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Here and there, I dodge the tiny dishes left out by doorways. Even though the people of Slaughterwell don’t have much, many never fail to offer tidbits of fruit or dried meat to the local spirit-creatures.
I don’t think anyone has ever witnessed a daimon partaking of the edible endowments. Common thought is that even if the invisible beings that flit through our lives in their chaotic ways never touch the stuff and it’s only stray cats and dogs chowing down, they appreciate the generosity all the same. They might treat the households that made the gesture with more kindness in their rambling folly.
Maybe if the charms merchant had offered more respect, they’d have left his horse alone.
I have just enough coins left for my own generosity to make it to one of my favorite homes. The faint buzzing of bees tickles my ears before I reach the gnarled oak that juts up on the border between two small gardens.
As I set the last stack of silver on the back windowsill, a giggle tinkles from just beyond the rear door. I dart back to the shelter of the tree, a smile springing to my lips.
While the door creaks open, I scale the twisted branches. My fingers brush the soft leaves of the ivy that loops around them.
It was this vine that inspired my chosen name, years ago on an evening like this.
I sprawl out on the branch that’s become my regular perch. From that vantage point, I have a view through the oak’s leaves down into Ewalin’s yard.
Ewalin and her mother, Frida, stroll over to the hutch that holds the beehive. As Ewalin lifts the lid, Frida hangs back with a teasing shake of her head. “I swear those creatures are twice as unnerving in the dark.”
Ewalin laughs. “Doesn’t stop you from wanting their honey in your tea, though, does it?”
As she reaches into the hutch, she hums under her breath. The stump of her little finger, cut off halfway down its length, gleams pale against her deep brown skin.
Unlike my severed finger, Ewalin gave up hers voluntarily. Every mortal gets one chance to ask for a gift of magical talent at twelve years old, when they dedicate themselves to a godlen. But such a gift requires a sacrifice in return.
I’ve heard Ewalin talk wryly about her dedication ceremony. She asked Prospira, the godlen of agriculture and abundance, for sway over animals, but she was too nervous to offer up much of herself. So she can’t easily cajole horses or pigs or even chickens, but she does well with bees.
It’s not a bad gift for half a finger. She can only manage one hive, but it produces enough honey to supplement the family’s meager income.
Ewalin draws out her spoon holding a small lump of honey. She dips it straight into the mug her mother has cupped in her hands.
As she stirs, Frida smiles. “Ah, a few stings would be worth it for the sweetness.”
Ewalin clicks her tongue. “They’ve never stung you. They’re good little mites.”
“They are. And so are you.” Frida winks at her daughter. Then her voice drops low. “Did you hear about the ants that got into Soral’s house?”
“Hmm, no. Did her ‘whimsical’ baking style finally catch up with her?”
As they fall into their usual pattern of neighborhood gossip, I rest my chin on my folded hands. Most of the lingering uneasiness from my bloody encounter earlier fades away with the rhythm of their affectionately amused voices.
I first stumbled on the pair of them nearly eight years ago, when I’d only been on the streets for a few months and hadn’t yet figured out how to be anything but an urchin. My twelve-year-old self perched in this tree and watched the two of them banter and share stories, and I imagined I might somehow drop into their lives and they’d take me in as one of the family.
That would be something, wouldn’t it? To have a mother or a grandmother, or people like them, who laughed with me and whispered silly confidences?
Then Frida says, “Where’s that son-in-law of mine gotten to this late?”
Ewalin raises her eyebrows. “You didn’t know? Word went round that soldiers caught a riven sorcerer in one of the outer provinces. They brought him in to be executed tonight. Darek wanted to see it.”
She gives a little shudder and taps her hand down her front in the gesture of the divinities: three fingers to the forehead, heart, and gut before fisting her hand over her sternum. “I’d rather not be near one of those fiends.”
Frida’s mouth tightens in sympathetic agreement. “It’s a gruesome business all around. But it makes some people feel better seeing with their own eyes that the king is dealing with the menace.”
My pulse has leapt to rattle in the base of my throat. An execution tonight? I managed to miss any mention of the arrested sorcerer before now.
In the startled scattering of my thoughts, a rush of dizziness sweeps through me. My gut tips over, and my chin bobs. My hands clamp around the branch instinctively to keep my balance.
With a shake of my head, I manage to clear it. I must still be thrown off by the dead woman to be so unsettled by the news.
Frida and Ewalin are meandering back toward the house now. Ewalin spots the glint of silver at the window.
