Page 3

A legion surrounds me on every side. Female warriors creep closer and closer with their hands extended as glowing blue power levitates above their palms. They’re cradling that power, nurturing it to grow, and waiting for something. A command, perhaps. The area around them is obscured by plumes of thick red dust kicking up in a hazy cloud. The sky is dark, but the space around me is alight with the glow of their power. It swells and bulges with an unquenchable anger. A thirst for vengeance.

At some invisible cue, the soldiers halt. Their orbs of power begin to rise into the sky one by one, lifting higher and higher until they are directly above me. The orbs merge into one behemoth of light, like a pulsating star. Before my eyes can trace the outline of the swelling power, it cascades down, forming a dome that surrounds only me. Everywhere I look, I am surrounded by that eerie dome. I can feel it leeching the strength from my bones. Pulling, ripping, shredding me from the inside out.

My knees buckle, and I tumble onto the cold earth. I lift my head to the sky, begging the gods to save me, but no savior emerges. I am the only one who can save me. I am the only one.

In unison, the soldiers continue their march inward. Each step they take causes the dome to shrink around me. They pull in closer and closer…

I try to claw at the cage’s seams, but it only worsens the pain seething inside me, sending sparks zapping through me. The mud beneath my boots makes it harder to stand as I sink deeper and deeper into it. I cannot let them win. I cannot give in.

Their approach is slow, steady, and calculated. It almost makes me laugh. All of these cold-blooded soldiers are hidden behind a forcefield. It’s all of them against one powerless woman, and yet, for reasons that I do not understand, it is their eyes that are coated with fear.

Cowards.

I summon the only remaining strength left in my weak, deteriorating body to propel myself to stand. If they want a fight, then I’ll give them one. I release the scream welling up inside of me, desperate to summon power from the deepest part of my soul, but when my mouth opens, no sound escapes. Only the sound of footsteps moving closer and the huffs of tiring soldiers fills the dark, all-consuming silence.

The cage is shrinking.

I am shrinking.

They won.

A sharp burst of pain jolts me awake, and the familiar briny taste of sweat meets my lips. I raise the back of my hand to wipe my brow as I struggle to breathe. The familiar glowing red eyes lingering at the edge of my bed remind me that this was nothing but a nightmare.

“Screw you,” I yell to the vanishing crimson orbs as if they could understand me. I know that they can’t, but it helps to release the tension welling up inside of me.

I rub my head, which is violently fighting against the effects of the whiskey that I downed last night. The sun pierces through the window, worsening the throbbing in my temples. My gut is writhing with a menacing melange of hangover and anxiety.

Gods, I’m never drinking again.

Between the prowler being reduced to ash and the nonsense that Paul spewed in the market, my mind is caught in an unrelenting current, an assault on my better senses.

Until now, I never questioned how traders pass in and out of the border without any body-snatching repercussions. I suppose that is part of the magic embedded into the charm by Lord Myles. But if he was able to allow the traders to pass through unharmed, why didn’t he create a similar provision for us to exit freely?

Both of my hands float to my head in an attempt to stop the room from spinning.

What homecoming could possibly be near?

Carcera is all that I know.

This is my home. My cottage. My life.

What else is out there?

There must be something else beyond the gods-forsaken walls of Carcera. More to live for, more to dream of. Life must be worth more than this. On the other side of this forest, could I swim in the ocean or climb the mountains written about in the dusty pages of books? Could I sail on a ship or become a farmer? Or both! I could spend my days farming something tropical like oranges or mangos and then retire to my ship at night. I could watch the stars dance above me while the waves rock me gently to sleep.

Hell, even the glowing red eyes would be more bearable out on the open ocean. Sadness pangs in my chest as I remind myself that these are lives that I will never know.

The barrier has never felt more like a cage than it does now.

At least today is Beorscia, the annual feast to honor the god of life and death. I just wish that my stomach would stop churning long enough for me to get out of bed.

“Help me,” I groan to no one.

I peel myself out of bed limb by limb and then slip on a dress that falls just shy of my ankles and splits up the side. The neckline cuts deep enough to flaunt my cleavage. To be frank, the dress may be on the scandalous side, but nobody notices me. I’ll blend into the background whether I’m naked or covered from head to toe in a thick wool fabric.

Once the sun reaches its zenith, I begin the trek to the bottom of the mesa.

The walk takes me nearly an hour, but with such beautiful weather, I hardly mind. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the sun’s warmth helps to settle my nerves.

To distract my mind from the visions of prowlers, I fix my thoughts on the festival. A spread of chocolate, cookies, and cakes will pile high into a sugary sweet tower, and venison, roasted chicken, potatoes, and vegetables will line the tables next to it. That’s what I really look forward to.

My stomach whines just at the thought of it.

* * *

The floral archway at the garden’s entrance takes my breath away, or maybe it’s the exertion from the walk that’s leaving me gasping for air. The anxiety bubbling up inside of me hastened my steps a little more than I was physically prepared for.

I dodge a line of children playing a game just inside the garden as I enter. They’re lined up in two rows that face each other.

“We stand, locking hands. We fight with our might. No one can break us, not even Shen,” one side sings in giddy unison. A child on the opposing line huffs and runs over, pummeling into the locked arms of two girls. He fails to break through, much to the delight of the winning side. He stomps indignantly to the end of the line, cheeks covered in sugar dusting.

Past the children, who are now laughing hysterically, I approach the narrow stone walkway. It encircles the garden and has four divergent paths leading to the enchanted fountain in the center. The water flows from its well in pink and purple sprays, bubbling up at the top and circling back through the bottom. The garden’s layout is meant to model the village – one large circle, much like the mesa, surrounding a central focal point, like the village.

As I round its center, I keep an eye out for Marco. But my gaze locks with Lord Myles instead, which he takes as an invitation to stroll over to me. That pompous gait of his rocks him forward with heavy, plodding steps. “Radya, are you enjoying the feast?”

“Good afternoon.” I dip into a curtsy and feign politeness. Really, I just want to get in and out of this festival with as much food as I can stuff into my satchel. “I just got here, but I have my eye on the pastry cart over there. I should grab one before they’re gone.”

“No need, I saved you a tart.” He winks as he hands me a cream tart topped with berries. I ignore the fact that it sat in his grubby hands and accept it anyway. If appeasing him is the cost of maintaining my pension, then that is a burden I can live with.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

A nagging thought purrs in the back of my mind. It’s a whisper that I can’t quiet, begging me to ask about the prowler. His image is all I see. “There’s something that I’d like to discuss while you’re here.”

“Anything, dear.” His big belly inches closer to me, nudging too close for comfort, forcing me to step back.

“I don’t know how best to say this, and so I’ll get right to it. I saw a man in the forest yesterday. He charged toward me and then vanished into thin air the second he reached the barrier.” My mind sours at the thought. “Actually, it was more violent than that. The barrier decimated him until only a pile of ash remained.”

Concern forms on his face, twisting it into a question mark. “He tried to cross?” He blinks away a thought as his shoulders curl inward. “Was this man alone?”

“It appeared that way, but Tana mentioned a rumor that others also saw strange men in the forest.” I gulp down the lump forming in my throat. “Do you… do you think there could be others out there?”

The unspoken question lingers in my mind: Am I safe here?

The man charged directly at me, chasing after gods know what. If he would risk his life trying to breach the barrier, then who’s to say there won’t be more just like him, ready to charge through the barrier despite the risk of disintegrating into sawdust? How many attempts would it take for just one of them to be successful?

Carcera is a safe place. It’s protected magically from outsiders and guarded by soldiers on the inside. Nothing bad ever happens here. But what if that’s about to change?

“Hmm,” he mutters while stroking his chin with his thumb and pointer finger in a way that seems practiced. “I will order the increase of patrols along the border. Stay clear of the woods and stay inside if you hear the dogs howl. You can do that, right?”

“Yes.” I decide to ignore the condescension in his tone to allow room for the other question to claw its way forward. It’s been itching my brain ever since this happened. “How is it that traders can pass through the barrier, yet nobody else can?”

We never speak of it - of how the barrier came to be. What choice did we have in closing off our borders and locking ourselves inside this cage? It never seemed important to ask such questions until now. But the mere mention of Umbra – of a life that exists outside of these confines – awakened something in me. The outside world may scare me, but it should be my choice whether or not to face that terror.

A hint of pride gleams in his eyes as he adjusts his gaudy trousers. “When I cast the protection charm around Carcera twenty years ago, I needed a provision to allow our trade to continue. I couldn’t let our village starve, you see? And so, I created rings designed to bypass all enchantments – like a key of sorts. Once I grant a trader permission to conduct their business in Carcera, I give them a ring. Like this one.” He raises his hand to flaunt the golden ring on his right ring finger. A small, blood-red ruby rests in the center, encircled by an illegible engraving.

“And that ring allows you to pass freely through the border?”

“Quite right. It took a few rather unfortunate tests to be sure that it would work, but we got there in the end,” he says, wrinkling his ruddy nose at some grim memory.

“How do the traders get these rings?”

“All vendors go through a formal vetting process.”

“What do you need to get approved?” I know that I’m testing his patience by pestering him with questions, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

“They submit things like recommendations from approved traders and a list of suppliers. Then they undergo an interview with my Hand of Commerce, the usual. If approved, we negotiate a fixed price before granting them their ring. And voila, our economy continues.” At this, he lets loose a hacking cough so grotesque that I shudder. He reaches for the handkerchief in his pocket and wipes his face, smearing phlegm across his cheek.

I stifle the urge to excuse myself as that swipe of bodily fluid catches the sunlight. “How do you know that they will not pass the rings onto strangers?”

“The rings, like the rest of the border, are made from sophisticated magic. Removing the ring from your finger would break the spell on it. And if you lose your ring even once, you will not receive a replacement.”

“Could I apply for a ring?” By the gods, I wish that I could stop myself, but it’s proving impossible. That yearning for something more is eating me alive.

He leans in to ask, “Why would you need a ring?”

“Well, I don’t need one.” It’s a hunger, an ache, to be somewhere else, to be someone else. “I’d like to know what lies beyond this village, on the other side of the forest.” If we were dancing, then that question would have stepped on his toes. He recoils just the same. “And if you have to go to such great lengths to keep trade moving in and out of the village, then why create the barrier at all?”

“Those were dark times. We needed protection from the Umbrian armies because of our proximity to the border, and the barrier did just that. Nobody, not even these men in the woods, will be able to penetrate its magic.” He raises his hand to wave at someone in the distance. “I must get going, but stay clear of the barrier.”

Was that a warning?

“I promise nothing,” I say to his back as he scurries away.

His vague answers do little to satisfy my curiosity, but I won’t chase after him for answers. Not now, anyway.

I achieve a distance of nearly two steps when Tana rushes to my side.

“Did you get a chance to nab a tart before I snatched the last one?” She smiles triumphantly as if it was some great feat.

“Lord Myles gave me one,” I say, keeping my gaze fixed on the path to the bread cart.

“Of course, he did,” she says as she wags her brows suggestively.

I know what she is insinuating, given that it’s no secret that my father’s pension continued far past its expiration. It would be impossible to ignore the filthy rumors explaining its continuance, but I try my best to bat away any suggestions of the sort. I will not allow ‘mistress’ to be added to the list of insults hurled my way, especially when the mere suggestion makes my stomach curdle. She is not the first to hint at such foul things, nor will she be the last.

“I see where you’re going with that – stop it. I won’t entertain such vulgarity.”

Her mouth snaps shut, clearly hurt by the direct slap on the wrist.

Amelia comes to the rescue, piercing through the tension with her delicate grace. She gives me a polite smile and then grabs Tana’s hand in the affectionate way that close friends do.

Amelia took over the local school after Mrs. Whitehurst succumbed to the blight that swept town two years ago – the same sickness that stole my mother. She has that sort of soothing, gentle manner that calms even the rowdiest of children, making her a perfect fit for the school. She even looks the part with a tight bun knotted at the nape of her neck, kind eyes, modest clothing, and tiny, birdlike features.

At one point, I thought that we could be friends. I liked her energy. Plus, if I have to put up with Tana, it would be nice to have someone like Amelia around to mellow her out. But she never opened up to me, so I shoved that thought down so deep that I couldn’t feel the sting of rejection. I don’t blame her though, who would want to be friends with the loner lurking on the outskirts of the village?

Tana looks like she might explode with excitement as she says, “Do you know that trader from Alium? Paul, I think.”

Even though she’s looking at Amelia and not me, my heart nearly stops at the mention of Paul’s name. I’ve been racking my brain to make sense of his words yesterday.

The time for your homecoming nears.

Your seat shall be returned to you.

The nations will bow to you.

Return!

Who in the name of the gods was he talking to? What was he talking about? I can’t piece it all together. And why is Tana asking about him now?

Amelia shrugs.

“Paul?” The name has been ringing in my head for so many hours that I question whether or not I said it aloud. “I saw him yesterday. Why do you ask?”

“I heard reports that a guard found him dead last night. A knife plunged straight through his heart. The poor, poor soul. From what I heard, his face was frozen in a state of shock. His hands left grasping at the dagger buried in his chest.” She acts out the motions as she speaks, theatrically plunging an invisible dagger into her chest and falling to the ground.

Amelia bashfully raises a hand to her mouth to cover her laughter in an ‘I shouldn’t be laughing, but it’s too funny not to’ kind of way. I, on the other hand, couldn’t be further from laughing.

Is it possible that we’re thinking of two different people? I saw Paul, the grouchy coffee trader, in the market only twenty-four hours ago, so it couldn’t be him.

No, no, no.

Why would anybody harm him? Sure, the man is a grouch, but was he capable of offending someone so badly that they stabbed him?

When the two are done giggling, apparently unbothered by the gruesome news, Tana returns to her feet. Before she can steady herself, I ask, “Was he robbed?”

“That’s the thing,” Tana answers. “Both Joliah and Troyen say that they saw him in the market, alive, last night around sunset. And then, before the sun fell below the ground, a guard found him dead. Nobody saw a thing in between. Joliah and Troyen were taken in for questioning, but apparently, they were as dumbfounded as everyone else. Only a ghost could have done it!”

“How is that possible? There’s no way that someone could walk in and stab the man through his heart completely undetected,” Amelia says with more sarcasm than empathy, making me question whether the nice school teacher persona is just an act.

“True, but maybe the killer, or killers, hid in plain sight and waited until nobody was around before finally striking.” She looks far too excited to be discussing death. “Do you think one of those prowlers did it?”

She’s voicing my greatest fear and doesn’t even know it. I can hardly breathe, and my heart is pounding like my soul is trying to escape from my body.

“No! There’s no way someone could penetrate the barrier, much less reach the market, stab a vendor, and escape without a single person noticing. And, like I told you yesterday, the person that I saw in the woods exploded into bits the second he touched the barrier. Anyone with half of a brain would stay far away after seeing that. Even if they tried, they would be nothing more than a pile of ash right now.” I’m not sure if I said this to reassure Tana or myself.

“Oh, who knows! We could speculate all day, but where would that get us? I deal in facts, not conjecture,” she says.

I cough to cover the laugh bubbling up in my throat. That couldn’t be further from the truth, given the number of times I’ve listened to her spin theories and weave tales about even the most mundane events.

The conversation shifts suddenly when Amelia exclaims, “Tana! Rupe is over there in the corner. Should I speak to him?” A flirtatious smile spreads across her face as she waves at a red-haired boy standing near the fountain. Tana turns to Amelia to whisper something in her ear, leaving me out of the loop and snickering at whatever it is. The two of them walk in the other direction without saying goodbye.

A pang in my chest reminds me that I do mind being excluded. It’s always been this way with them, though. I try to swallow the rejection and refocus on my intention for coming here – the feast – but my mind is spinning too wildly and spoiling my appetite.

Rather than force down unwanted food, I decide to pocket a few things that will carry well and call it a day. I peek over both shoulders to make sure that nobody’s looking, and once I see an opening, I stuff some grapes, potatoes, and a loaf of bread into my satchel.

Could I pocket the stuffed mutton without it ruining my dress? No, I would leave a trail of meat juice that leads from this table all the way back to my cottage. Instead, I reach out toward the oranges but stop when I hear Lady Lora’s voice booming over the crowd. Everyone turns their attention to the center of the garden, and I use the opportunity to nab a couple more mangoes and a sliver of rum cake.

Every year, Lady Lora spends over an hour rambling on about the blessings from the gods, our thankfulness for future prosperity, and on and on…

“Thank you all for coming today.” Her voice is amplified by magic and echoes through the garden. Only Lady Lora and Lord Myles are capable of magic, and any sign of its use quickly grabs attention. “Today, we honor Manka, our God of Life and Death.”

“To Manka,” everyone answers.

Amelia’s giggles interrupt the chorus of cheers. She and Rupe are huddled together in the corner underneath an overgrown orange tree to my right. Its fruits litter the ground like orange-speckled weeds, but they don’t seem to care.

She continues, “Without his favor, we would be nothing but dust. We pray that he may intervene in our lives with his rare and glorious gifts. May he grant us life, to have and to keep, for many years to come. Today we offer…”

I zone out almost immediately.

My mother always insisted that we stay for the entirety of her speech, but without her, I feel no qualms about leaving early, especially since the gods aren’t even in attendance. What’s the point of honoring them if they aren’t here to hear it? If any of the gods gave a rat’s ass about my life, then they can tell me themselves.

I slip out before anyone even notices.