If Priestess Sytrene hoped to muffle my curiosity,
her plan backfired.
Lessons pass slower than ever, leaving me with too much time
to think. While the other girls practice their magic—using it to clean ash from
the air after a wildfire, to help regrow trees burned to black stubs, to set
flames upon the underbrush to prevent another outbreak—Nymia and I walk
uselessly behind. The priestesses want us to learn about the careful balance of
Mother's world, how to maintain it, how to decide what to help live and what to
let die. Yet without my magic, I'm unbalanced. I can’t focus. Lectures go in
one ear and out the other, words lost to the wind. Without the physical power
to ground me, my mind wanders to the phoenix on an almost constant basis. But
just the phoenix. Nothing else.
Except, maybe Erick a little too…
When Priestess Ondyne leads us into the forest to teach us
the power of naturally grown medicinal herbs, all I can think about is the
healing power of phoenix tears.
When Priestess Meri leads us down the river on a boat, all
the way to where it opens to the sea so we can learn about the creatures
lurking underneath, all I see are blue eyes staring back at me from the waves.
When an injured centaur gallops into the sacred meadow,
pleading for our aid, I—well, okay. That part was actually pretty cool. But
after, when he agreed to teach us how to read the stars, I accidently fell
asleep on the grass. Nymia nudged me awake. I didn’t tell her that she'd
interrupted the most marvelous dream—one where the two of us used our magic to
set the phoenix free.
Maybe it's guilt.
Maybe it's intrigue.
Maybe it's just my mind, which always meanders in directions
it's not supposed to, at least according to the priestesses.
But I can't stop wondering what happened to that beautiful
crimson bird made of magic. Did they lock it up? Is it in a cage? Did it manage
to fly free? Is it in pain? Is it wondering why Nymia and I did nothing but
watch, when we're supposed to be guarding creatures like it? Isn't that what
our magic is for?
So, naturally, the first thing I do the second my magic
returns is flee to the cave and kneel over the still pond at the very back edge
to whisper one of my favorite spells—another that's strictly forbidden without
supervision, of course.
“Nachtinn eoscu ma mhoin.”
Water, reveal my wish.
The words tickle a little as they spill from my throat,
drenched in static power. The air beneath my outstretched palms begins to
glitter. I close my eyes, focusing on the phoenix, picturing its wings singeing
beneath sapphire flames, the deep ebony of its knowing eyes, the chick born
anew from the ashes. When I open my eyes, bright flashing colors flutter across
the surface of the pond. As I focus my thoughts, they slowly morph into a clear
picture—one of a tiny bird framed by iron bars. It's in a cage.
My heart sinks.
Using my mind's eye to see, I urge the picture to shift to a
wider view, revealing the entire scene. The priestesses use the scrying water
to teach us lessons about the outside world—about magical creatures from
faraway lands, about deserts and mountains and icy landscapes so different from
our home, and on very rare occasions, about the human world. We've seen dried
farmlands and looming castles, horses tied up, dogs held in chains, trees cut
to stubs, and people begging on the streets. Everything is always dark, always
dreary, so unnatural it makes me wince even as I'm lured closer. But I've never
seen anything quite like this—quite so cozy.
The room is heavy, with stone walls and thick fabrics, yet
made light somehow by the sun filtering through windows made of pastel glass.
Vibrant weaves and plush pillows cover the floor. They look softer even than
the bed of moss on which I sleep, and part of me yearns to rest my head upon
them. But I'm drawn most to the wooden shelves stretched across the entire
length of the room, filled with an almost staggering volume of items—a turtle
shell, fish bones, dried coral, various stones, and a bird that looks alive yet
is perfectly still. The man-made items are harder to place, bound things I believe
they call books, rolled-up papers I know are called scrolls, a large circle
painted in shades of greens and blues, and so many metal trinkets I can't
imagine what they all do. The largest is long and narrow, pointed out an open
window toward the sky. I'm reminded of my cave, in a way. Perhaps that's why
the sight makes me feel a little bit at home.
My gaze flicks back to the phoenix, dangling from the
ceiling in a gilded cage so small in a few weeks it won't be able to spread its
wings. Everything else in the collection is dead and cold—this vibrant bird
doesn't belong here.
"Got it!" a voice calls from somewhere outside the
frame.
I recognize it regardless and my heart lurches.
Erick.
The phoenix squawks, flapping its wings, which are little
more than fluff. Erick strides across the room, coming into my view as he
reaches for the cage, unlatches a little door, and offers the bird his hand.
The phoenix jumps onto his palm, chirping in a demanding way as Erick laughs
softly and pulls something else from his pocket—a wriggling worm. He sets both
on the carpet, watching with a slight smile on his lips. The serenity implodes
when the bloodhound runs into view, crashing into Erick and sending him to the
ground. When the dog leans down to sniff the phoenix, the little chick
screeches so adamantly a flame shoots through its beak, singeing his poor nose.
The hound howls.
Erick snorts.
I giggle.
"You deserved that," he mutters. "Come here,
boy."
Erick pats the spot by his side and the hound jaunts over,
then circles twice before lying down to rest his head on his owner's thigh. The
phoenix bounces over on unsteady claws, then jumps onto Erick's other knee. He
scratches one behind the ears and rubs the other along the spine.
"As soon as you can fly," he whispers, while his
gaze slips to the side toward something unseen. A frown passes over his lips.
"I'll get you out. I promise."
"Aerewyn!"
"What! What?" I jump about five feet in the air
and release the spell, turning to face Nymia. "I wasn't doing
anything."
"Oh, sure," she drawls, pointedly dropping her
gaze to the pond before lifting it back to me. "Because that's exactly how
someone who wasn't doing anything reacts."
I stick out my tongue.
"I left you alone for five minutes to ask Priestess
Ondyne for help on a healing elixir, and by the time I turned around, you were
gone. Please don't tell me you were doing what I think you were doing."
"What do you think I was doing?"
"Spying on that human in the scrying water."
"Well," I huff, crossing my arms. I hate it when
she's right. She's always right.
"I guess I won't tell you then."
"Aerewyn," she whines.
"Nymia," I whine right back.
She rubs her palms over her arms as though brushing goose
bumps away and sighs. "At least tell me next time? Okay? I hate not
knowing where you are, wondering if you're safe."
"I'm sorry. I will. I promise." I smile
hesitantly.
Nymia grins back, rolling her eyes. "So, what'd you
see?"
"The phoenix." I pause to take a deep breath, then
the rest comes spilling out. "And maybe that human boy, but it wasn't my
fault. I was watching the phoenix and he walked in. I didn't seek him out. I
didn’t go looking. He was just, sort of, there…" I trail off as the image
of his face infiltrates my thoughts, the way his black hair spilled over his
forehead, the slight dimple in his cheek when his lips lifted in a soft smile,
the loving glimmer in his eyes. "He seems kind."
"Kind?" Nymia's face twists at the suggestion.
"He's human."
"So? Why can't a human be kind?"
"Maybe to each other, but not to us, Aerewyn. It's not
their way."
I shrug, thinking of how he gently cupped the phoenix in his
palm. Maybe it's his way—but I don't say that, of course. Nymia wouldn’t
believe me anyway.
"Come on." She keeps talking over my silence.
"I came running because Priestess Sytrene was asking where you’d gone. I
didn’t want her to scry for you, in case you were here, so I told her I'd go
find you. If we're not back soon, she might wonder."
"We'd better go."
I groan and take her hand, then start to walk, but Nymia
stays still, rooted to the ground. Worry carves deep grooves into her forehead,
and there's something distant in her eyes—a charged hollowness I usually only
see in those few seconds before she's fully woken from a nightmare, when
reality hasn't quite cut through the terror. She blinks and meets my gaze, my
sister once more.
"You should forget him," she whispers.
"I know."
We don't say anything else. We just run out of the cave and
under the waterfall, letting the water pelt us as though it might be able to
hammer some sense back into our minds.
It doesn't.
I don't disappear on Nymia again, but I also don't stop my
spying. I can't. At first, I only focus on the phoenix, telling myself it’s the
bird I'm concerned with. I'm a faerie. I'm supposed to guard the Mother's
creations. I'm just doing my job. But soon, it's Erick's face that fills my
thoughts as I lean over the water with magic burning against my palms.
I watch him in that cozy room, lying on the pillows with a
book propped against his legs, rolling around the floor with his hound, gently
prodding the phoenix to learn to fly. They grow faster than normal birds, a
product of being solitary, without a mother or father to feed them when they're
chicks. It's not long before those red feathers lengthen and grow, not long
before it leaves a trail of smoke across the air, not long before one second of
flight becomes two then three then five. When Erick's father walks in to find
the phoenix zipping around the room, I watch with my fingers curled into fists
as he slaps his son across the face and throws the phoenix back inside its
cage. When the boy I'm guessing is his brother pokes a stick through the bars,
torturing the poor bird enough to elicit a few droplets of healing tears, I
yearn to dive through the waters and strike him. Erick tries to make him stop,
but two men in strange metal clothes hold him back, one grasping each arm.
Eventually, the phoenix gets moved to a different room, a place so dark I can
hardly make any details out in the scrying water, just the smoldering outline
of a bird suffering through captivity.
Erick doesn’t go to visit it anymore.
I wonder if he's not allowed.
Sometimes, when I search the scrying waters, he's in
different rooms—at a table with other humans eating food, in a cavernous stone
room that seems cold despite the golden chairs looming near the front, outside
on the grass with his hound, riding a horse through the city streets. One time
when I look he's swimming in a lake. My cheeks go red the moment he stands, and
I find myself admiring the way the water rolls down the rippled muscles of his
stomach, the way it makes his skin glisten in the sun, almost as though he were
a faerie. Thank the Mother Nymia walks in to shake me from the trance.
She knows what I'm doing, of course, but she doesn’t say
anything. She helps me sneak through the forests, helps cover my tracks. I
think she hopes I'll get him out of my system, but with each day, I yearn to
know more. To speak with him. To ask him questions about human life. To maybe
once hold his hand.
It’s crazy, I know.
That's what makes it fun.
I'm a good little faerie in all my lessons, listening to the
priestesses, practicing my magic, following all the rules. I'm not sure
Priestess Sytrene entirely trusts my sudden transformation, but she's been
distracted of late—all the priestesses have. We're not old enough to know
what's going on, though there are still whispers in the night, of attacks, of
humans testing the protection boundary, of magical creatures being hunted and
chased from their homes. It's nothing new, but it must be worse than usual to
have everyone so concerned. I'm not overly worried. We have magic, and the
humans don't. Against the power of the priests and priestesses, there's no
contest.
I may as well enjoy the extra freedom while I can.
"Are you sneaking out again tonight?" Nymia
whispers.
I roll onto my side, resting my cheek against the soft,
mossy pillow of my bed. Some faeries prefer to sleep in grass huts or muddy
dens, but I've always preferred the fresh air. I like to count the stars before
I sleep, wondering how many burning faerie souls Father safeguards in his
distant realm. I like to wake to the warm kiss of Mother's sun. Nymia and I
usually lie in the outskirts of the sacred meadow, where it's easier to whisper
without being overheard, easier to slip away too. "Why?"
"I feel a storm in the air," Nymia murmurs and
flicks her gaze to the sky. By the time her attention returns to me, her eyes
are bright with mischief.
I grin.
Stormy nights are my favorite, because they're Nymia's
favorite. She loves to run in the whipping winds, catch raindrops on her
tongue, and cast lightning across the sky. I love to watch. It's the only time
I sometimes think she might be just as wild as me.
"How soon?"
Nymia closes her eyes. Her glittering faerie skin glows
brighter, like a star dropped down to earth, as she reaches out with her power,
trying to taste the static in the air. Storm magic has always been her greatest
gift. I'm not terrible at it, but I usually feel the water, not the wind, so I
can't sense them until they're close. Right now, all I see are clear skies
still colored magenta by the setting sun.
"Another three hours," she says after she opens
her eyes. "Maybe four."
Everyone should be asleep by then. "Perfect."
Three and a half hours later, the first droplet falls.
I meet Nymia's expectant gaze, and we roll silently to our
feet. The pitter-patter covers our footsteps as we disappear into the forest.
Within minutes, it's a torrential downpour. I grab Nymia's hand as we race
around trees, laughing as our feet squelch in the mud. Our faerie clothes spun
of petals and leaves have a waxy coating that protects them in the rain, but
every other part of me is drenched. My hair sticks to me like a second skin.
There's something freeing, though, about dancing in a storm.
We stop by the riverbed, fling our arms wide, and spin,
shooting our magic into the air so the winds rush all around us. I jump in
puddles, splashing water high, then catching it with my power so it dips and
dives and swirls around us. Nymia shoots lightning from the sky. A few feet
away, sand explodes in a cloud of dust as the bolt strikes deep. I fall to my
knees and dig hastily until I feel something hard. I pull it free. We
discovered a long time ago that when the heat hits the beachy bank, it fuses the
sand into strange hollow tubes. The insides are polished and smooth, and they
shimmer in the sunlight. I already have a whole shelf full in the cave, but
there's always room for one more little piece of marvel carved by my sister's
hands.
I wonder if Erick's
ever seen one.
"Aerewyn, come on." Nymia interrupts my wayward
thought and grabs my hands to pull me to my feet. Her smile is wide. Her
features are wet and wild. Sometimes I wish the other girls could see her like
this, powerful and proud. Sometimes I'm glad I get to have her to myself.
I push my magic into her palms.
She pushes hers into mine.
Fingers laced tight, we spin, round and round and round,
until the world is a blur of magic and rain, flashing lightning and roaring
thunder, rushing water and swaying branches. I hold my sister's gaze, meeting
her step for step and grin for grin. When the power builds so that we might
burst, we let our heads fall back and holler into the wind, releasing the
magic, letting the Mother swallow it into her storm, so that I feel a part of
it, a part of her, a part of everything. Then we snap and tumble, smacking into
the sand.
Nymia's laughter echoes across the air.
Mine joins hers, and I clutch my stomach from the pain of so
much joy.
Then another unruly thought intrudes.
I wonder if Erick
likes storms.
My smile falters and I stare up at the sky, searching for
the moon, hidden somewhere behind the clouds. I've heard humans are afraid of
storms—that they're terrified of the tremendous power of nature, of Mother. I
revel in her might.
"What are you doing?" Nymia asks as I roll up from
the ground. I can tell by her tone she already knows—she just wants to make
sure I know she doesn't approve.
I ignore her and dig a shallow hole in the sand. Pressing my
palms to the saturated grains, I draw the water in, until a wide puddle forms.
Then I murmur the words I know my sister definitely doesn’t want to hear.
“Nachtinn eoscu ma mhoin.”
Water, reveal my wish.
I only want to see for a second, I tell myself. A quick peek
and then I'm done. But as the colors dancing across the water sharpen to a
clear image, a gasp escapes my lips and fear spikes deep into my heart.
Erick lies splayed across the dirt like a fallen tree, with
a broken birdcage by his side. Blood leaks from a cut on his forehead, slipping
down the side of his face with the rain, so his skin is stained red. The hound
whimpers by his side, nudging his ribs. He doesn't move. He doesn't blink. He's
far too still.
I'm on my feet before I even realize what I'm doing, not a
thought in my mind but to save him.
