"Who clipped The Raven's wings?" Mother questioned.
"Not I," said the wind.
"Not I," said the trees.
"Not I," said the stones.
"Who, then?"
Silence fell.
Until, out of Sheol, from the fire he spoke.
"Twas I. He flew too close to the flame."
- Excerpt "Branwen's Lament." from "Tales of the Gods."
Chapter 1
Serle didn't have a last name, a home, an identity. It was the price paid to honor the Goddess of Ravens, Branwen. Serle was happy to disappear into the shadows to protect her people from the dangers that lurk in their depths. What she didn't expect was that the dangers had been in the light all along. They were heat, sand, and the slow decay of her soul.
***
Trailing the marked ones through their morning routine was monotonous; they were habitual, to say the least. The family woke up minutes before the sixth morning bell, ate mush with honey with figs or berries. Left their small flat atop the Master Clocksmith's shop no later than the seventh, then split ways. The man went to gather the cart and hitch the mule, and the woman took their six year old little girl to the sweet bun shop. Serle trailed behind them catching wafts of cinnamon and butter, leaving her mouth watering.
They eventually arrived at the girl's school, where, having finished her bun, she would lick the last remnants of sticky sugar off her fingers. In a desperate attempt to control it spreading, the mother bent down wiping the girl's hands on the underside of her skirt.
Serle kept her distance, pretending to intently peruse blown glass decanters from a traveling merchant's display.
This was the tight routine she had distantly (and intimately) participated in for two months now. She wanted to be bored by the lack of variety in their schedule, but she couldn't resist the steadying warmth of it she told herself this wasn't her living vicariously through them… No, it was her job to observe. So what if it was a little indulgent to enjoy the normalcy of their lives? It felt like a cloak had been placed on her, thawing long forgotten aches.
She blew out heavily through her nose, trying to ignore the nagging guilt.
"Something not to your expectations, madam?"
Serle looked up from the glass bottle she'd been numbly rolling in her palm, at the merchant.. His bright rainbow robes and towering hat, had Serle holding in a laugh.
"No! It's perfectly lovely. Do you have anything in blue?" He lifted a finger in unison with both eyebrows and disappeared behind his tent flap. With the man distracted, Serle could return her focus to the mother and daughter who now stood together near the entrance of the school. She conceded an opening to her magic, and it purred out of her well of power caressing her senses. She smiled at the warm familiarity as her hearing heightened.
"Have a good day, darling." The mother, with her beautiful red hair shining in the sun, kissed her daughter's sticky cheek. The girly giggled and grabbed her mother's face, giving her a large kiss in return. Serle could see the woman trying not to cringe from the gooey residue left behind.
"That's enough my love, you are sweeter than those buns! You know that?"
The little girl squealed as her mum tickled under her arms, then pulled her in for a hug, goo and all. "I love you, little sparrow."
"I love you, mummy."
They held each other there for a long moment. This was when Serle had to look away; it was too hard to watch. She felt their noose cinching in, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Her hand was sewn to the rope against her will, and the monster, her demon, pulled it ever tighter.
Though the sun was already causing the sand to reach scalding beneath her boots, Serle felt a chill. She rubbed her arms.
"Breathe Serle." Bending down she tugged a little too firmly on her laces; when she heard the woman finishing her goodbye.
"Roderick will be picking you up today. Mummy and daddy have to work late in the palace apothecary." The little girl, equally beautiful to her mother, with the same luscious red hair, looked pitifully down at her shoes. Serle's heart wobbled as a quiver started on her pouting lip.
"Mummy, Roderick is stinky."
Serle put a hand to her mouth trying to keep in a laugh. "This child…" she thought incredulously.
Her mother seemed to think the same thing, shaking her head at the girl in exasperation. Serle pulled out a stick of nettle and lit it, trying to gain some composure. She was a lethally trained assassin for gods' sake, but even with years of refining her masks to steely perfection, this little redhaired bean sprout threatened to upend it all.
"Shh, my love." The mother whispered; Serle could see her holding back a smile. Bending down eye-level with the girl, the woman furrowed her brow and tried to seem serious as she corrected her daughter.
"That's not very nice darling. He doesn't stink…per say. He just doesn't smell good."
"Right. He stinks." The girl's large emerald eyes innocently looked up at her mother, who was burying her face in her palms… And Serle choked on smoke meeting a laugh halfway down her throat.
"You alright, Miss?" The glass merchant had returned holding an ornate blue decanter. He looked at her with sincere concern.
"I'm fine." She snapped.
Worried about her loud outburst, Serle looked at the duo out of the corner of her eye. They glanced her way for a moment, but thankfully seemed undisturbed by her.
"Void forsake me. That was too close." She muttered under her breath even as her heart began to steady its beat. Thinking of the consequences of blowing her cover, she absentmindedly rubbed the back of her shoulder, where large raised scars met her fingertips under her black tunic. She flinched as the merchant placed the exquisitely blown bottle on his table. Her eyes flicked to his face and she was met with a look of confused suspicion. "Thank you," she said, pulling out a sack of coins and handing it to the man. His eyes went wide.
"It's too much!"
"Keep it." She walked a few paces from the tent and leaned against a wall. Noticing her nettle stick still burning in her hand, she casually raised it to her lips. She felt the man's eyes on her for a few moments until new curious customers appeared at his table, and it was as if she was never there at all.
Serle rolled her eyes at the merchant, at herself… Embarrassment reddened the base of her neck. Thankfully, she didn't have long to dwell on the embarrassing incident as the loving pair wrapped up their goodbye and the girl entered the preliminary school. Pushing off the wall, she followed the mother, staring at the hem of her forest green skirt skimming the heels of her humble slippers. The woman was heading to the street corner, as she did every day. A wagon full of tinctures and bags of dried herbs waited for her with a massive man at its helm, her husband. He could have been carved from the great cliffs themselves. He lowered a calloused hand to his lovely wife and tenderly helped her onto the cart's bench. The love that passed between them as they took each other in caused Serle's chest to ache.
These peaceful people were gifted alchemists, perhaps the best in the realm. They were gentle, soft-spoken, Stonecallers (earth wielders) from The Isles. They had traveled thousands of miles to come to this decimated sand pit, for a hefty stipend from a greedy, sick king.
Serle wondered if, in their curious den at the king's palace, they ever felt that they were in the same cage she did? Her cage, born of blood and shadow. Theirs, of tinctures and spells. Assassin and alchemist, different bird, same cage.
Serle found a shadowy corner to wrap herself into as she watched the couple round the corner, exiting the congested alley to the main thoroughway. Frustration boiled up in her. The king had never stayed his hand this long and it was putting her on the edge of a knife. She needed to detach from these humble Stonecallers, but it was growing more difficult every day. She stared after them, and smiled sadly.
"What trap have I set for you?"
She felt a weight settle on her shoulders as she turned to leave. The king's intentions toward the family remained unknown. His temperament and impulses were as hot and unpredictable as the flames he wielded. And Serle didn't wish to get burned, but she was afraid the fire was already closing in.