Page 79 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)

“Stop gawking and strip.” Phyona sighed. “I know that I am young, but I am skilled and practiced. Dieve has seen to it that I perfected my craft before I took clients.” She moved around the table and shot a pointed look in Desi’s direction. “But I was unaware that we would have an audience.”

Desi lifted both hands in defense, eyes wide. “Not an audience. An escort, of sorts.”

Once again, the young girl looked to Nymiria.

“Right. I forgot you are a courtesan.” She said the final word with a specific snap to her tone, one that told Nymiria that Owen's sister was probably more aware of what Nymiria truly did inside of that palace and that she was not really a courtesan at all—she was a killer.

Dieve made a sound that was mix between a laugh and choking, her gaze sharpening on the young girl. “Phyona, I’d watch that tongue if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a goddess.” Desi answered. “And because we need your help. We need your help.” She pointed to her ears before gesturing around the room.

Nymiria was so thankful for her. From the moment they walked into that room, it felt as if every thought had shriveled and turned to dust in her mind. She couldn’t even begin to speak, let alone formulate a coherent sentence. What could she possibly say to her?

“A goddess?”

“The Anam, dear. We’ve studied this.” Dieve groaned as she fell into a chair, rubbing over the swollen knuckles on one of her hands. “When one god dies, another is selected out of many suitors to take their place. Nymiria was selected before she was even born.”

Phyona’s hands uncurled from the skirt of her threadbare dress, her shoulders slumping. “Do I bow?”

Finally finding the courage to make her voice heard, Nymiria snorted. “Good gods, no. Never do that.” She laughed, but the amusement soured when her eyes landed on the witch’s table. Knives and needles were scattered about the surface, looking more like a slaughtering slab than anything.

“Don’t look so frightened. I haven’t even seen the runes yet, so there is no telling if they will need to be lanced or not.

” She motioned towards the table. “Undress and lie down, please.” The girl whirled around, giving the rest of the room her back, but Nymiria was aware that it was for her own privacy.

The moment she shrugged out of her cloak, Desi was behind her and tugging at the laces of her gown until she was able to let it pool around her waist. She took slow steps towards the table, her nerves getting the best of her as she looked down at all of the herbs spread around like confetti on the surface.

She drew in a steadying breath before crawling on top of it, laying belly-down.

Phyona moved to the table. She was slow and precise in her steps, her fingers cool to the touch as they traced over each rune.

“Someone must have truly despised you.” Phyona whispered. “There are much cleaner ways to do this work, but these look as if they were rushed and deep. Not only that—“

“She used an old knife.” Nymiria muttered, eyes fluttering closed to stop the flow of tears that were now burning them. “They got infected not long after.”

Phyona nodded. “Dark witches will do that.” She confirmed.

“They believe that infections will help with rooting the rotten magic they planted. And it is true. It causes the runes to heal in misshapen ways, either making them more difficult to reverse or to keep others from reading them properly.” She huffed a breath, blowing a lock of dark brown hair out of her eyes.

“I can read these, though. The magic is darker and deeper than usual, but I know what these are.”

“What do they say?”

“They’re not pagan, that is for sure.” Phyona’s finger swirled in a circle along one of the runes before tracing over the seven overlapping circles in the center.

“This one is for pain.” She sighed. “Physical pain. And telling by the second one, it seems that the physical pain is caused by someone threatening something…” her voice trailed off as she moved to the third rune.

“A protection rune. If I had to guess, it was made with the intent to keep someone specific safe from you.”

Nymiria remembered Camalia pricking her finger and tracing over that certain rune, just before she spit on it.

She once believed that the spitting was a sign of Camalia’s hatred towards her, but perhaps it was a binding element of sorts.

Nymiria relayed this information to Phyona almost immediately, her voice shaking as she spoke.

She was not in pain. She was not heartbroken or dwelling on how lowly that particular moment in her life had made her feel. The tears in her eyes came from the tender touch of the little witch, the sad expression she wore as she trailed over each individual line and curve.

Phyona recited something from memory, over and over again, as she traced the runes with her finger.

Nymiria could feel each one start to warm, as if someone had placed hot stones along her spine.

An eternity seemed to pass, the runes growing warmer, and Phyona’s chanting growing louder until it felt as if Nymiria’s spine were going to melt inside of her body—the hot stone feeling now shifting to white-hot coals.

She let out a small cry, tears spilling from her eyes as she tried scrambling to her feet, but Desi and Dieve were already pinning her wrists to the table.

She struggled against their hold, cursing them, screaming through the pain.

But no amount of thrashing or crying eased the burn she felt at the base of her spine.

The small witch plucked a knife from the table, shouting at Dieve to hold Nymiria tighter as she ran the blade over one of the candles perched nearby.

Before Nymiria could even grasp what was happening, the hot knife was being scraped along her skin, digging deep into the blazing rune.

The stench of something rotten filled the air the moment she felt warm liquid spilling from her back.

Desi heaved at her side, while Dieve only hissed her displeasure.

“What in Cadaith’s name…” The old woman shook her head angrily, baring her teeth at Phyona. “The Black Rot.”

“We have to let it drain.” Phyona spoke urgently, scurrying from place to place to gather what Nymiria could only assume to be herbs and cloths.

“It needs to drain completely, it’s the only way the spell will unbind.

The seed should come out with the drainage.

” She paused for a moment, peering at Nymiria’s sobbing form with sad eyes. “I’m sorry for your pain.”

Desi glanced from Dieve to the young witch, her face crumpled. “What does this mean? Her blood looks like ink. Is this blood or is it something else?”

“Just as babes grow within the nurturing water in a mothers womb, spells are also housed by a source of some kind—something that keeps them alive. The seed is a kernel of magic, the spell. If it is placed into someone like this, it will need a life force to keep it going. The Black Rot is what binds evil magic and essentially becomes the seed’s source.

” Phyona explained. “And this… gods, this is evil magic.” Nymiria did not know much about dark magic, or witchcraft in general.

But the pain of it was so fierce in her body that she forced herself to listen, to grind her teeth through the pain and look at Phyona in the eyes as she spoke.

“It has festered so much, I am surprised that it did not cause more damage. Something like this could kill someone if they tried to go against it.”

“Thankfully, I am not just any someone,” Nymiria growled. “As hard as that might be to believe.”

Phyona made a face as she sprinkled her herbs into a steaming bowl of water.

She let it steep for a moment before dunking the rag into the brew.

“It’s not hard to believe.” She sighed, shaking her head as she rung out the cloth and slowly approached Nymiria.

“Owen believed you were something special, and I believed everything he told me.”

Desi’s grip loosened a fraction at the name. Nymiria could feel the look her friend was giving her, could feel the worry and sadness that oozed from her pores.

“What else did he tell you?” Nymiria asked.

The little witch lifted her shoulder, a small smile toying at the corner of her lips as she pressed the cloth to the rune and began wiping the back sludge off of the incision.

“He told me that you hit really hard, that you were kind, and had beautiful eyes.” She chuckled softly.

“He told me that he loved you. And,” She hesitated, the cloth lifting off of Nymiria’s skin just a fraction.

“He told me that you and Aziel would change the world.”

Aziel.

It was odd that his name popped up in the most inconvenient moments.

Gods, she would never escape him. And a very big part of her did not want to.

It felt like a betrayal. That she was falling in love with him, her pathetic little heart straying further and further from the man who haunted her.

The man she swore would be that last one she would ever love.

The room was silent as Phyona cleaned her.

Eventually, the burn began to subside with much thanks to the herbs and salve the witch applied every half hour.

Dieve and Desi finally relinquished their holds on her, letting her tuck her arms under her head to offer some comfort to her as the wound was dressed.

Phyona and Dieve cut fresh white cloths and wrapped them around her middle, knotting and securing them at her side for easy access if she had to change them herself.

She was instructed to clean the wound and replace the bandage every six hours and to return immediately if she developed a fever.