Page 10

10

Uncertain Departure

Anya

A s I was escorted to the barred wagon, I studied the guards’ uniforms, which consisted of the same red and orange garb as the Mirror Knights, but with silver armor instead of rose-gold. It was a bland thing to focus on, but as I was paraded down Swan’s Row with shackled wrists and ankles—my friends and neighbors lined up to watch—it was easier to ponder an innocuous detail than my harsh reality.

That is, until Wicker wrenched himself free of Hattie’s hold and raced toward me across the cobblestones. Then, I was only in the present moment.

With a cry, I bent down, looping my arms around his lanky body in a makeshift hug. The two guards at my side kindly allowed me a moment with my beloved wolfhound. I held on tightly, desperately, as Wicker lapped up my tears. He woofed and whined, and I implored myself to remember the exact notes of his voice; Wicker would be one of many bolstering memories to call upon as I made my way north.

“That’s enough,” one of the guards by the wagon grunted.

“Wicker, dear,” Hattie called.

Then the moment was slipping away, and I reluctantly let him go, waving awkwardly in my chains at my two dearest loves.

Too embarrassed by the horrid spectacle of my new Fate, I tried not to make eye contact with anyone else—though I did hear Martha crying on the sidelines. When the guards deposited me inside the awaiting wagon, I didn’t look at any of my fellow prisoners, either—but I did count the boots of five other would-be criminals. They’re just as innocent as you , I told myself, in an effort not to fear them.

After a thorough search for weapons, my rucksack—weighed down with tinctures from Hattie and countless letters from my neighbors to Lord Haron about my upstanding character—was dropped at my feet. Apparently, my status as a hypothetical prisoner still allowed me my gear.

A sharp whistle announced my departure, and then the wagon lurched forward. Six mounted guards encircled us, angling into place. Their horses’ shoes clattered on the stones; the wagon’s wheels rumbled with increasing speed.

“We love you, Anya!” Hattie called.

“Take care, dear!” Martha said.

“We’ll see you again soon!” Vera added.

“Hear, hear!” Hugh agreed.

Then the whole crowd was shouting my name, wishing me luck.

Finally, I dared a glance at what I was leaving behind, knowing it would break me but needing to see it all the same: quaint cottages, calm river, and the entire community of Waldron-on-Wend gathered in the street. Waving, jumping, yelling encouragement. For me .

Soon, one voice cut through all the rest—Kara, the seamstress, beginning a song. “ O hollow night, when will the light arrive? / Hear my song, so shadows know my might .”

It had been my mother’s favorite tune, a slow song sang during Astrophel.

The crowd joined in, their harmonious voices filling Waldron-on-Wend, following me in my moving cell. “ O blessed morn, come before all is lost. / My voice does call, forlorn into the dark. ”

Then, in the highest registers: “ I shall live on, into the breaking dawn / I shall prevail, if only to sing my song. / Oh stars shine true, my dazzling hope is you. ”

I wiped my nose, watching and listening as my community serenaded my departure with the most meaningful songs. My magic clung to the tune as Waldron-on-Wend shrunk and disappeared behind the hill.

At the juncture that led out of town, my wagon joined two others, completing the caravan that would travel north along the High Road to the capital city. Though it had been many decades since a citizen of Waldron had been implicated in a murder during the Fate Ceremony, the caravan’s organization—its very presence on the outskirts of town—proved that many across Fenrir had indeed found themselves with similar futures as mine.

I wondered how many of us would return home after this heartrending adventure.

Wracked with uncertainty, I clung to the strands of distant sound still rising from Waldron-on-Wend, holding onto my community’s encouragement for as long as I could.

For the first long stretch of road, none of us inside the wagon spoke. We did share glances, however, our eyes narrowed warily. The six of us were seated on two benches, facing one another in trios. As I’d been picked up last, I was perched in the back left corner of the wagon—it was bumpy in back, but I preferred the wagon’s jostling over being wedged between my fellow would-be criminals farther forward.

Of the five other prisoners, four were men. Next to me sat a young man of barely twenty; he stared off at the countryside with a clenched jaw. On his other side sat the eldest man, who had a gnarly scar across his cheek, but appeared frail. The only other woman sat across from me in the rear of the wagon, her fingers interlocked with the man beside her—a couple. On the other side of them, farthest from me, was a middle-aged man with cracked lips, which he licked on occasion—usually when his beady eyes swung in my direction. The starvation in his gaze was enough to set me on edge, the vague danger banishing any exhaustion that tried to creep into my limbs.

By the time we pulled off the road for the night, my muscles ached from bracing against the constant jerking of the wagon. Disconcerted by the persistent stare of Beady Eyes, I had swiveled my body to face the road behind us, and my twisted position had no doubt contributed to the soreness in my back and shoulders. Thankfully, my fellow prisoners were all slumped and quiet now, too, seemingly lost in their own grim thoughts.

The guards parked the caravan in a half-moon along the edge of the Western Wood, tucked into a low grassy depression just out of sight of the High Road. A bitter wind whipped through the small valley, mussing my tattered festival braids. I nestled into the folds of my cloak, smelling Hattie and Wicker in its fibers, and tried to imagine myself at the Possum instead of chilled down to my bones and imprisoned.

Camp was made, and we were eventually tossed rolls of bread through the bars, which we all snatched up hungrily, gnawing on the tough stale crusts. For once, I wished I possessed touch magic, to draw the sensation of the guards’ cooking fires closer. Instead, all I could do was listen to their asinine conversations: about tonight’s watch shifts, the women they’d bedded in the towns they’d passed through, and petty arguments about sleeping arrangements and camp chores.

Our wagon was located in the back of the line of three. As night fell, someone in the middle wagon began to wail. The sound wore at my frayed nerves, disturbing me. It persisted for a while, then a shout pierced the air, and a ruckus ensued. I couldn’t see the details in the darkness, but the fight was clamorous, with people screaming, chains clattering, and the thudding of fists on flesh. The guards were shockingly slow to intervene; eventually, I lifted the echoes of the fight in their direction, the racket finally rousing them enough to take action with verbal threats and proffered swords.

As the commotion died down, I rested against the bars in my corner again. My body cried out for sleep, but I feared letting my guard down. I waited long into the night, until our escorts’ fires had died and everyone—including my threatening cellmate—nodded off.

Finally, for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, I reached for sleep. I nodded in and out, uncomfortable both physically and in my heart. I resettled my head against the hard iron, trying not to become too lost in fearful thoughts. With the trees at my back, I could hear the rustling of possums, raccoons, owls. I let their presence comfort me. Sleep edged closer once more—

Until a twig cracked.

I lifted my head, pulling at the thread of sound. Boots across the understory—unmistakable.

More steps neared, and I swiveled on my wooden bench, chains clinking. I stared out into the depthless dark inside the trees, wondering who it might be.

“Anya?” a male voice whispered.

“ Remy ?” I breathed.

He materialized by my corner of the wagon, crouching beside the rear left wheel with his back to the forest. I glanced over my shoulder at the clearing; no guards had roused. It was late, the moon tucked behind clouds. I mustered my magic, swaddling us in a blanket of silence; it wasn’t foolproof, but hopefully we’d be able to speak without anyone waking.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered, a part of me hoping he’d written his own character reference, a letter for me to take to Lord Haron.

He grasped my hands through the bars; his palms were so warm compared to my frozen, gloveless fingers. “I rode out late this afternoon and followed your path. I had to talk to you. To—apologize.”

“What?” I shook my head. “No. Remy, I should be the one—”

“My fortune…my fortune is real,” he interrupted. “It’s real and it’s coming soon.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Listen, Anya. I have to clear this up,” he said, his green eyes catching the silver light of the stars. “I have a wife.”

I yanked my fingers from his, curling my hands against my chest. “What are you talking about?”

“I have a wife,” he repeated, as if that would make it any more conceivable. “In Fenrir City. It happened quickly, this summer. She—she became pregnant and I—I felt I had to—” He broke off, his words strangled with emotion.

To his credit, we had never agreed to be monogamously faithful to one another, but I had hoped…

Fates above , I had hoped . Stupidly. Foolishly .

“I meant to tell you about her when I arrived in Waldron, but—well, you were just so irresistible. You always have been. And I thought, ‘One more time. One more night. Then I’ll tell her.’” He ran his fingers through his blond hair, causing it to stand up messily; I despised how visceral my urge to smooth it was. “Then you asked me to look into the Mirrors, and I thought, ‘Maybe they’ll tell me what to do. How to handle this situation.’”

My anger flared. “How to handle this situation?” I repeated. “Was it not evident?”

“It is now,” he said emphatically. “My Fortune is my family.”

“You slept with me,” I exclaimed. “You are married , and you slept with me.”

“She already knows I came to Waldron to tell you,” he promised. “And now, so do you. Once I return to her, I’ll be starting fresh.”

“You rode all the way out here to dump me?” I asked incredulously.

“I rode out here to be honest with you,” he said. “You deserve my honesty.”

“I don’t deserve any of this,” I said, remembering where I was, chained up because of him . “I’m the victim here!”

Remy winced. “I do care about you, Anya,” he said, his tone oddly…careful. “I thought if I could just explain, and apologize—”

“You’re afraid I’ll actually do it.” The realization was a slap, a bucket of cold water. Of course he wasn’t bringing me a character reference, he was here to protect his own Fate. “You’re afraid that I would see your Fortune and—and—kill you? Out of jealousy?” It sounded absurd.

But Remy had backed away a step.

I gripped the bars, becoming more shrill in my fury. “Do you really think so highly of yourself?” I snarled. “Do you really think so harshly of me? That I’d take a father from a child out of anger? Fates above, Remy, you truly are an imbecile—”

The clanking of chains cut off my tirade. “You have quite the mouth on you, don’t you, love?” Beady Eyes said, rising from his seat.

Apparently, my outburst had reached beyond my feeble magical buffer. The other prisoners were awake now, too, watching him creep toward me.

“What else can it do?” he cooed, grinning.

I stole a glance over my shoulder, but Remy had disappeared— the fucking coward .

I stood, too, ready to do what I must to defend myself.

But then an eerie, piercing whine cut through the dark, drawing our attention northward.