The Forest of Fate: Vale of Stars Prequel Novellas, #2

1

Whispers on the Wind

The Grace is coming.

The whispers floated across the island like the wicked winter winds. They crept through cracks in the walls and eddied around huddled groups of people. They stoked tempers and raised suspicions. The island city of Pyscoria had been on knife’s edge since the mayor had plummeted to his death a fortnight earlier. Two weeks in which whispers turned to suspicions and suspicions to pointed fingers.

The Grace is coming.

Ariella squeezed her shoulder blades together, then dropped them, trying to force the tension from her body as she hunched over the planting bed. She’d almost crushed the roots of the delicate goldenrod seedling. The skinny white filaments were bent, but not broken. She lowered it softly into the moistened earth of the raised bed and gently scooped the soil around it.

She watched the seedling eagerly. Come on, come on, she muttered, patting it gently. Even in here, her safe place, in the soft, warm light of the greenhouses, she could feel those fingers pointed right at her.

And worse, it seemed even her magic couldn’t bear to be near her.

The seedling simply sat there in the earth, not doing anything. Stubbornly not growing.

Aaargh, she growled at the damp, blank soil. She resisted giving the seedling another poke. She’d planted eight new beds – a hodgepodge of herbs and flowers – and not a single seed had reacted to her.

Her magic had disappeared as quickly, and as mysteriously, as it had manifested. And she couldn’t shake the small, niggling feeling that it had disappeared because of what she had done.

Who wanted to associate with a murderer?

Especially a mostly unrepentant one.

The memories of the bruises on her friends were too fresh in her memory for her to properly regret the Mayor’s death; only that she had been the instrument of it, however unintentional. And now her mother – Grace of the Vale, fabled protector, destined defender of the people and a thousand other flowery titles that described the responsibility, but never the woman – was coming to investigate.

Which just went to show: things could always get worse.

She turned back to her planting. The rest of the seedlings went in much more quickly now that she’d given up on trying to force her magic into them, although she was careful of the delicate roots. A late winter storm raged, the dark outside a stark contrast to the golden bulbs that shed light and heat throughout the greenhouse. The warm, steady glow made it impossible to tell the time, but her stomach was firmly insisting that it was ready for lunch.

If she was quick, she might even catch Prell.

The front corner of the greenhouse housed an odd collection of plush, overstuffed chairs, all turned to face the small wood-burning stove. The low scuffed table held a flask and a sandwich wrapped in the striped wax paper of the bakery where Prell was apprenticed.

It seemed she’d missed lunch. And Prell.

The disappointment curled into something darker in her belly. Prell hadn’t called her. She’d seen less and less of him over the last few days, and he hardly stayed for lunch anymore, only dropping a quick kiss on her cheek if she happened to bump into him. He claimed the bakery was busier since his fellow apprentice had taken a week off to visit family for the midwinter solstice and just never returned.

No matter how she tried to time it to catch him at lunchtime, his damned luck kept him out of her way. She’d never resented it before, but now that it was keeping him from her, she almost wished his timing wasn’t so good.

At least he still brought her lunch.

Sighing, Ariella picked up the sandwich and nibbled at the corner of it, her appetite gone. She nestled into the plum velvet chair closest to the fire, fully prepared to let herself wallow in her feelings for a few minutes. In this one small space, she could just be. She wasn’t the destined heir to a vast quantity of magic. She wasn’t a fabled protector. And although she was still a murderer, there were no whispers here.

She didn’t have to be strong or wear the carefully inscrutable mask she’d learnt after years of being treated like a pawn in a vast political game.

Here, in the warm, verdant greenhouses, she was just Ariella. Murderer, potions-maker and the best at transplanting seedlings – even without her magic.

She’d come to count on these lunches with Prell. They were the bright spots, something normal, a time free of those pointed fingers and vicious whispers, that she desperately needed. A small, daily distraction from the destiny that lay like a shadow over her life.

The Grace is coming.

Unbidden, the image of the mayor’s surprised face as his neck snapped came to mind. Ariella sighed and re-wrapped her sandwich. It was no use. No matter how many times she told herself that he deserved it, that the town was better off without his hands on serving girls, she couldn’t rid herself of the guilt of killing him.

Perhaps she wasn’t so different from her mother after all.

But that didn’t mean she wanted to see her anytime soon.

Pushing the uncomfortable thought aside, she brushed down her skirts and went in search of Yora. She couldn’t think about the mayor. She didn’t want to think about her mother. And Yora was always pleased to have help with the potions, especially as the winter colds and influenza continued their inexorable march through the town.

The potions room was at the back of the greenhouse – a narrow room, crowded with jars and pouches and hundreds of little cupboards made of tiny bronze drawers, each exuding its own specific botanical scent. It overlooked the tumultuous Crystalline River, and on a clear day, you could see all the way to the Cliffs.

Yora had started teaching her potions as soon as she as she was comfortable with the hoard of herbs they grew. The room was a favourite of Ariella’s. But potions were tricky things. They were never exact, the formula changing ever so slightly based on the phase of the moon, the season, how the wind was blowing, and even the mood of the brewer. A bad potion could ruin lives, so Ariella had been surprised to find that she was actually good at it, but Yora had smiled knowingly and simply passed on more of the work.

The older woman looked up as Ariella entered the room, the corners of her eyes crinkling into a genuine smile. It was the same smile she’d given Ariella when she’d offered her a home – open and accepting. Everything her mother wasn’t.

I was just about to come see if Prell was done yakking your ear off, Yora said. Ariella managed to keep her smile in place, despite the downward swoop of her heart, and slid onto the tall wooden stool next to Yora without a word. As unofficial potions master for the island city, Yora had enough worries. The demand was so high they’d barely kept up with it. And each short or missed order had very real consequences for the sick. She didn’t need the added stress of whatever was going on between her son and Ariella.

Determined to ignore the small, hard ball of anxiety in her stomach, Ariella reached for a pile of dried catchweed leaves and the mortar and pestle. They fell into an easy rhythm of crushing, stewing, and bottling. They’d been spending long days in the potions room together to keep up with demand. Yora’s potions weren’t as potent as those from Adron, the potions master in Ystellia, but they were the best available in Pyscoria. Trade with Ystellia had almost trickled to a stop these days, which meant fewer potions and luxury items. Pyscoria had fallen increasingly out of the Grace’s favour.

One more thing for Ariella to feel guilty about. She’d been the subject of her mother’s wrath long enough that she couldn’t imagine a world without it, but she would do whatever she could to spare others from it.

I received a message this morning, said Yora offhandedly, her voice as falsely light as the tinkle of her silver spoon in the glass container she was stirring. Your mother’s just left Ystellia. She’ll be here in—

Two days, said Ariella.

That meant two more nights of freedom. If her mother didn’t rush. If she didn’t use the Paths.

It was hard to breathe, hard to think. She jumped as Yora placed a soft hand over hers. She’d stopped grinding the next batch of catchweed without realising it.

Sorry, she said, and quickly mashed the marble pestle into the slim, hairy leaves. Yora’s hand closed over hers, stopping the motion.

Elle, she said softly, look at me.

But she couldn’t. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes at the nickname. It represented everything she’d found in Pyscoria – a home, a purpose, and for the first time in her life, love. And she’d broken it.

Her mother was coming.

Yora placed her hands on Ariella’s shoulders and drew her gently round until she was facing the older woman.

Look at me, said Yora again, her voice kind. Look at me, and take some deep breaths. She took one herself as an illustration. Ariella copied her, her breath catching at first in short, sharp gasps – but gradually, with Yora’s calm eyes watching her, she managed to slow her breathing. Her heart slowed too, the panic subsiding, but not disappearing. It lay under the surface of her skin, coiled and ready to spring.

She ignored it. She was becoming an expert at ignoring things.

Yora let go of her face and sat back on her own stool. You can tell me. You will always have a home with me for as long as you need it, no matter what happened at Endorian’s home.

But she couldn’t. She was a murderer. Even Prell, who had fiercely defended her on the day, now couldn’t look at her. Instead, she stretched out her hand, palm up, flexed her fingers gently, and whispered, The magic is gone.

As much as the memory of that snap and Endorian’s suddenly slack face haunted her, it was this that kept her up at night. The magic was everything.

Yora put her own hand over Ariella’s and, with the other, nudged her chin up until she was looking into her eyes.

Maybe. said Yora calmly.

The well of despair in Ariella’s chest opened up and sucked all the emotion out of her until she was numb, the ends of her fingers tingling faintly.

Maybe, said Yora again, But I doubt it. The magic of this world is too old and too canny to disappear so quietly. The Vale of Astyria has been protected for so long that we can’t even chart the full line of Graces back to the founding. We’ve survived the fall of Cythia.

She cocked her head and smiled gently, The magic isn’t gone, Ariella. But I have no doubt that winning it over won’t be an easy task. And then, of course, there’s learning to use it. That’s an entirely different matter.

Ariella swallowed. The plants don’t respond to me anymore. Ever since— She stopped. The wet thud of Endorian’s body as it fell several stories echoed through her mind. She didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t think about it.

Yora squeezed her hand. "I won’t push you, Elle.