Page 15

They’re Seen as Witches

“ A n elf is mine.”

“Mine!”

“No, it’s mine.”

“Mine!”

“Stop it, it’s úri’s turn.”

“Come and take it, then!”

“Go away.”

“Mine!”

“úri saw it first. Kra has no right to be here.”

“Mine!”

I press my back against the wall. It’s coarse and solid, biting into my spine. I blink, trying to clear the sleep from my eyes. Darkness surrounds me. It’s the dead of night. The air is steeped in stillness, calm and cold.

Bats screech far off in the distance, a rare sound in Llyavesamsa as a fox slips beneath the bushes. Its tail tip is milky white and fluffy, and its claws scratch eagerly at the snow.

Where in the fires are those voices coming from?

“Kra is so ridiculously childish.”

“No, úri is the childish one. Stupid!”

“Kra is the childish one.”

“Hello?” I call into the gloom. My eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the blackness. It’ll take a few songs before they do, perhaps even an entire tale.

Everything falls silent. The stillness lingers, stretching long enough for my vision to clear. Had I imagined the voices? Dreamed them?

Outside, moonlight spills over the market stalls and tree trunks. Thick roots wind through frost-laden leaves while the fox carves its nightly trail across the snow. All of it rests under a faint blue haze, struggling to filter through the canopy above.

Inside the cell, the light is a dull, muted blue. Dirt has gathered in heaps along the corners, and moss clings stubbornly to the walls. Moonlight slips through the cracks in the bars. The moon. It sharpens my senses and keeps me awake and aware. Where fog weakens me, moonlight strengthens me.

“Hello?” I call out again, my voice unsteady.

Could it have been one of the other prisoners? But how? Aren’t we all kept in isolation? Perhaps the voices were nothing more than remnants of a dream.

“Yes, hello. What does an elf want?”

I flinch as if struck by a whip. Pushing off the wall, I step into the center of the room, spinning on my heels. The floor bites at my bare feet, cold and unforgiving. Every muscle is tense, my senses sharp, scanning the shadows.

“Who’s there? Who’s speaking? Where are you?”

“An elf might begin by looking up.”

Do I dare? Am I ready to feel that madness creeping in again? A sinking certainty already tells me what I’ll find.

Still, I obey.

Slowly, I lift my head, my neck straining as my gaze climbs toward the towering ceiling.

Eight glossy eyes fix on me, four to the right and four to the left.

There are likely even more beyond their heads, deeper in the shadows.

The eyes belong to two solid, hulking spider forms, each roughly half the height of an elf.

Their bodies are thick with fur and hang heavily from the ceiling by silken threads.

They’re juveniles but will grow significantly larger in a few sun cycles.

Both are Hyllus spiders. A species so densely furred they seem to be suffocating from it. Their pale, beige hairs stand rigid, straight as needles, jutting out like goosebumps.

“How did you get in here?” I hiss, my eyes locked on the sight above me.

But it’s no illusion. I can feel their presence brushing against the edges of my mind, a faint, electric prickle I can’t ignore.

I don’t want to look. Or imagine what might happen if I move toward them and let myself explore this.

“Spiders live here,” says the one on the right, its massive body swaying lazily on its thread.

“How did you get in?” I demand again. They’re far too large for the gaps in the bars, too solid to squeeze through like a feline might.

“There are tunnels and passages up here that an elf can’t see. The real question is, what’s an elf doing here?” The voice is deep and resonant, as though the Hollow itself has spoken.

“I’m a prisoner. Surely, you’ve seen other elves here besides me?” My neck aches from craning my neck upward. I’m not used to holding this angle for so long.

“That’s true.” The spider on the right scratches at its chest. The two central eyes, each the size of a dinner plate, glisten in the dim light. The smaller side eyes, half their size, seem to watch me just as intently. “This place is full of elves. But elves usually don’t hear spiders.”

We stare at each other in silence. I should say something.

“Where are your parents?”

So far, the spider on the right has been speaking, watching me with unblinking intensity. “Higher up. Mother and Father don’t come down here. They say elves are dangerous, that spiders can’t trust them.”

Dangerous? Us? Spiders like these could kill with a single bite to the neck if they’re venomous.

Are they? I have no idea. Hyllus are jumping spiders.

That much I know for sure. Aeralon would know more; he’s always going on about animals and nature, rattling off so many facts that I stopped listening.

He must’ve mentioned something about them. At some point. If only I had paid attention.

“So what were you arguing about?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay calm and even. I need to keep them talking and focused on the conversation, not on me.

“This is going to be embarrassing,” mutters the one on the left, its scratchy voice breaking the quiet as it rubs its head with one of its eight legs.

“Well…” The right spider’s voice is low, almost reluctant. “An elf.”

“Which elf? Me?”

He nods.

“Why? What do you want with me?”

“Well, when new elves arrive, spiders usually decide… whose they are. Right away.” He rubs his palps together, the short appendages at the front of his mouth twitching nervously.

“And why’s that?”

“Some elves grow weak. After a while, they can no longer stand up. And Mother and Father usually ask spiders to?—”

“To what?” I press. My hand instinctively reaches for my neck to support it. My throat is stretched, the skin taut and aching.

“To collect the food. Spiders that gather.”

“You’re not saying you eat elves, are you?” I lower my hand from my neck, fists tightening as sweat slicks my palms. I take a step back, silent enough to go unnoticed.

“Of course we do. Elves are delicious. Usually, spiders eat beetles, ants, and flies to avoid drawing attention to themselves. But those are disgusting.”

“If spiders could, we’d eat elves every single day,” the one on the left adds, its body swaying lazily on its thread. The sound is wet and sticky, almost grotesque, like the squelch of a damp foot dragging across stone.

I take another step back, refusing to look away. Sweat beads on my skin, heat pooling beneath it despite the chill. “Good for you. But you’re not laying a leg on me. Understand?”

“Yes, yes, spiders understand. An elf is strong; an elf will resist. But in a few mooncrescents, an elf won’t be so bold anymore. Think about that. Spiders wait. Spiders are good at waiting.”

“You’ll be waiting forever.” My back presses against the wall, my hands flat against its rough surface. This is as far as I can go. But what does it matter? There’s no escape. If they decide to attack, they’ll win.

“An elf is naive.”

“Yes,” the one on the left agrees. “So naive, so naive.”

Keep them distracted. Keep them talking. Think! There must be something I can use as a weapon.

“If we’re going to spend all this time together, I’d at least like to know your names. What should I call you?”

“A spider is called úri,” says the larger one on the right, its voice rough and deep, like stone grinding in a cavern.

“Kra,” says the one on the left.

“And what do spiders call an elf?” úri asks.

“Iszaelda.” Maybe giving them my name will make them less likely to eat me. “Can spiders leave an elf alone?”

They exchange several glances, their glossy eyes alive and watchful, dark as black amber. “Spiders are tired. Spiders will agree to leave an elf alone tonight. Sleep. An elf needs it.”

“Thank you.” I let out a slow breath, the tension in my chest easing as I finally tear my eyes from the ceiling, letting my gaze settle on the faint moonlight glinting near the exit.

“Spiders wait. Spiders are patient.”

“Be patient somewhere else. I don’t care where, just not here.”

They twist and hoist themselves toward the ceiling, their movements flickering at the edges of my vision, shrinking smaller and smaller until they disappear into a passage I can’t even see the opening to.

I sink to the ground, stretching out flat, my body heavy with exhaustion. I close my eyes and let go, listening to the distant rustle of pine needles stirred by the night breeze.

It’s been many mooncrescents since I last heard voices. That time, it was mice. But I never spoke back, never tried to engage. I understood what was happening and chose to remain silent.

This time, though, I didn’t know who was speaking. I had to call out.

I was young when it first happened. Five sun cycles. I vividly remember crouching beside the injured owl in the aftendusk of Na’elalirith. Its eyes shone brightly, locking onto mine. I stared back, my thoughts racing, desperate to know what it was thinking.

And then it spoke.

I didn’t reply. Instead, I ran straight into the house, leaving it to fend for itself. I was terrified, frozen by a fear I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know what to do or whether I should tell anyone. In the end, I stayed silent.

No one knows. Not even Naeva.

It shouldn’t be possible to hear animals. No one else can. For years, I’ve built walls in my mind, holding them firm, pretending not to hear, pretending they don’t exist.

The voices. The whispers. The low, muffled murmurs in the night. Minds brushing against the back of my thoughts, scratching faintly. Days can pass, sometimes entire mooncrescents, without me thinking about it, despite my sharp hearing. But then something always breaks through.

An animal that gets too close, too loud. One that catches me off guard.

Like now, while I slept.

Maybe I should be grateful. Consider myself lucky to have this talent, even if the long-awaited ability never arrived on my Silver Day. But it’s not that simple. In Parae, there are abilities we accept and abilities we forbid.

Men are allowed to possess weapons and practice nature magic. Women are permitted to practice nature magic and the gift bestowed upon us at the age of twenty-one. And that’s where it stops.

Abilities from birth? Unacceptable.

Men with abilities? Unacceptable.

Women with more than one ability? Unacceptable.

They’re seen as witches. Something unnatural.

Something dangerous. It’s rare, surreal even.

But it happens, occasionally. What becomes of the affected sun elves, I don’t know.

They’re not allowed to stay. That much is certain.

Keelan has heard they’re banished to Eytherthlarn. Aeralon believes they’re killed.

Communication with animals isn’t an ability gained at twenty-one sun cycles. The approved abilities are tied to nature and ourselves. Nature magic. Always nature magic. Animals are considered separate beings beyond our spectrum. No sun elf possesses abilities that involve them.

None.

To control or communicate with creatures so powerful and immense is classified as one thing: the highest degree of forbidden magic.

Pure black magic. Yet, it doesn’t feel dark.

When I speak to animals, it feels natural and effortless, not like a learned skill or a gifted talent, but something woven into the fabric of my mind. Something that has always been there.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, shadowed and tangled with roots. I’m already imprisoned in the Hollow. It doesn’t get worse than this.

Perhaps it’s time to stop fighting and nurture the gift I was born with.