Page 10

YAYA

SERYN

“ C ome. Unless you want to head directly into that crocodile den you were about to stumble upon. It’s not a death I’d recommend.

” The Druik walked perpendicular to the direction we’d been heading in.

As he took long, confident strides, his ebony flames melted into his flesh, revealing a mesmerizing raven tattoo that spanned across his shoulder blades.

His muscles flexed, bringing the art to life. The inky wings spread wide as if the bird were soaring into the air. When the light brushed across the feathers, the ink shone like an oil slick in shifting shades of midnight iridescence.

Glaring at the male’s back, Gavrel’s nostrils flared as he sheathed his sword. I took his hand in mine and followed, pressing my lips together to hide the smile that wanted to break free. He would move with me. Gavrel wouldn’t let me fall into this Ancient-forsaken swamp.

We caught up to the stranger, and he glanced at me sidelong, his expression indifferent, and his straight nose lifted .

“So, how do you know my name then, Sir Swampy Bottoms?” I inquired, sounding extra precocious. This man seemed especially mercurial, and it made me want to poke his buttons. Not that he was wearing any.

His mouth twisted to one side. “The Augur informed Yaya you’d be here on this day. I had the privilege of fetching you,” he stated, sounding extremely inconvenienced.

“Augur?” Gavrel’s brow furrowed.

“She’s revered in this region for her prophetic counsel … assuming one finds such things credible,” the male muttered.

A smirk pressed into the line of my mouth. “Well, sorry to burden you, but can you tell us who the void you are? Although Sir Swampy Bottoms has a nice ring to it.”

A low chuckle vibrated in Gavrel’s chest.

The male’s arms flexed as he stabbed his quarterstaff into the water in time with his stride. He didn’t look impressed as his brows pushed together and his lips puckered. He took a deep inhale and freed it, his jaw slightly shifting to the side for a moment before he responded, “Marek Skiya.”

“Any relation to Neoma Skiya?” Gavrel asked. “We were told to find her.”

“Obviously. Why would I be here otherwise?” Marek countered with a condescending tone. “Yaya. She’s my grandmother.” He stopped, and I nearly ran into him before bracing a hand against his biceps. “Here we are.” He lifted his chin as I pulled my hand away, my skin sticky with the olive-colored sap.

He glanced at me, rolled his eyes, and scooped some water over my soiled palm. “You’ll be fine. It’s mucksap.” I blinked at him, and he regarded me like I had the brain capacity of a gilly toad. “From the base of the cypresses … it keeps the bugs at bay.”

“Where is here ?” Gavrel took a step and then halted, as though bumping into a wall. “Bloody void.” He rubbed his fingers over his nose, glaring at Marek.

My face scrunched in confusion as I observed the dense bundles of spindled trees and mucky water ahead. Marek glanced at us, his dark blue eyes glinting mischievously before his ember flared once more.

Smugly, a hint of a smirk played on his lips before he faced forward and raised one hand before him. Dark flames guttered and twirled around his skin in a frenzy.

His shadows slithered over an invisible barrier, clinging to the air, ripping through it like parchment. All at once, the illusion of the unending mire crumbled.

I gasped, my breath catching in the back of my throat. Before us were at least a hundred dwellings balanced atop graying stilts or wrapped around the doombarks they clung to. Among the buildings, the trees were thicker, sturdier shades of gray than the ones we had passed along the way.

My eyes trailed up, focusing on the handful of homes perched higher up the trees. A series of plank and rope bridges interweaved between them, with various corkscrew stairs twisted around the trunks.

Between the buildings closest to the water, a smattering of footbridges zigzagged between and connected them. People, all dressed in varying shades of slate and soot, meandered along the walkways, chatting or working. Some openly stared as we neared.

Heading toward a rope ladder hanging from one bridge, we sloshed between two massive glass domes, submerged far to each side of us. I bent forward; my curiosity insatiable. My eyes followed the line of them to my left, peeking under and through the random spaces between stilts.

There were several submerged domes curving in a line around the perimeter of the settlements. They were familiar somehow, but I couldn’t determine why.

“What are those?” I inquired, straightening.

Marek grabbed the ladder, giving it a shake toward me and pressing his mouth together. I put my hands on my hips and stared at him, slowly blinking when he returned my glare.

His tongue pressed into his cheek, and he dropped the rope. “Conservatories. ”

My mouth formed an O, and he rolled his eyes and climbed up the corded steps, muscles bunching as he went.

I scurried up after him, not waiting for Gavrel to set foot on the bridge before rushing to the side to peek into the dome. Sure enough, ten gleaming Dormancy pods nestled within, forming a dark, foreboding flower. Watery sludge swayed against the bowed glass walls from the outside.

My top lip curled, and the sudden urge to slam an embered orb into the curved surface burned through me.

“Interesting,” Marek mumbled, eyeing the iridescent halo around me. Although his tone said he was anything but interested. I focused on his smug face as if he were swamp water flooding my boots. My aura sputtered, sinking within me, and I winced, not realizing I’d let it simmer.

Gavrel now stood behind Marek, his face lined with annoyance as he took in the scene. “Neoma,” he barked.

Marek remained aloof, but he slowly tilted his head toward the commander and then strode past him in the other direction without a word.

“Damn boggers,” he grumbled as we followed.

“What was that, Gav?”

He lifted his chin; his back taut and unbreakable. I suppressed my amusement as he stalked forward.

Marek led us through the city, the soft murmur of Bog citizens flitting around us as we passed. He greeted each person we passed with a solemn nod and was met with kind smiles and hearty pats on the shoulder.

From the paths staggered at varying heights, drifting under the planks in narrow boats, or peeking out small windows, the people’s stares were inquisitive as though we were intriguing curiosities they’d never seen.

Perhaps we were. I didn’t suspect many outside of the region journeyed here.

The network of plank bridges gently swayed and creaked beneath our footfalls. Correction. The entire city seemed to move, as if the settlements were breathing or merely bits of debris adrift in the mucky current. In the distance, the faint hum of crickets warbled.

The sound of mud squelching within my boots accompanied every step. My mouth pulled into a grimace as I fixated on the feel of it between my toes. I exhaled slowly, the air, although cooler now, still stuck within my lungs. At least it no longer smelled of rot. Gavrel had been right.

Marek stopped at the foot of a curling stairwell; the steps fastened snugly around the trunk of a rather thick tree. Around it, the planks coiled below the small platform and into the water next to a narrow, rickety boat that was fastened to a nearby post.

Agitatedly, he poked his quarterstaff into the space above him. “Up you go.”

Any retort fizzled into the damp air as I climbed the stairs, awestruck, holding onto the makeshift rope rail weaving along the outward edges of the spiral.

I craned my neck to take in the weeping branches of the tree, which loomed far above us and cast dreary shadows over the nearby walkways and dwellings.

Nestled high against the trunk, the bottom of a substantial ash-colored abode perched. It was fastened to the groaning tree with numerous ropes and wooden supports.

As we drew close, the flight led into an open hatch, and a flickering orange glow beckoned. I paused, drawing in the familiar scent of burning wood, and a mollifying swell of nostalgia rippled over me.

I flinched as Marek brushed past me, barging through the hatch. “Your dirtlings have arrived, Yaya,” he jeered.

“Don’t be rude, Marek,” a strong, feminine voice scolded. Her words sounded as if they were wrapped in sturdy, well-worn leather.

I rose into the sizable space. Loosely knit macramé wall hangings, the color of storm clouds and trampled grass, were draped over the graying walls.

Various pieces of carved wood furniture were strewn about the space, with a small kitchen at the back to our right, and a cozy, yet neat bed in the opposite corner with an immense trunk at its foot.

Along the wall and beside the bed was a privacy screen painted with scenes of flying black birds and wide, ruddy trees.

I drank in the sight, fascinated by the panorama.

It reminded me of home.

Marek’s scoff caught my attention.

“If this big, strong warrior continues to use derogatory language …” Piqued, Marek plopped his weapon against the wall, wood knocking against wood.

“I’m obligated to return the courtesy.” His sarcasm trickled off as the older female propped her hands on her narrow hips and squinted at him, her sharp elbows jutting out to the sides.

She was petite but sturdy. A wispy, slate-colored tunic and loose, flowing breeches in the same shade adorned her lean frame. Several dark necklaces made from a myriad of beads and knots swathed around her neck.

Before I caught sight of the small fire in a corner stove, I imagined the very essence of her crackling.

In a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow, the flames snaked over her chest-length strands. The curling, silver tendrils and elaborate braids weaving along her head glinted in the radiance.

Her eyes, the color of burnt autumn leaves, smoldered as she glowered at her grandson. Marek’s shoulders dipped, and he looked out the small window by the bed as if something was fascinating beyond it.

With a grumble, the male’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly as he shuffled over, placed a kiss on her cheek, and then trudged over to the water basin. With efficiency, he began roughly scrubbing the mucksap off his skin with a cloth.

I dipped my chin, trying to hold in a laugh, but the swish of a stifled snort escaped regardless. I peeked up at the sound of amusement coming from the woman. One eyebrow rose as she studied me unabashedly.

Positioned beside me, Gavrel bowed his head respectfully toward her. “Mistress Neoma Skiya, I presume? I’m Gavrel Larkin, and this is Seryn Vawn.” He held his hand toward me. “Rhaegar Hale sent word for us to find you.”

Slowly, she blinked at him, her elbows still poking the air .

His nostrils flared, and his mouth pinched. Resigned, he rolled his shoulders back and frowned as Marek faced us, his tanned skin ruddy and clean. A mask of smug boredom coated his handsome visage, his biceps bulging as he crossed his arms expectantly.

Several seconds slinked by, the only sounds in the still room were of the popping logs and sodden fabric squelching as I shifted. Finally, the men’s standoff ceased.

“I apologize for using the term ‘bogger.’ It was ill-mannered of me. It won’t happen again,” Gavrel conceded. Marek nodded in response and sat at the oval table in the kitchen, propping his long, muscled legs atop the antique-looking chair beside him and leaning back, satisfied.

“You’re damn right it won’t. And it’s Yaya,” the woman snapped, stomping over to the chest by the bed and pulling out various pieces of dusky fabric.

“Now, take off your boots and put your weapons by Marek’s.

” Swiftly, she marched over to Gavrel, and in a flurry of movements, she removed his baldric and lowered his sword to the ground with ease. Stunned, his mouth hung agape.

From under her arm, she shoved clean clothing at him and then charged at me. She clucked her tongue and cuffed me on the arm when I took a hesitant step back. Eyes wide, I froze as she went through the same process, tossing my belt and rucksack into the pile.

She chucked fresh clothes at me and then went to the kitchen, placing a kettle on top of the stove. “Change behind the screen, and then come sit. We’ve much to discuss, and it won’t do for you to track muck everywhere like a bunch of peat snails.”

She moved with confidence and authority as if she were accustomed to being heeded. The mud coating my socks glued me to her floorboards.

Can I bottle whatever runs through her veins? Sweet Surrelia, the woman is a raging inferno. Of battle fever incarnate. Is she Athena, the Ancient of War, in disguise? I mused.

With a clink, she set some cups on the table, casting me a stern look from beneath her lashes.

“Yes, Yaya,” I mumbled .

I scurried to the screen as Gavrel, in a fresh black tunic and breeches, hastily pulled out the chair that Marek’s feet were on. The Druik scowled as his legs dropped and Gavrel’s bulky form took their place.

While Yaya poured steaming brew into our cups, her expression pinched. In unison, Marek and Gavrel cleared their throats.

Whether from the earth or the mire, I supposed we could understand one another if we put aside our differences. Leaned into what tied us together.

In the city of Helos.

In this tree.

This home.

What tied us together was a healthy fear of Yaya.

No further introductions needed.