Page 28 of Artemysia
“I knifed him and ran away.” - Ivy
P art of me is trying to make sense of how Riev could be Syf, and why he was abandoned. Was it by his human or his Syf parent, or both? What happened to them? The other part of me admits that being part-Syf fits with everything I know about him.
His physicality, his strength and speed. His lithe body. Even his dark hair paired with pale eyes.
All Syf characteristics.
No pointy ears or claws, though. It’s unusual that Owlfred didn’t bite him, but that doesn’t mean he can control animals.
Plus, as far as I’ve seen, there’s no sign of him being anything other than human in action and thought and emotion. He isn’t a feral Syf hell-bent on destroying every human alive.
The scars could mean nothing. Perhaps an accident when he was a baby.
My feelings toward him remain the same, though his shame over his potential origins hurts my heart. It doesn’t change who he is to me.
But despite the pleasure and closeness last night, it’s hard to believe there can be anything more to “us” as we head into Artemysia, so it doesn’t matter who or what he is to me anyway. Right?
I’d meant to tell him there would be no more indulgences like last night, and that we needed to stay focused to stay alive. But then he dropped his life-defining secret, and it wasn’t the right moment to bring it up.
Either way, now is not the time for us.
Not as if there was really a chance for me and him to be an “us.”
My optimism can go only so far when reality quashes all possibilities in the matter.
“Throg, I need you to rebraid my fishtail, please.” I ripple my loose ribbons at him. “I can’t move my left arm that way yet.” My shoulder still hurts like hell, but half an anesthetic pill every few hours will get me through the next leg of our journey.
“I’m on it.” Throg bounds over enthusiastically.
Ivy and Riev are hunched over his notebook of maps on the kitchen counter, whispering, thick as thieves. My eyes narrow, suspicion aroused. Before I can ask what they’re discussing, Ivy whips her head around and hurdles over the bench, sliding next to me at the kitchen table.
“I’ll do your hair.” She shoos Throg away.
I clutch the ribbons back into my chest, skeptical of her intentions.
Throg shrugs at me with his palms up, but I nod, so he returns to packing and collecting food from the pantry.
Riev gathers his maps and disappears into the bedroom.
“Look at mine. Perfect.” Ivy shakes her crown of braids like the thrashing beast that she is, adding in a low snarl for effect. “I promise your braid will never fall out, no matter how hard you’re galloping or slashing your blade. Plus, Throg’s giant hands will just pull out your hair.”
Throg clears his throat. “You didn’t complain about hair-pulling last night. Or my large hands.”
“I admit your large fingers are surprisingly dexterous. Good at finding my—”
“I’ll let you braid if you stop there.” I press the ribbons and pins into her palm.
The two of them share a ravenous look and laugh.
Ivy works her fingers into my hair, gathering the top into portions. “Your hair is so long. But why are you prematurely gray? What are you, forty?”
I snort. “I’m not forty! I’m only a year older than you, according to Riev. My dad says my hair lost color because it sprouts out from all the worry I keep in my brain.”
“You have parents?”
“My father. Back in Stargazer. You?”
“No.” She clears her throat. “I mean, I did.” Her voice isn’t as raspy when she begins again.
“But my mom and dad had five girls, and they sold me—the youngest—to a local baron in Honeygrove for gold so they could move farther south, away from the Syf attacks. Not even that much gold… But they had more girls than gold, so off I went.”
“Was he nice to you?” It isn’t uncommon for poorer families to sell off their daughters into arranged marriages.
It’s Ivy’s turn to snort. “I knifed him and ran away.” She mimics a manic stabbing motion with her fist.
“Is that your solution to everything?”
“I was too young, but he had his way with me every night, hurting me until I couldn’t take it anymore. So I took a dagger to him where he deserved it and ran.”
“I’m so sorry.
“I’m not. You’d be surprised how much of the past you can let go after you stab someone in the right place. His men chased me, but I ran into Riev and he killed them, no questions asked. He just knew. I followed Riev, and he got me into the Academy.”
“Then…?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard. I killed my commander last year.
We saw a Syf child feeding on flowers by the East River.
She fell into the water when she saw us, and I fished her out.
My commander took her to see what she was made of, how she was different.
” Ivy’s face crumples into a fury of disgust. “She wasn’t different, inside,” she grits out.
“It’s against the rules to torture prisoners.
I warned him. But I guess rules don’t work. ”
Bile creeps up my throat. “That’s awful.”
“I stopped him, patched her up as best I could, and led her back toward the woods.” Her voice becomes clipped. “Not sure if I saved her. Don’t know if she made it.”
“You made a difference,” I insist. “Maybe she escaped, maybe she’ll grow up and maybe by then, we won’t be fighting anymore.” I bite my lip, not allowing it to tremble.
Ivy doesn’t agree or disagree. Her small hands work quickly as I watch my reflection in the mirror. She skillfully weaves my hair into an attractive reverse fishtail braid, running from the top of my hairline all the way down between my shoulder blades.
I thank her, turning to view my profile to inspect her work.
“Look, Throg. You couldn’t have done this,” she says proudly, waving a hand around my head.
“I’ve packed for you, Morrigan. You’re ready to go. So we have time for one more good fuc—”
I cut him off. “Nope. Sorry to quash your plans, but we need to go. You’ve ruined poor Olivier with your debauchery. Last I checked, he was still asleep, so wake him up and let him know we’re on our way.”
Throg winks at Ivy and obeys me.
Riev reappears, freshly shaved.
“Your stuff is still all over the bedroom,” he reminds me, disdain lacing his tone.
It grates on me, so I pretend I don’t hear him.
Clean and cocky again, he pulls back the top half of his chin-length hair and ties it with a band.
It reminds me of how his silky hair slid between my fingers as I was guiding his tongue in me—no.
Stop right there, sex-crazed brain . Wetness floods between my thighs, and a warm ache coils through me at the memory of that gorgeous face wrapped between my thighs.
He’s caught me staring, and can’t help making a loud-enough-for-all-to-hear comment about how “handsome yet efficient” he is in the morning, unlike “some people.”
I make sure he sees my eyes roll as I tromp into the bedroom to finish packing, but to my surprise—
My clothes are neatly folded on the meticulously made bed, the room tidied, and my personal items collected next to my pack.
“Bye, Outpost Olivier!” Ivy hollers over her shoulder. “See you on our way back. Next time, I’m in charge and I have some ideas—”
“That was you not being in charge?” Olivier mutters as I ride past him. He salutes, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.
It’s a half-day ride to the edge of Artemysia. No one dared build another village any closer to the forest beyond Limingfrost.
The first harsh lesson of the world that children learn nowadays is never enter the forest . Parents don’t even bother disguising the lesson in a fairy tale or metaphorical fable.
The forest is not for humans. The forest is death.
I gulp back the tightness in my throat and tell myself this is no different than previous missions.
Every mission is dangerous. There is always risk.
But a wicked shudder billows up my spine when the farmlands end and the thicket of old-growth trees looms before us like a craggy fortress. The stitches between my shoulder blades twinge when I tense.
Why hasn’t anyone been able to cross the forest, even before the Syf began attacking? Are they dead, or lost? Where do the lost folk go? The horrid thought occurs to me that even if someone had made it through, something on the other side is preventing them from returning.
I keep my anxious doubts to myself.
Darkness and shadow sprawl east and west beyond what I can see, and my instincts—my instincts that never lie—tell me not all of us will make it out of Artemysia.