Tales were told around hearths of a time when corpses were found in the streets, drained of their blood. The bodies of my kind. Though that part of the story had been either forgotten to time or never known by those who were not a part of the fragile system to begin with.
The boy in my lap settled, his muscles relaxing, his eager draining settling into the sleepy tug of a babe close to dozing off. The mare, too, had settled.
Why was it that people presumed only women could be Alidian, could be witches? Was it only because male Alidian were so uncommon? In all my years, I’d come across many females in the streets of the capital. Once every fortnight or two, a girl would lose control, and guards or soldiers would be sent to handle the situation. To put an end to the threat.
Calix’s lips broke from my arm, and he mumbled incoherently, his head swaying. There was no use musing on such things. It did not matter what was true, only what people perceived as the truth. Still, it pulled the corners of my lips down. Evera suffered from such rumors when she had done nothing wrong, when she had no connection to the Alidian and wanted only to practice her trade, her skills, and to aid others.
In my grasp, Calix swayed. The wait to feed had been too much for him, and now that he was sated, his body would need time to recover. Tightening my grip around him with my right arm so that when he fainted, he did not fall from the back of the mare, I examined the cut. It still bled, but not seriously enough to draw attention.
Clicking, I urged the mare down the hillside and to the path that would lead us back to the stables, unsure how to handle the new burden I bore. I knew the boy would not leave me to return to the Queen—that was nothing short of a death sentence for him. He was my responsibility now.
21
EVERA
The smokein the air enhanced the vibrancy of the sunset, painting the sky a deep blood-red hue. The sun, dipping near the horizon, appeared a blinding white beneath the black cloud of ash carrying west from the fields.
Though the day was warmer, the earth held a chill, and the bones in my fingers ached as I worked weeds from our garden. My pile was growing impressively, but there was still much work to be done. As there always was this time of year. Weeds to pull, dirt to till. The ground needed to be prepared before seeds could be planted.
Wiggling a particularly stubborn weed with fine, splintering hairs along its base, I cursed under my breath. It snapped at the root, and I stood, throwing its upper half to the pile. Cursing again, my eyes turned to the stable as they had several dozen times in the past hour.
I’d been crouched down, working, when Neirin had mounted Sorrel and taken her from the pasture. Though I suspected his use of her was related to the fire, it was still unacceptable.
With a hiss, I returned to my task. Scraping dirt aside with my fingers, I took hold of the stubborn root and yanked—only to hear the sickening snap as the stem broke in my hand again.
