The Seasons of Salt

Chapter Seventeen

Bramble the burden was probably considered a good child by mortals, Aliya considered. She slept a lot, which was a boon to the endless travelling they had still to do, and ate more or less anything Aliya put in front of her. She cuddled up cosily to Aliya’s chest as if she belonged there, squawking her few words amidst the rest of the indecipherable babble and jibbering happily to strangers as if she knew them, and it all helped. She did not look like a child being kidn*pped. She looked like a child who knew and loved the poor woman wrenching her endlessly across the wretched countryside.

Aliya had heard stories of the outside world, of course she had, but tucked up safely within Gwyllt De, she had never imagined it was so…vast. The further north she travelled, the stranger the countryside became. The flats of the Horseplains and forests became hillier and boggier as they travelled upwards, and when they had reached the Sunset Edge, everything had become wind-swept and high, full of cliff-edges and chalk-pits. The ground was hard and it did not sing to her as the forest floors had done.

The mortals had also heard by now that the boundaries of Gwyllt De had fallen. She had heard a royal proclamation made in the last little village she had stopped at, Windhurst, whilst bartering for milk, apples and carrots for the beast. By all the magics Aliya hated carrots, but she forced herself to eat them in front of the villagers because it put their minds at ease and that was what she desperately needed. They tasted sickly sweet on her tongue and they always made her vomit the evening she had consumed them, but that was the price of security. And the two of them needed security now more than ever. The Horse Lord had driven his men down to the sacred forest and razed it to the ground. He was going to be rewarded by this new mortal king. That was what the proclamation had been, that the urach were all dead and that the Gwyllt De was nothing more than tree-stumps and ash now. She had forced herself to cheer along with the other villagers, but she had thrown up violently as soon as she had staggered away from the village edge. Gone, all gone. It had never been a wasteland before, whatever the mortals had called it. Now it was nothing but death.  

I can never go back. The thought had tasted bitter on her tongue despite the lingering saccharine carrots, and she had struggled not to throw that hateful little beast cuddling at her chest away from her. The thing was a weight, growing fat and useless as she lugged it about, never caring that it had murdered her home, her magics, her kinsfolk.

And she still had to care for it. She was not allowed to give it justice for its crimes. She still had to see it fed, washed, warm. She still had to act as a hateful mortal mother all on her own because it was the only hope that their people had now. She had to show it love when it had shown her nothing but hatred, and it burbled away merrily in the face of all her weariness and grief. And she was weary, right down deep to the bone, in a way that she never had been before. It was not borne of the endless walking, or the child’s waking in the night for Aliya did not need much sleep anyway. It was not even borne of the constant fear, watching for shadows over her shoulder, considering the words out of her mouth every time she interacted with mortals making sure they bought the story she now knew by heart. Aliya Offler, recently widowed, journeying back to my father’s kin, yes, she is a beautiful child, I’m very fond of her. It was grief, that was what it was. Grief such as she had never yet known, worming its way down into her marrow and hollowing her out within, exhausting her though she did little it seemed.

 And every time she passed one of those pyres they set to burning on the village outskirts, her grief notched a bit higher. The pyres that were already finished, nothing left but ash, charcoal, chains and bones, were bad enough. The ones that were still flaming higher and higher were even worse.

She’d caught the eye of the young Tusk upon one once, even as she tried to keep her head down and keep moving. The urach would have seemed but a youth to the mortals’ eyes, no older than one of their sixteen or seventeen year olds in mortal years. It had not stopped them from chaining her up and burning her. The foolish girl had not been able to stomach filing her tusks down, and being unable to hide them, they had doomed her. She was not the only one. It was mostly Tusks, Blackfangs and Eyes upon the pyres. The most notable ones, she supposed. Those less able to blend in with their mortal enemies.

She needed a mortal husband, she decided as she covered Bramble’s head with one hand, shielding the beast from the sight of yet another smoking pyre as they trudged wearily by in the dying afternoon light. The smokes drifted on the winds like a warning to stay away, but she dared not heed them. Avoiding the pyres would be just as suspicious as not eating. She needed to feign joy and relief at the murder of her sisters as if she was an ordinary little mortal rejoicing in the downfall of the urach.

The fires still raged but the screaming had long stopped. Who knew how many of her sisters were left now? Who knew how many had even survived? Mayhap, even if N’Hara’s plan worked and Aliya was able to bring back magic at last, she would be the last of the urach living to enjoy it. The thought made her tremble. The child tried to throw Aliya’s hand off of her head by sharp, jerking movement. Ungrateful beast.

 Of course, the thought of a man was repellent to her. She had no desire to find a seedsire for her child, for she had no desire to have a child at all. Urach were only fertile once. She’d not waste her womb on a mortal man. And even if she did want to, now was not the optimum time for child-bearing. She already had one burden upon her, she did not need two. Besides, if he did seed her, she would have to kill him to pay the bloodprice for the urach child and that would be rather counterproductive. She would not have a mortal man to aid her disguise, and she would have two children instead of one to tend for. Besides, what if she bore a Tusk or a Blackfang, or even an Eye? The magics were not passed directly from mother to child, there was no more likelihood of her daughter being a Wraith than there was that she would be anything else. Their powers were drawn from the earth as best suited the urach and no-one knew how or why. Horrid, stilted thought – what if the child was born completely powerless? What if, now that the magics had fallen, the child came out barely more than a mortal after all?

Besides, there was the added complication of persuading a man to wed her at all. Or at least pretend to wed her. She did not care much for these mortal regulations and ceremonies. With her dreams it would have been easy. She could persuade him that she was beautiful and alluring by whatever standards he deemed that, and truly, she could little tell what mortals found attractive in a mate. She could weave her dreams around her and make his own mind fill in whatever holes there were until he believed himself in love with her, believed himself ready to throw himself off a cliff if she only bid him to. He would not even suspect that she was an urach, not even if he saw her performing spells before his very eyes. Without her magics, she’d have to rely on trickery and persuasions. She had little money to buy his affections, already came burdened with a babe and could offer him no more of his own, wanted him to travel with her across the country merely to shield her from added suspicion – for a family was far less suspicious than a wandering woman alone, especially in these days when all the world knew that the urach had fled and fallen. She was surprised she had faced as little suspicion as she did, to be honest. She had wondered briefly if it was some of the magics hidden within the child, shielding her from view, but she cast that thought aside quickly because then she would have to be grateful to the beast and she did not intend to be grateful to it for anything. 

Of course, it might be more of a risk to ally herself with a mortal man. Being in close proximity with him, he would be more likely to notice her little slip-ups. He would notice how she could not retain any vegetables, how she took herself off to feed on raw meat once a week or so, how she only feigned sleep in the barns and stables she stayed in. And if he saw that he could sell her to a pyre post-haste. But, and here was the nub of it, was it better to risk exposure by one man who might prove a shield to her against the furious masses or was it better to carry on as she was doing and hope her luck did not run out at last?

She rubbed a hand over her face wearily. It still stank like the ash and flesh that clothed the heavy air.

There was a rumble down the road in the distance. Her eyes caught the flash of banners high in the air, and she shrank down into the inn at the village border to avoid them. The Lords of the Sunset Edge were no more likely to recognise her than the commonfolk were, of course, but she did not want to take any chances. The writhing arms of a squid on a field of black glinted in the dying sun. She did not know which mortal house it belonged to. These mortals and their petty differences, their puffed up, arrogant pride. They claimed these animals as their heraldry as if that would somehow make them braver, or shrewder or more resilient as if they could absorb the tenacity of a squid through a few stitches on a cloth. She snorted to herself. They were incongruous creatures, they insisted they were more than the beasts of the fields, but they clothed themselves in the names and faces of those creatures with pride.

The inn was dim and stale-aired. There were a few folks in there already, though the evening light had only just begun to dim and most ought to be out working the fields and estuaries still. They stared at her, but she pretended not to heed them. The rushes were sticky as she tramped over them, emptying her meagre coin-purse out onto the bar-top. She would need to steal some more soon.

“Will this be enough to buy me two bowls of vegetable broth and a bed for the night?” she asked wearily. “My child and I are hungry and exhausted.”

The man behind the bar looked her up and down. She forced a look of pitiful mortal exhaustion into her face, smiling bravely, her limbs slumped low. Bramble the burden started fussing and fidgeting just at that moment, as if she knew what was expected of her, and Aliya hushed her in her best motherly way.

The man scooped the coins off of the bar.

“It’ll buy you food,” he grunted. “You want a bed for the night you’ll need more.”

“I have no more.”

“You want charity, go to a Mercy House,” he said. “We’re not in the business of it here.” She stared at him helplessly and he pressed his lips together tightly at the expression upon her face. “Well, mayhap there are other payments you can make.”

She looked up at him and suppressed a sigh. Men. She longed once more for her dreams and pictured vividly the way he would squirm and squeal as his legs burst into flames before him, charring and scorching in his mind’s eye as his imagination supplied the pain, the smell of singed leg-hair, of crackling skin. When she had her dreams back, they were all going to regret lighting those damnable pyres. Every last one of them.

“Thank you,” she said in her most grateful voice and he grunted again.

“Go and take a seat. I’ll bring you the broth over.”

She took a seat by the window in the end, where she could see the banners still marching by. She unhooked Bramble from her sling-shawl and plopped her on the table. The child was starting to smell again. She needed a good cleaning. The child, dirty, wretched thing that it was, did not seem to care. It leant forwards and grabbed handfuls of Aliya’s hair, pulling at it playfully and trying to stick it in her mouth. She put a sticky hand upon the window, leaving smudgy fingerprints – a  mark that she had been there, that she had existed here, even in such a time as this. The Squid-Lord did not pay them any heed and nor did his men. They would probably camp out at the next village across, making the most of the last light whilst they could.

The inn-keeper brought over two bowls of watery vegetable mush and even a tankard of watered wine for her. He glanced out of the window as the horses rode by.

“Where are they going?” Aliya asked him. “I thought the war was over.”

“It is. They’re heading down to swear their loyalty to the new king, and to witness the betrothal of the little Ferris Princess.”

Aliya frowned. She did not keep up with mortal politics much, as a rule, but something seemed amiss in this even to her.

“I thought she was but a child?”

He just grunted and walked off without another word. Aliya stared out of the window for a while as the men rode by, their flags and banners waving, their horses clad in red, yellow and blue, the tri-colour flag that marked all the houses of the Sunset Edge county, a setting sun in black seeping across the middle stripe, stretching its rays up to the very corners of the flags. It was dotted amongst the black-fielded squid with equal consistency. A claiming. She did not take her eyes off of it. They proclaimed their homelands full proud, but they did not stop to spare a thought for the urach they had displaced. It never occurred to them that others would wish for such ownership too. There were even a couple of carriages rattling along behind the guards. A full contingency.

She allowed herself free rein to stare at them as they passed. It was no more than the other villagers were doing. Bramble, still sat stinking on the table, ignored all the pageantry. She was reaching her hands into the lukewarm bowl and fishing out mushy handfuls of vegetables which she was chewing on happily. She had finished her own bowl and had got halfway through Aliya’s before the procession had passed through. Aliya, aware of the inn-keeper’s eyes on her, forced herself to spoon a mouthful or two of the watery vegetable broth down. The wine was sharp and acrid. Though she knew from experience she would not be able to keep that down either, at least it did not taste as foul as the mortal food. She lay the spoon down with a quiet clink, and the inn-keeper came to take it away from her quick enough that she knew his eyes had been on her all this time. Watching and assessing her.

“You want that room?” he asked.

“Does it come with water to wash my baby?”

“It’ll come with water to wash yourself,” he said, his eyes lingering on her dirt smudged skin and mud-flecked dress. She hesitated and then nodded.

He nodded too.

“I’ll show you to it,” he said.

The room was at the back of the inn, up a creaking flight of stairs. It was small, and judging from the rising stench and chill breeze, positioned above the stables. There was a thin cot bed pressed against the wall, a small fire grate, unlit, and a jug and ewer. She opened the shutters to let a little air in.

“I’ll send for your bath,” he said. He shut the door behind him. She stared out of the window. There was no glass in the upper rooms. This inn did not stretch to such an expense, it seemed. She breathed in the darkening air, and the black crept gratefully into her lungs.

Maybe she could just stay here. She could be an inn-keeper's wife, could she not? Or an inn-keeper's mistress, at least? Seabirds circled around in the sunset air high above them, the distant salt-tang of the breeze mingling with the smoke and ash still drifting in the air, and the rising stench of horses below. The seaweed and salt stung at her throat with every breath, and she could almost taste the call of the Storm-Bringers, lukring malevolently beneath their waves. The Burden was clambering with difficulty up onto the cot and then leaping off again with a giggle. It never seemed to occur to the beast that it might get hurt but its foolishness was not a shield against mortality. Aliya caught the child in her arms and held her tight sternly.

The maid came in with a bath tub and lit the fire. She was a sour faced little thing, scowling at Aliya with so much hatred that at first Aliya thought the scrawny young woman knew she was an urach. But no, if that had been the case, she would have sent for the guards, not the bucket and bathwater. Belatedly, she realised that the inn-keeper probably usually reserved his affections, such as they were, for this one.

What a catch.

Well, that put all thoughts of staying out of her mind, at least. The wretched little maid would be so jealous of Aliya’s new place as favoured mistress, that she would seek out her secret all too soon, if only to destroy her.

Aliya thanked her cordially for the bath and locked the door behind her as the maid stomped away. She discarded the Burden’s baby clothes and dunked the child in the water. It was fresh water, well drawn. It did not leave any scalding on Aliya’s skin, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief. The child was filthy, and the water was filthy too before she had finished bathing her. She would have liked to have had a bath herself in freshwater, cold and clear, no hint of salt about it, but it could not be helped now.

She dried the child best she could on her cloak and dressed her again. Then she stretched out on the bed, the child cuddled into her side, and slept the true sleep, not snatched naps or pretending, until the inn-keep came to her door at the second hour of the night.

He let himself in. He must have just put the last of his patrons to bed. Shut up the ale house downstairs. His candle-light woke her. She squinted against the glow of it, a little confused and disorientated. She did not sleep often, but she did sleep heavily. He was already undressing. Bramble the Burden stayed asleep, curled into Aliya’s side.

Aliya sat up, wrapped the child in the cloak and lay her in the corner of the room, then she gestured the man to the bed.

“Undress,” he told her.

“No. I have one child, I have no need of another.” She pushed him so that he sat upon the edge and knelt between his legs, her hands upon his thighs. She raised an eyebrow at him.  He licked his lips thoughtfully and then nodded.

“You did not bathe,” he told her.

“Once the child had washed, the water was no longer clean enough. I did not want to disturb your maid again. Does the smell disturb you?” She would be generous enough to let him renege on their deal, if he so desired.

“Most folks wash themselves first, and then the child,” he told her wryly. He paused. “You’re a good mother.”

She blinked at him in surprise. Her eyes met his in the darkness.

“Does this deal include breakfast?” She asked wryly in lieu of an answer. The man snorted out a laugh in the darkness.

“I suppose so. But you’re bleeding me dry, woman.”

He had no idea, Aliya thought darkly as she lent forwards to kiss him. She would love to bleed him dry. 

*****

She threw up last night’s food in the fireplace once the man had gone on his way, most of it water, thankfully, but she had not gone back to sleep. When she heard movements starting to stir downstairs, she had gathered her scattered belongings and her sleeping beast and worked her way downstairs again. The maid was there, sweeping up the remnants of last night’s chaos, glowering at Aliya with renewed hatred. The inn-keep, taciturn as usual, had given her two bowls of porridge and even a three-day old crust of bread for the road. She had thanked him prettily, not allowing the words to sour in her mouth, as she wrestled the fussing Burden back into the shawl-sling, and made her way back out of the door. The inn-keeper did not seem to notice that she had pocketed her coins again. Hopefully he would not notice until she was long gone.

The Burden did not want to be carried today. The child would just have to get used to it. If Aliya let the bothersome little plague wobble and fall her way all the way up to Halfnorth and then down again to the Flats, she would not be there before the year had fallen.

Her thoughts drifted back to that stunted, scrawny little maid. If it was not for her, she could have stayed, mayhap. Her pride did not rebel at selling herself for a home. Neither did the little maid’s apparently. Scrubbed face, thin hands and thinner hair. Aliya wondered distantly why the ugly little woman was jealous. Was it possible the wretched little thing actually loved the Inn-Keep? Or had she merely deluded herself into believing so?

Aliya would never understand mortality.

Mayhap that was what all mortal women did. Mayhap they only learnt to love those that oppressed them? Mayhap they wanted to sell themselves to s*****y to a man to protect them. Was she not contemplating the same thing, after all?

But I do not pretend it is romantic, she decided. She would never write ballads and romances about her pragmatism. She would not betray her people or go to war for someone to share her bed with, someone to bring her food and shelter her when she slept. It must be a mortal thing.

And yet, her own mother had paid the bloodprice to save the man who seeded her. She had deemed a mortal man’s life of more value than her own.

When I reach the afterlife, I will ask her about it.

But hopefully, that would be many centuries away yet. She patted the Burden distractedly on the back as she forged her way forwards. The beast had fallen asleep again now, it had screamed itself into exhaustion.

Her thoughts drifted lazily to the little mortal princess. A tiny young smudge of a thing, by all the accounts she had heard. N’Hara had seen the little princess herself when she stole into the Deai Castle to make those treaties; treaties that had started the dreadful war. Had no Eye seen that? Had no one been able to predict that they were signing their own downfall in blood? Or mayhap that too had been a part of N’Hara’s great plan?

And now N’Hara was gone, and that little smudge was going to be wed to the son of her father’s killer. She could not imagine it.

Urach never killed one another. Never. Though fights and quarrels did break loose, and urach had been known to break each other’s bones or splinter each other’s teeth. Fisga of the Eleventh was known in whispers as Fisga Eyebane, as she had sworn vengeance on every Eye after H’Lia of the Fourth had cursed her for declaring her visions false. Fisga had plucked out two dozen urach eyes before N’Hara had her banished from Gwyllt De. She threaded them into a gruesome necklace, which she wore proudly round her neck, even as she strode out of the safety of Gwyllt De’s shade. She was probably long dead by now. But even Fisga had never murdered another sister in cold blood. To do so was to incur the curse of the urach. To have to wed someone who had done such an abominable thing to her own kin was beyond Aliya’s weak imagination. But then, mortals died. It was what they did. She sighed long and heartfelt, though she was not entirely sure why, and her hand subconsciously pulled the Burden closer to her chest. It was a long road they walked together, and this morning it felt longer than ever.