“He needs a healer.” It’s all I can think to say.
Her brow drops, and she looks at me as if I’ve just said the single most ridiculous thing on Terr. Of course, she is already well aware that the sprite is injured. After all, I boarded the ship after she’d already departed it. One of the general’s cloaked companions. No doubt her brother is nearby.
“What did you say to him?” she asks, the heat of her voice matching the aggravated step she takes toward me.
When the sprite begins to growl, pinning her with a threatening stare of his own, her brow dips at the fea and she stills. I don’t have time to be impressed with him before the general glides down the stairs behind her, his feet landing firmly in front of me, Riesh in tow.
Riesh’s eyes bulge when he sees the sprite in my arms. I try not to wince, try not to think about the many ways I’ve exposed myself.
“Put him down, Shivaria,” Awri cautions me, “He’s already attacked two members of the crew.”
Despite what I expect, the general doesn’t demand that I unhand the fearful sprite as his friend had, he doesn’t tear into me, doesn’t demand answers. I think I might prefer anything but the contemplative stare on his placid features as he takes in the scene before him. I can’t help it when my feet shift beneath me. I disguise the uneasy fidgeting by readjusting the sprite at my hip.
The general puts his hand up, silencing any further protests or demands made by his friends.
“There is a cart by the road. Take him there,” he says.
I might balk at the order if I wasn’t so eager to get off the ship and away from what I’m certain will be an inquisition. I don’t let myself ponder the outcome of this evening when I slide between the males, make my way topside, and begin toward the cart.
Though I can’t distinguish the words, the angry clip of Awri’s tone skips across the stone streets after me. Her companions’ tones are much lower and mercifully more level.
I don’t linger and attempt to overhear the conversation. I don’t need to. I’ve raised a disturbing number of questions among them and shaken the foundation of the woman I portray. They will never see me the same way again. How can they?
The driver doesn’t move from the front of the cart when I approach the thick four-walled wooden box and swing open the door fixed to the back. My breath catches in my throat when I take in the cargo. Fea. Many of them.
Boggles and pixies, even a satyr stares back at me. Others have names I do not recall, though I saw them all among Awri’s drawings. The satyr closest to the door cradles his arm, a small bloody wound near his wrist. By the way he withdraws from the sprite, I can only assume the male on my side is at fault for the injury.
I debate the complexities of leaving the sprite in the cart, as the general ordered. Then consider the repercussions of ignoring the order and taking him to the sisters. I begin to peel the sprite off my hip, my obedience to the general the only sure way out of this. A simple claim of ignorance and unrestrained curiosity when I followed them to the docks. And the use of the sprite tongue?
I will think of something.
The male keeps a firm grip on my arm, hooking his legs around my waist when he waggles the flower at me, repeating the foreign phrase. There is no time to consider the consequences when I sigh, closing the doors of the box cart, and take the sprite to my horse.
The ride back is much slower with the wounded fea cradled between my legs. I do my best not to jostle the sprite beneath my cloak, conscious that every moment I delay there is a greater risk of being overcome by anyone tempted to pursue me. There is no lie I can tell myself to stifle theever-growing pit that begins to form in my stomach. I will answer for this.
The guards don’t stop me when I ride through the thick granite gates, though both look at me curiously. It’s too early for them to have rotated shifts and I’m sure they are wondering how it is that I am returning when they never saw me leave.
Thankfully, the sprite seems content to remain tucked away as I dismount, handing the reins to a young stable hand. Making my way through the quiet corridors, I hurry back to my room. It’s still early, and I can only hope the sisters are waiting for me. If not, I’ll need to consider taking the male to Felias.
I puff out a breath of sheer relief when the moment I enter my room, the sisters’ breathy whispers land on my ears. Their joyful laughter spills from the washroom, and the male sniffs the air before wriggling down from my side. He takes a number of painful, cautious steps in their direction, speaking into the night, his words lost to me.
A silence falls, a thick tension blanketing the air. Tig and Eon rush to the doorway, eyes as wide as I’m sure mine were when I first gazed upon him. Tig’s eyes flick to me curiously and I open my mouth to explain the events of the evening.
“Mah’nai,” Eon practically squeals as she rushes to him.
Tig’s eyes continue to grow, her head whipping toward her sister who tackles the strange sprite to the ground in a fit of giggles. He embraces her with his working arm, peppering her cheeks with kisses.
“What does it mean?” I wonder aloud.
There is a glassy sheen over her eyes when Tig turns to me, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips when she answers, “My mate.”
“How?” I whisper.
A beautiful chuckle breaks from her throat as she watches her sister in the arms of her mate, a tear falling down her cheek.
“Voh,” she replies simply.
Fate.
