The Seasons of Salt

Chapter Twelve

The child was a chore. Aliya of the Tenth rearranged her handle on the squawking incomprehensible babe awkwardly, but it wriggled and thrust itself about as if it wished to be thrown to the floor. She did not even know how old the stupid thing was in mortal years. It was old enough to walk unaided, toddling around too fast whenever she put the wretched thing down, tripping over the once-white long-clothes the mortals clad their young in. Old enough, too, to grab at things it should not and shove them in its mouth, the pearly teeth within impossibly small. It was old enough to gurgle the odd word or two, though its petty baby lisp was almost unintelligible and pull at handfuls of Aliya’s long ebony hair if she did not get attention quickly enough. Old enough to almost choke on the lumps of raw meat she had tried to feed the damned thing with.

After an unsuccessful day of trying to get the beast to eat anything at all, every moment fearing the creature would die and N’Hara’s last sacrifice would be for nothing, Aliya had discovered quite by accident that the mortal would eat brambleberries. Urach did not touch berries much, as a rule, except sometimes for potions and poultices. The child had grabbed them in fat and squishy hands, never minding the thorns, and mulched them between her fingers, smearing them all over that fat pink face as she tried to force them in her ever-greedy, demanding little mouth.

“You are not an urach,” Aliya had told her sternly. “Not really. You hold our magics safe within your frail mortal body, but you are not one of us.”

The child had cooed at her uncomprehendingly, and Aliya had hated it all the more.

The circles upon her forehead had washed clean now, as if they had never even been there, and Aliya sometimes found herself doubting that the wretched little monster even had the magics in there at all. What if that fatal sacrifice had failed? What if it was all for naught? If only the rings of blood had stained her permanently, or if only the cursed little child had been changed in someway. If it had grown the tusks of the Tusks or the fangs of the Blackfangs, the large, hard feet of the Hard Souls, or the overlarge eyes of the Eyes. If it only looked like an urach. If it only looked a little less like the mortals that were hunting and killing them all. How could it expect her to tenderly care for it, when it was making it so damnably hard? The child’s hair was thin and tangled still, curls of flame licking the nape of her neck, making her podgy pink forehead look even bigger. There was plenty of space there for those circles to remain. It had chosen to lose them deliberately. It had not sprouted the thicker hair of the older youths. An ugly thing, even by mortal standards.

Aliya fashioned a sling out of her shawl and stuffed the beast into it pell-mell, making the child complain and shout. One of the few words Aliya could recognise was “no”. The child shouted it regularly enough, grabbing fistfuls of Aliya’s hair and tugging at them hard until Aliya longed to bite them off at the wrist. The little child made her limbs go straight and stiff until Aliya thought it might fall out of the sling entirely, but the journey was long and it was too far for the wretched burden to walk. She would just have to sulk and tantrum.

The child did not have much stamina. It gave in with a bad grace and rested its head upon Aliya's chest. She would be asleep again soon. She always fell asleep after her latest bout of insolence.

Aliya slung the rest of her meagre belongings, bundled into her spare cloak and knotted at the top, over her shoulder and stared at the forest’s edge, waiting for her.

She had lingered too long. Already raiders had ridden through the boundaries of Gwyllt De. Something they had never been able to do before, even had they so dared. The old magics which had swollen the trees to thick dense shades and crackled like lightning through the earths beneath, had seeped away now, like puddles on a hot summer’s day. The protections were gone. Mayhap they would regrow of their own accord – for even if the urach had not the powers to access them, the forest still ebbed and flowed with its own peculiar currents – but for now they were gone, and mortals could cross the borders of the forest unimpeded.

And now that they knew that they could, those self-same mortals would be sending back for the full force of their might and come scalding the sacred forest to the ground. She had to get out before that happened, she knew, but so many of her kind had already been caught as they fled the forest boundaries. She struggled to steel her nerve against the wide open skies of the mortal lands.

Truthfully, she did not know where to go. Aridshire was the most obvious choice. It was as far as possible from the Gwyllt De forests, and their presence there would be less suspect, besides which it had the least number of natural rivers and springs to wind their way around laboriously. But it was far too close to dragon country, and despite their newfound and uneasy alliance, urach and dragons did not always see eye to eye. Dragons were haughty and condescending creatures, who thought themselves too far above the other magic users of the lands. Besides which, they ate mortals, which was disgusting. Bleed them, certainly, devour their dreams and their ashes on your bonfires, but eating them? Even Blackfangs did not do that. Besides, she would be posing as a mortal herself, and had no desire to end up as a dragon’s meal, even if she did prove poison to the fire-beast.

There was always Bridgenford. It was the largest of all the counties and would be the hardest for the little mortal Lords to control. It was crawling with rivers, of course, but mayhap that would be a boon. It would be as good as a disguise to live there, no urach would live there by desire...but she could not bear the thought of being hemmed in.

The Starfire Islands and the Floating City were, of course, out of the question. The mortal would be able to cross the salt-seas, but Aliya herself could not. The Horseplains were too close, they knew the ways of the urach too well and would be too likely to recognise her as one of them. She was running out of options.

Halfnorth, the Swell and the Sunset Edge she dismissed in turn. There was always the Brenin Penisula, if she so dared. The thought raised a smile to her lips, as she imagined the urach weapon being raised within the walls of the mortals’ own castle. Or there was the Flats. Neither were over appetising to her. Nothing was, except the call of the forest she had to leave behind, to tell the truth. And yet she could not stay in Gwyllt De, and so find somewhere else she must. There was naught else to do for it.

The Sunset Edge would be easier, it would be a straight run up across the mainland to the western coastline, barely having to swerve past rivers at all, but the Sunset Edge was Storm-bringer land, and it did not appeal to her. She was not sure she could face the swell of power those fish-tailed squid-eaters grew with. Stolen power. Urach power. They’d drag her down and drown her if they could and she’d not like to give them the chance.

She’d have to cross right up to Halfnorth and come back down the other side to the Flats if she wanted to bypass Bridgenford, which unhelpfully dissected the country right across the middle like a flitch, but the Flats was the only one of the nine counties which was completely landlocked. Mayhap that would mean that most of her sisters would stray for it, mayhap that would make her more likely to be caught. She growled under her breath. Why could not N’Hara have left her more detailed instructions? Why could not the Uncrowned Queen have found some way to maintain the protections of Gwyllt De, even if the rest of the magics around them had fallen? Was it not enough to have lost all of their powers at once, did she also have to lose her homeland and her security?

The child squirmed in her arms again sleepily, and Aliya glared at it.

“This is your fault,” she told it sternly, though even she was generous enough to realise this was a lie. She sighed. The Flats it was then.

She still did not move. She yearned again for her dreams, as she did relentlessly throughout these troubled days. The daylight played through the tree tops in dappled shade, sinking into golds and reds like the sky beyond had been set to fire. When it was dark she would go. Of course, a woman wandering through the dark alone was sure to rouse suspicion, but then a woman walking boldly out of the forest in daylight would only confirm those suspicions. There was no right answer here, and she felt pitifully trapped. It was a two, maybe even a three week walk from the Gwyllt De up to the top of Bridgenford for a mortal, but Aliya could hopefully do it in a lot less. She rarely had need of sleep, and needed to stop for food and bodily comforts a lot less often than mortals did too. If she pushed on continuously, she could get to The Flats in maybe nine days. Fourteen, if she took it slowly.  

She hitched the child up against her skin and stared upwards through the canopy at the dying light.

A fortnight. She’d be at her new home in a fortnight. That was not so bad, after all, was it?

The leaves above her called her a liar, and she could not contradict them.

*****

“What a beautiful child!”

Aliya had to stop herself from flinching at the sound of it. Going had been…slow. Painful. She laughed bitterly to think of her old optimism. She had imagined it would be easy to walk the length of the land. She did not need to eat or sleep. She did not need to search for fresh water springs to drink deeply from.

But the damnable beast needed feeding constantly. And drink. And washing. The wretched thing reeked perpetually unless she sluiced it clean in the rivers and puddles, holding it delicately up by hands so that she did not splash any of the salt-water on herself. The child delighted in being submerged in the frigid water and droplets of it had landed on Aliya as she had tried to dry the cursed thing, leaving great raised welts on her smooth skin.

Besides which, though she tried to pass through towns and villages as quickly as she could, folks started noticing her if she did not stop occasionally at the travellers’ inns, and they noticed especially if she walked brazenly through in the middle of the night. She had been chased thrice, only narrowly avoiding the night guards and the watchmen, pelting away like a fox before a hound, before she realised that it was her unusual level of stamina that drew people’s attention. So now she had to at least pretend to sleep at night, like a pathetic mortal, at least if she was within sight of any mortal homes. She slept out under the stars, in hedgerows and copses. Several times she had been directed to a Mercy House, but the thought of being hemmed in under the same roof and locked doors as mortals turned her stomach with fear. She’d rather risk the wrath of passing strangers than dedicate herself to the close contact of the sanctuary houses. All the same, it made the going slow. She avoided villages all together, if she could help it, but sometimes she could not.

Brackenbridge, this little collection of tumble-down cottages and a hangman’s square, was the only way past the river Umber without crossing it directly. She’d tried to go through as quickly as possible, but it was some sort of market day today, and she’d been accosted by a farmer’s wife as she reluctantly purchased a carrot or two for the greedy little encumbrance. She’d stolen some mortal coin half a dozen villages back when a drunken merchant had fallen asleep outside an inn. It had been a risk, but it made encounters like these less conspicuous. Everybody knew that the urach only ate meat and blood. Buying vegetables was a reassuringly mortal thing to do, and it put people’s mind to ease about the strange wandering woman passing through their village especially in these troubled times.

But it did mean interactions like this, unfortunately.

The mortal cooed sickeningly as she scurried around from the back of her cart hastily. She wiped her hands on her dirty apron and then squidged her finger into the burden’s cheek, which made it coo back in turn. Urach babes never cooed like that. Even as little infants they never squealed and giggled and gurgled like something half mad.

“She does not bear your face much, does she?” The nosy intruder asked, sending a sharp glance over Aliya’s dark hair and and the beast’s ivory-and-rose blotches. “Takes after her Da, does she?”

She was a fat old woman, her children must have children of their own by now. Her hair was thick grey and bound back. She must be nearing the end of her brief and useless mortal life, which was probably why she was filling her time with inane questions and pointless curiosity in another’s business.

“Aye,” Aliya said shortly, in what she hoped was a discouraging tone. She offered the burden one of the carrots, and the beast cooed again shoving the thing into her mouth and scraping her little white teeth against it happily. That old mortal biddy beamed beatifically.

“She’s liking that now, isn’t she? Mine would never touch carrots. I always told them ‘tis a crime to waste food when it’s so scarce to be found, but they never listened to me, and nearly most all of them grew to adulthood, so I suppose as it did not do them much harm. Still, it’s not always easy finding food for hungry little mouths, is it, sweetness?” Her voice had gone back up into that sickening babble as she turned back to the child. It took all of Aliya’s strength not to twist her mouth or lose the contents of her stomach (stolen lamb from a field last night, ripped apart and devoured hastily. She’d not need to eat again for another week now).

She wanted to say that the cursed beast did not understand what she was saying to it anyway, so the mortal ought to save her breath, but she thought this might break the tenuous ruse, somehow. She held her tongue. The mortal did not.

“Why! Look at those gnashers! I’ve never seen prettier pearls! You must be so proud!” Her voice dropped back to normal for that last sentence, looking back to Aliya. Aliya forced herself to smile, though all the while her skin was crawling. This mortal was excruciating. If she had just had a drop left of her magics, she would have woven some nightmare around the babbling i***t and walked right past her whilst she scratched her own skin off, trying to peel off the leeches that crawled over her, or threw herself down the well to escape the horde of hornets buzzing overhead. Without her powers, what was she? What good was a Wraith without her dreams?

“Yes,” she said instead through gritted teeth. “Very. Thank you. I suppose I had better be going now.”

“Well now, where are you headed for then?”

“Halfnorth.” True enough, at least for now, and though this nosesome old besom would like never walk past the edge of this wretched little village, it seemed safer than admitting she was heading for the Flats, just in case she had the law sent upon her. “I have kin there. Now that my own husband is dead, I return to my Seedsire’s folk for support.” She added, when this did not seem to be enough.

“Your what?” The woman laughed and Aliya felt herself blushing. She had been so focused upon saying ‘husband’ as the mortals did, that she forgot they also said ‘father’.

“Oh,” she lied hastily, “That is a Halfnorth saying. You’d probably not have heard it here.”

The old biddy squinted at her suspiciously.

“Halfnorth is a long way from here. How did you end up so far from home anyway?”

“My husband…travelled. I travelled with him.” She felt the sweat prickling on her brow at her inexpert falsities. She wished she knew more of mortal ways; or at least, that she never had had cause to rue her cherished ignorance. “I have a long way to go, as you have noted. Pray, excuse me.”

The woman stared at her for a moment. She held out a hand to stop Aliya departing, blocking the roadway with her large body. Unless Aliya wanted to cause a scene, she could not move past her. She felt panic rousing within her desperately.

“What’s your name?” The farmer’s wife asked suddenly.

“Aliya of the,” she hastily turned it into a cough as she realised what she’d done. “Offler. Aliya Offler.”

“Your husband was a travelling butcher?”

“No – no, that was, that was before we travelled. Excuse me, I must go.” Desperation seared in her voice and she knew she was making it worse but she could not think what else to do. The woman grabbed hold of her hand hard.

“What’s the name of that babe then?” She said sharply. Aliya stared back at her in panic. Foolishly, it had not even occurred to her to name the child anything. The child must have had a mortal name, but she did not know what it was. She had just been calling it beast, or wretched thing, or burden if she needed to call it anything at all. Not a single mortal name came to mind. The only name she could think of was N’Hara and that would not do at all.

“Urach!” The woman screeched suddenly, clutching hold ever more tightly to Aliya’s arm with one hand and trying to wrestle the burden free with the other. “Urach! Stealing a child! Urach!”

Aliya stared at her for a moment more in shock, and then burst into panicked action. She shoved the interfering busybody with all her might, sending the woman stumbling to the floor hard enough to hit her head upon the pebbles beneath. Good. Maybe she’d knock herself out.

No such luck, the woman carried on screaming desperately as Aliya sprinted down the road, wishing futilely for her dreams to come back just one more time. She spared a glance over her shoulder and saw a distant commotion as someone was hurrying over to the fallen woman and the mortal was pointing down the road after her. She pushed herself harder, though she did not even think that was possible, flying round the curves like a Fleshflayer turned bird.

The wretched Umber curved around to meet her as she sprinted down the road, one hand clutched to the body of the burden to stop it from falling free from the shawl sling, and she had to veer round sharply to avoid it. There was a mill upon the river and several mortal men stared at her in astonishment as she pelted past them, but they had not heard the commotion chasing after her yet and not one of them tried to stop her.

She had more stamina than a mortal, but she did not have more speed. If they could catch up to her, she was lost.

She felt her strength beginning to wane as she dove over the fieldlands desperately and then whirled around another corner, hemmed in high by flowering hedges, shallow ditches beyond them to keep the animals away.

She could have cried in relief as she saw what loomed up around the corner. A woodland! Some shelter at last!

She turned her feet towards it hurriedly, panting like a dog as she scampered her exhausted way onwards. She threw herself down into the canopy of the trees and did not stop until she came to a ditch. She buried herself beneath the brambles of the gorse bushes and waited there in shivering silence, straining her ears to hear if the mortals were still following her.

She was sure they would be. They’d probably send dogs out after her, only they had nothing to trace her scent on, thank the old magics.

“This is your fault, beast,” she spat in a whisper at the child still clutched in her arms. The child just reached out for a cluster of brambleberries growing beside Aliya’s ear with a satisfied little gurgle and started mushing them into her mouth once more.

“Bramble.” Aliya whispered to her spitefully. “If you have to have a wretched mortal name, it is going to be Bramble. Hurtful, irrepressible and always where it’s least wanted. It will suit you to the ground. Bramble Offler. Do you hear me, you stupid little beast? If anyone asks you, that’s your name now: Bramble Offler.”

And Bramble, purple-mouthed and happy, splodged a sticky hand happily across Aliya’s face in reply.