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Talysse

S unsets are the most dreadful thing. The death of the light is even worse when you know what lurks in the dark, and you hope and pray that you will live to see the sunrise.

When the light starts fading, doors are locked, kids are called home, and animals are herded into the stalls. All eyes turn to the horizon, exploding with orange and pink, and many draw triangles in the dust at their doorsteps—the sacred symbol of the Holy Mountain, home of the Elders.

I scoff. As if any of this could stop those who come with the darkness.

The gilded palanquin glides through the streets like a vision from a lost, better world. The peeling gold leaf catches the last sun’s rays, and the warm breeze billows the curtains like the sails of a ghostly ship. Townsfolk bow as it passes, but I keep my eyes fixed on the mage inside. Glossy black curls, eyes cold as a frozen lake, ruby lips a thin line—she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, though beauty is common among the Fae.

Her impassive features betray nothing. Will the Blessed Light spell hold until dawn? Will her spell be strong enough to protect the city and the fields? The Unseelie mage scolds her servants to hurry up without sparing us, the commoners, a glance.

“May your nights be short, Blessed One!”

“The Elders bless you!” Shouts ripple through the crowd, eyes darting to the sky, lips moving in prayers. More and more townsfolk murmur against the Unseelie oppressors, but mage Eloysse is our only protector and the closest thing to a hero we have in Tenebris. Concerned eyes follow the mage’s procession as everyone tries to guess how long the night will be. The last one spanned over a week. And tonight, something is alarming in the angle the dying light hits the pavement on the market streets, in the way the pigeons grew quiet and disappeared from the roofs of the Temple of the Elders.

Mage Eloysse is running late. A merchant caravan, larger than any seen in Tenebris this year, has just arrived, and she was probably eager for news.

The nights are getting longer. Rumor has it Eloysse’s powers are barely enough to hold our wards against the darkness and keep the Beacon alight. The city has grown too big, its outskirts barely touched by the halo of the Blessed Light, but the Unseelie Governor refuses to send one of his precious mages to help Eloysse. Or he’s doing it on purpose—too many humans means too many eyes spotting the injustice we have suffered from the Unseelie for centuries. A rebellion in the human provinces is the last thing the king needs after the untimely death of his heir and his weakening grip on the crown.

The last crimson rays disappear behind the roofs. For one long moment, the city stands still, holding its breath. Terror trickles down the crumbling walls, gathers in the street corners, and gains flesh in the back alleys. I ball my fists so hard that my nails dig into my flesh. Will the city go down with the last light?

A crackle of magic and golden light erupts from the Beacon, spilling over the city like a shimmering veil. I let out a breath with a hiss. The magical halo unfolds from the Beacon at the heart of Tenebris—the tallest tower—and ripples over the city all the way to the walls and the fields beyond. The sounds of life swiftly return to the streets. Street musicians start a merry tune down the Merchants’ Alley, someone hums, children laugh, and the housewives start dinner.

I tuck a few stray strands into my crown braid and head down the road to the Bountiful Bosom Inn. Everyone loathes the darkness, but the night is the time to make money, and the Elders know that I need it.

Many seek comfort from the dread of the long nights in the company of others. Is there a better way to forget that death lurks beyond the fragile protection of the magical halo than some sweet wine, some loud music, and friendly faces?

Carrying a heavy tray loaded with roasted ribs, honey buns, poppy seed sconces, and chalices dripping with sticky mead, I swiftly meander between tables and patrons. The aroma of the fresh food and the spices makes me drool.

The caravan that has arrived today has lured many townspeople to the inn, and there are many tables to tend to. A caravan is always a reason to celebrate, as Tenebris is too far away from the big cities and the trading routes of Phyllesia. Traveling the Wastelands is becoming increasingly difficult lately. Caravans have their own mages to protect them from the Shadowfeeders and armed to-the-teeth mercenaries to keep the Tainted Ones at bay, as many lose their way in the dark, never to be seen again. Since I was able to walk to the fence of my father’s mansion and peek outside, I’ve wondered how the world beyond the city walls is and was a little jealous of those brave enough to travel. Father has told me of his travels, about the caravan mages taking turns to cast the Blessed Light spell, their portable crystals shrouding the camp tents in a shimmering veil of magic, of terrifying sounds in the night, and clashes with hordes of Tainted Ones. There is a whole world out there, dead, gruesome, and cruel, but also full of marvels like starry skies, oceans, and abandoned cities waiting to be discovered. The itch for the unknown had settled in since my childhood.

“Charred woods, burnt lands, desolated cities, and monsters, lots of monsters,” is all my best friend Myrtle says when I talk about my plan to flee to the Free Cities. She is probably right that there is not much left of the world out there, just the bustling Unseelie metropolises, fattened up by the wealth of the whole realm, but the legendary Free Cities at the shores of the Thynian Ocean have become my only hope. A human autonomy where everyone is free to be what they desire.

Slamming the mead on the table, I startle the newcomers, who utter their thanks with a strange accent. The locals are already buying them drinks, trying to untie their tongues. Everyone craves news from the outside world, as messengers rarely reach us. There’s nothing precious we can offer the Unseelie overlords, so they seem to have forgotten about our existence.

Experience has taught me to instantly recognize different types of travelers. The artists and bards are dressed in colorful and expensive clothes; they tend to splurge on extravagant meals and give generous tips. The merchants are the opposite; they’re wearing inconspicuous but fine garments and keep to themselves. Mercenaries and mages are quite obvious, and I prefer to avoid them. But there are other types of customers tonight, and their presence gives me chills: the Unseelie.

Their too-beautiful faces and the way they look at us are just creepy—as if stripping us of our flesh and staring directly into our minds. Something is stirring in the Unseelie kingdom, but all Fae can rot for all I care. Unseelie and their wretched politics are problems of Magister Deepwell, not of the common townsfolk. From me, Fae have already taken everything they could—my parents and my old life.

I quickly collect the greasy, empty plates and head back to the kitchens, hoping to find Myrtle.

The inn is alive with music—the sounds of flutes, drums, and violins fill the air, making feet tap and smiles bloom. Couples twirl in dance, cheered on by the clapping patrons around them.

Darting among the tables, I serve drinks and steaming plates with food and bat away a few naughty hands. It’s close to midnight when Myrtle finally appears. Elders, she has really made an effort tonight. Her unruly curls are gathered up in an intricate hairdo, and the deep neckline of her dress invites everyone to take a longer look. But the way she scans the men around is purely professional. Just like me, she is here on business. A child out of wedlock has put Myrtle on the streets. Forced to sell her flesh to strangers, she quickly accepted my suggestion for a partnership. If the evening is good, we will meet dawn with a decent amount of coin in our pockets.

Godey Goldtooth flashes his radiant smile behind the bar, pouring drinks and keeping a close eye on us, serving maids. He makes sure that the Bountiful Bosom provides everything a traveler craves after the soul-draining nights in the Wastelands but does not trade with flesh. So, Myrtle and the other girls take their customers to the dark alleys outside, where anything might happen.

The air is thick with the smell of booze, unwashed bodies, and tobacco. The travelers have attracted the usual crowd, starved for news and a good bargain: prostitutes, musicians, beggars, and all kinds of shady opportunists.

The next time I pass by Myrtle, the hands of a skinny stranger are wrapped tightly around her waist, and she winks at me as she stomps her new red slippers in the fiery rhythm of the drums. The candlelight gilds her brown curls, and her dark eyes sparkle with delight. My arms strain from the weight of the mead chalices, but I nod and smile, responding to her signal while navigating the crowd.

The man she dances with is the perfect target. He’s dressed in silvery brocade and probably has just arrived with the merchants’ caravan. The way he gropes Myrtle would have made my blood boil, but I know that Myrtle intends to be groped. It is part of our plan. She’s like those colorful blossoms Friar Ben has told us about, who lure the lost insects to their death. The merchant’s eyes are glazed from the mead, yet I place another chalice in his hand. The more drunk, the better.

Myrtle would exhaust him with dancing and invite him to a more private place later. She always takes our targets to the stables—the place where I’ve been spending my nights since I ran away from the Blessed Dawn orphanage. Depending on their state, she offers them her company, or if they are too sober—I’d join and suggest a game of dice or cards and more drinks. The goal is always simple—getting whatever is in their pockets. Judging by the heavy silver chain with rubies around the man’s neck, this will be one very profitable evening.

The crowd thins after dinner as many patrons take to the streets. There are always artists and musicians traveling with caravans, and there are people already gathering on Red Moon Square. A rare treat has been announced tonight: a puppet spectacle, and the whole city is crackling with anticipation. Each distraction in the dull life in Tenebris is more than welcome.

Myrtle and her companion are still dancing, but she nods at me when I pass by them. Her partner is barely standing on his feet. It is time. After wiping off the last table in my section, I untie my apron and hand it over to Godey.

“I am going to dress up and go to see the show, Godey,” I say while dropping the five copper pieces he gave me in my pocket. What he’s paying for helping out at the inn is enough to buy a piece of bread and some sour apples once a week but not to make a living. He took pity on me years ago and has been turning a blind eye to me sleeping in his stables ever since, but if he knew of my side business, he would hand me straight to the City Guard. Blessed be the Elders; he is not suspecting of my odd partnership with Myrtle.

“Go have your fun, lass,” he rumbles behind the bar as I head to the door.

The familiar smell of hay, laced with manure and horse sweat, welcomes me as I push open the tall plank doors. The stable boys have left already, probably eager to see the show or spend their scant wages at the merchant stalls on the Red Moon square.

The stables are nearly full, caravan horses are deeper in the longhouse, the animals’ breathing and shuffling echoing in the warm air. I throw myself on the hay-strewn floor in my corner next to the door, snuggling in my old blanket.

Elders, I’m tired. And the night is just beginning.

Resting my back against an old saddle, I dim the flame of the lantern. My hand finds the loose floorboard easily and slips underneath. I sigh in relief when my fingers touch my sparse belongings. Some clothes, a lock of my mother’s hair, Tayna’s old doll, a letter my father sent me from one of his many business trips that I know by heart, and most importantly—my purse. Since my sister got adopted by that horrible noble family, and I ran away from the Blessed Dawn orphanage, every coin I came across lands in it. It is our only hope, our way out, our escape. Soon, there will be enough money there to buy us a caravan passage to the Free Cities, where I can find a job, and Tayna can go back to school like a twelve-year-old girl should. By the hell pits of Atos, the night is so promising that it could be tonight!

A cackle makes the horses prick up their ears and snort. Myrtle is finally coming.

Slamming the loose plank down, I cover it with straw just when the door flies open, and she stumbles in, supporting the stranger she was dancing with. His hands are all over her tight bodice as they walk past me, my friend whispering something in his ear. They stumble deeper into the stables, and when the merchant leans into her neck and grabs her ass, Myrtle throws me a look over her shoulder. It is one of those looks we women use to communicate with other women only. He is totally drunk, her black eyes tell me. He will pass out soon. I give her a thumbs up, and they leave the light circle of the only lantern here.

Soon, it will be my turn.

I snuggle in my blanket, blending in with the straw and the grooming tools scattered around, the straw poking my skin under my worn-out cotton dress. I pretend to be asleep but watch carefully what’s happening under my half-closed eyelids.

The weight of the man is pulling her to the floor. Good. The sooner he passes out the easier for me and Myrtle. It will be over fast, and hopefully, we’ll get to see the puppet show and make some more money. There are two possible scenarios for this situation: if he passes out, we will just relieve him of his possessions and let him sleep it off. The other option is he stays awake and gets frisky. Then I’d pretend to wake up, startled by the noise, and offer them a game of dice or cards while he ingests the amount of alcohol needed to pass out. Then we’re going to check the contents of his pockets.

It has always worked so far. We have targeted travelers and rarely local men. All of them were too drunk to remember anything and assumed they lost their coin gambling. The business has been going great for two years, and Myrtle was able to rent a small room across the inn and take good care of her baby boy.

Should we take the heavy silver chain off his neck? There’s a pawn shop in the back alleys, and its owner never asks questions. Worth considering. An alarming thud from the shadows where Myrtle and the man went startles the horses. A grunt, some shuffling, and a muffled moan confirm my suspicion that something is not right.

Knowing every plank in these stables, makes it easy to sneak around the murky light from the lantern hanging high on the beams to the dark outline of two intertwined bodies on the floor.

The brocade tunic of the merchant is ruffled as he is struggling to stay on top of Myrtle. His white, bony fingers are rolling her skirt up. He looks far more sober than before, but the really alarming thing is the silvery glimmer of something pressed against her neck.

Elders.

He’s holding a knife.

Myrtle spots me over his shoulders, and we have another wordless conversation.

“I am fine,” her dark eyes say, “go ahead and do your part while he is busy.”

I believe her. Women in her line of work can protect themselves. A well-aimed kick in the groin always works, especially when they expect you to be helpless.

Proceed with the plan, she winks.

I drop and crawl nearer, soundless as a shadow. The man grunts, his blade not so close to her neck now. We all know that type. They like it rough and need an extra kick to do the deed. His pants slip down his thighs, and Myrtle’s eyes urge me to get closer.

My fingers crawl closer to his pants, and she points her chin to the left. So, this is where he keeps his money. When I landed on the streets, pickpocketing was the first available career option for someone that young, but I never took to it. After completing the training of some older kids with moderate success, it became obvious that I am lacking something essential to be a good thief: inconspicuous looks. People always noticed and remembered the odd white strand in my raven black hair and my unusually bright eyes, so different than the blonde and hazel-eyed Satreyans like Tayna. So, years ago, I dropped pickpocketing for far more lucrative and complex schemes.

My hand snakes into his pocket, and I grin at Myrtle when I feel the cool, hard touch of silver. It’s Free Cities’ money, easy to tell by the relief of the coins, but silver is silver anyway, even if it is not Unseelie money. Half of the dozen coins should suffice, slip my wrist out, and prepare to crawl back into the shadows. That was easy.

Myrtle’s legs, sprawled around the merchant’s bare ass, are suddenly stiff. That cannot be good. Peeking over his brocade jerkin, my breath hitches. The blade is leaving a bloody trail over the olive skin of my friend. Panic creeps into her wide-opened eyes.

My plan to crawl away and then pretend to enter the stables, faking a loud surprise, is immediately abandoned.

I react without thinking and regret it instantly. Acting on impulse, I grab the man’s legs, attempting to yank him off Myrtle. Startled, he drags the blade down between her breasts, cutting deeper before he realizes what’s happening. Then he swiftly rolls over and slashes the air just inches away from my bodice, his eyes mad but sober.

“Are you trying to rob me, you stupid whore?” he snarls, unclear if he means Myrtle or me.

I am on my feet, considering whether to run and call for help—the inn is just a hundred feet away, and the merry music spills into the night. But a bloodied, confused Myrtle, her face twisted by pain, struggles to stand up, and a tide of primal rage floods my common sense.

No way she stays alone with this madman. He is up and slashes the air with his blade, and I almost stumble backward, stunned by his ferocity. “Atos take you,” I curse, and just like that, what was a normal evening turns into a fight for our lives.

He slashes again, a mad smile curling his thin lips. Leaping back, I raise my fists defensively, and he snorts. As if they would protect me against the ten-inch razor-sharp blade.

“I bet you didn’t expect that, right?” He leaps forward, the knife slicing my sleeve open and nearly cutting the flesh beneath. “You think I haven’t figured out the little game you two are playing?” I let him talk and drop to the floor to avoid another swing, delivering a well-aimed punch in his thigh. The man gasps, and for one brief moment, I nearly burst out in cackle. If it weren’t a life-and-death brawl with a madman, it would have looked ridiculous, as the man is naked from the waist down and trips frequently in his pants.

Then he makes an odd gurgling sound and stumbles back.

Myrtle hangs for her dear life on his back, her bloodied forearm pressed against his throat. He recovers fast and throws himself with all his weight to the floor, crushing her under his weight. He swiftly turns around, facing the now unconscious Myrtle, and raises his blade.

This could end so badly.

“I will cut you open now, then your friend. And rest assured, nobody would miss two thieving whores; even if they do, I will pay my way out, just like I always do—” He hisses through clenched teeth, pure hatred lacing his voice.

There has to be a way to clean up that mess, as there are certainly people who’d miss us. Myrtle’s young son, who has just started walking and is the main reason she’s agreed to that little scheme of ours, and my gentle, golden-haired young sister, who would be married off to the highest bidder if I don’t find a way to get her out of the greedy claws of her adoptive family. If only this rabid dog could see this; if he could understand that the brutal life out there has shaped us into what we are, that without money, we are all doomed, stuck and waiting here for the Fae to summon their mage back and leave us unprotected in these long, hopeless nights.

Yet, I decide to save my breath. Men like him have preyed on women like us since the dawn of time. He thinks himself superior, a predator, stalking the nameless and voiceless people like us. If we die, the City Guard won’t waste time investigating. One wrong step, and we will be just two corpses carted to the Gallows Hills’ pits—the mass grave for poor sods like us.

Death comes quietly and swiftly for the commoners of Tenebris. And in some cases, it is even welcomed by the deceased one’s family and neighbors. One less mouth to feed, less precious space to occupy under the magical halo.

Well, if he’s a predator, he’s a weasel, not the lion he thinks he is, and it is time to teach him a lesson. The streets are a hard teacher, a brutal lover; they beat into all of us the simple lesson to never show vulnerability. There are too many like this bastard who get drunk on the feeling of being in charge. Myrtle knows that very well, too; that’s why she didn’t fret when the weasel held the blade to her throat.

It’s time to show him that he has picked the wrong nameless women to mess with.

Fists against a knife are bad odds, so it’s time to fight dirty, too. Time ceases to exist when I close my eyes. The stables dissolve into nothingness. Ancient power thrums from the depths of the silvery lake in my mind. Its still, heavy waters reflect strange constellations, spelling my name. The magic within calls to me, tempts me, stirring a visceral hunger for something indescribable—like the cryptic message of a dream that seeks one out every night, elusive, yet persistent.

This magic simmering beneath the heavy waters is a tantalizing promise of power that I have struggled to resist since childhood. Mother and Father, aware of the danger it poses, had taught me to conceal my gift.

When you’re born with the rarest commodity on Phyllesia, you have a bullseye painted on your back. Not all mages end on gilded palanquins like Eloysse.

But right now, a blade hovers over Myrtle’s heaving chest, so I let the deep hum of the waters resonate with my bones, down to my marrow. Answering its siren’s call is easy, and its power crawls along my veins, fills my insides, and blurs my mind.

The world quickly gains its shape back; its contours are sharper than ever. My fingers flash shimmering claws as I unleash the scorching power thrumming within me. The merchant is hurled across the stables and lands against a wooden beam, snapping it like a toothpick. His knife is lost somewhere in the straw. He lets out a pained gasp and then lies sprawled like a rag doll.

By the Elders, is he dead?

Silver sparks still shower in the stale air like specks of dust in the sunlight, and the horses have grown unnaturally still.

“Talysse,” Myrtle calls me softly, struggling to stand up. I kneel next to her, pressing my sleeve to the cut on her chest. “Did you kill him?” she asks, shaking just a little. Terror surfaces in her last words, visions of gallows and nameless graves, of our loved ones tossed into cruel fates.

Overcoming my natural instinct to run is not easy. Helping Myrtle up, we drag ourselves to the motionless man. She disgustedly pokes his pale thigh with her red slipper.

“The bastard is still alive, Talysse.” She spits on the floor and points at his evenly rising chest. She drags a bloodied hand over her face and brushes the straw off her skirt.

“Let’s pray he won’t remember a thing. He can twist the story and tell that we have attacked him, and the City Guard would rather favor his version than ours. Did you,” her voice drops to a whisper, “use your gift?”

A gift, she calls it, as the word “magic” is dangerous, even this deep into the provinces of the Unseelie Kingdom. Though curse is a more fitting name for that silver lake that lets me borrow its spells when things get tight.

Mages are nearly extinct since the Elders unleashed the Hex upon our world and left us all to fend for ourselves. As soon as one is identified, it’s reported straight to the Unseelie Governor. Their fate after is unclear—they are either tossed into the deadly Nightfall Trials or taken to the Unseelie court for “training,” never to be seen again. At least the humans. Lost are the powerful spells of the old days when mages could split mountains, summon armies of spirits, move oceans, and create objects out of thin air. Fae and humans alike are left with some defensive and weapon-conjuring spells and the Blessed Light, the cruel gods’ only mercy. The couple of spells I wield are at the level of a village fair magician, but they grant me the element of surprise and have saved me more than once.

“Don’t worry, Myrtle. I bet his ego is too fragile, and he won’t tell anybody that he got beaten up by—how did he call us? Whoring thieves?”

Laughter is the best medicine, and we cackle like two mad witches over the unconscious merchant at our feet. If someone sees us right now, we’d certainly end up at the Gallows Hills.

“Come to my room, Talysse,” Myrtle pleas as we prepare to head out. “Then we will see.”

“The night is still young.” I peek out of the stable doors. The crescent of the moon is still high beyond the golden veil of protective light cupping the city. The warm breeze carries music and laughter from the Red Moon square. “The caravan is still here; think of all the possibilities. But you need to get back home, Myrtle. Clean that wound up.”

She tosses me a long, silent look, wiping the blood off her neck and cleavage with the hem of her skirt. “You’re right. I am done for tonight. Be careful, Talysse,” she says and slips into the night.

“You too. See you later,” I whisper back and retreat to the dark corner where I keep my belongings. Cold sweat trickles down my brow as I hurriedly change into my best clothes. The last thing I need now is for that psychopath to come back to his senses. The Elders are merciful because he is still out when I throw one last look from the door, and the planks around him are slightly charred—the telling sign of magic.

After splashing my face with cool water from the barrel left for the horses at the stables’ entrance, I braid my hair again. The need to see Tayna guides my steps in the opposite direction of Red Moon Square. Just one more hit—one big one—and we will be taking the next caravan to the Free Cities. Then this weasel can whine to the City Guard as much as he wants, and her calculating adoptive parents can find another kid to groom into the perfect bride to sell.