Chapter 3:

           Issi woke with a start.

           The kitchen stood empty.  The hearth fire had long burned out, no embers, no cooling coals. There was nothing to be seen other than row after row of clean and empty workstations.

           Her master would have noticed she’d been missing.  Her mind nearly stopped on her there and then.  Denial fogged her thoughts as desperation tried to paint the scenario in brighter strokes. Maybe he’d been called out, or Ner had been able to cover for her, or—

           A sob scraped her throat.

           Nydelissi.

           Her name sounded dulcetly behind her.  The voice tilted the vowels in a way she hadn’t heard since she’d left Egrean soil.

           Like it actually knew how to pronounce her name.

           Issi tried to turn. It was like moving through honey, every motion heavy and slow and dull.  From the corner of her eye, she made out a girl.  She was younger than Issi with a halo of hair that’d been convinced into a fat braid that rested atop her head like a crown.  Her skin was the color of burnt cedar.  Near the color of Issi’s skin, her mother’s, her sibling’s.

           Issi had never seen another Chousalian before.

           Her mouth opened the language ready to tumble from her lips.  She wasn’t sure what she was meant to say, or how any of this was possible, but maybe she’d be able to stop feeling quite so alone.

           Something touched her back, brushing against fresh cuts and weary nerves.  She whimpered opening her eyes.

           “Del?” Ardein’s face hovered above her.  She leaned away trying to gain some distance and nearly tipped the chair.

           “Del,” the cook rushed to steady her.

           “Don’t,” her voice wavered.  From the position of the sun, it seemed she’d only dozed for a bell, maybe two.  The kitchens were still noisy with orders, “I’m fine.  I just…you were right there and…uhm…”

           He produced a handkerchief and held it out for her, “You’re crying.”

           She nodded and ignored his offering, favoring her sleeve.

           “Do you—”

           “No, I’m,” embarrassment set her face on fire, she forced a smile, “…do you, by any chance, have cimmeaon jam?”

           The cook frowned and gave a minute shake of his head.

           “Alright, that’s fine,” she sniffled, and shook herself, “I was supposed to bring some with me.”  

Her hands shook so badly, the coppers bounced twice before landing on the table.  Ardein looked from the coins back to her, worry softening his face.

           “I don’t need your—”

           She shook her head, “Ardein, don’t, I…if you could just taking, take, the fucking money, that’d be great.”

           For a moment, the boy did nothing at all.  Issi waited, feeling like she was a tick from falling to pieces.  She stifled a hiccup, blinking quickly to keep more tears from falling.

           At last, he nodded, slipping the coins into his palm.  Issi ignored the way he tracked her as she left.  She made a point not to meet his gaze.  If she didn’t see it, she could keep pretending she hadn’t royally screwed up.  She stopped at the first station out of his line of sight and asked after Nalav’s bribe. 

She visited five before she managed to trade three coppers and the promise of a heating enchantment for a jar small enough to fit in her palm. 

           She cursed the guard under her breath as her fingers wrapped around the glass.

           The servant’s corridor was still packed. She hovered by the edge as people hurried by. Her heart thrummed painfully against her ribs as she clutched at the jar of amber colored jam.

           She could do it. All she had to do was slip into the throng of workers brushing against each other, touching her when she wasn’t meant to be touched, while fending off blood scented memories and successfully keeping herself from collapsing into a sobbing mess.  Simple.

Her legs nearly tangled as she backed away. 

Issi left through the main entrance instead, following the hall’s twists and turns through a series of connecting rooms that didn’t feel at all like they should as high ornate ceilings shrank and gave way to plain stone, which later turned to ruined murals.

The patterning was largely due to the odd manner in which Kothen Palace had been built.  Its first expansion had elected to build over the original structure, connecting the old with the new through a series of hallways and integrated rooms.  The second had done something similar, as had the third, the fourth, and the fifth, resulting in a mishmash of forgotten corridors and indecisive halls that spoke through eras.

The rooms eventually spat her into the main atrium, a large glass domed structure that rained sunlight through slabs of colored glass.  The patterns it cast along the floor were nonsensical, but if Issi squinted just right, she could find where mages had thinned glass and changed its color to erase what had once depicted the gods atop their spired towers.

Still, hard as the king had tried some of the room’s original purpose remained untouched.  The atrium had been a room of worship, a place where everyone was equal.  There was no servant’s corridor here, everyone walked beneath the ruined pictures of gods with equal standing, nobles and servants, merchants and children all milled beneath it’s colorful sky.

           Issi hurried through, catching sight of the Athijans before they turned down another corridor.  They were tall, but they were also graceful, and odd, and severe looking. 

Their faces scrunched like they’d eaten something unbearably sour. 

           A near suicidal urge to follow them tugged at her, but she made do with staring longingly at where they’d disappeared before slipping into the servant’s corridor on the other side.

           The tunnels spread before her like many fingered hand, branching off into long forgotten paths that led to neglected rooms and hiding places.  Issi followed the lights, passing quickly from the glow of one torch to the next.

           She tossed Nalav his godsdamned jam before retrieving her things and removing her enchantment in the gardens.

           Issi slunk into her ornate prison and collapsed on the bed feeling the heavy bone dragging weariness that came from making a fool of oneself in front of friend and stranger alike.

           She’d been trying to be normal.

           Waking up panicked, crying, and shaking was not normal. 

           Was it?

           She didn’t respond when she heard a knock on the door, and she didn’t move when she heard the delicate footsteps that crossed the room to reach her cage.

           If Ner planned on giving her a dressing down, she’d have to do it to Issi’s prone figure. 

           “Issi?”

           She bolted upright, ignoring the pain in her back as she scrambled to her feet, “Master. I’m so, so, sorry.  If I’d—, I should have—, I mean.”

           “Shut up.”

           Her mouth snapped shut.  Fear from the dream ran down her spine and threatened to buckle her legs.  He was going to ask where she’d been.  She glanced at her notebook. Would he believe she’d gone to the gardens?

           “Strip.”

           The order was unexpected, and it took her mind a beat to catch up.  Issi straightened and studied the Grand Mage wearily.  Her hands trembled as she worked the buttons.  Her breath hitched as everything tumbled from her fingers. 

           “I’m sorry, I just—.”

           The Grand Mage’s lips all but disappeared as his expression pulled in annoyance, “Shut up.”

           Run.

           Issi forced herself still as he approached her. 

           Run.

           She clasped her hands behind her back to stop the shaking and forced a smile.  He unbuttoned her to her waist and spun her, stripping the fabric from her shoulders.

           His finger ran along her makeshift bandage, “Did you do this?”

           Issi nodded, and the Grand Mage sighed as he worked to pull the fabric away.  She bit her lip to keep from making noise as dry blood peeled from her skin.

           “This is going to need stitches,” he grumbled as he spun her back around. 

She stared at him baffled.

           The sight of him bent over and annoyed as his fingers worked to thread the buttons through their holes was completely foreign. 

           He didn’t do things like this.

           He released her and started towards the door, “Follow.” 

           She did.

           The Grand Mage’s wing more closely resembled a museum than a proper living space.  It was cluttered with knickknacks and baubles and large spanning tapestries.  Every few steps there was a statue, or shiny on display to be fawned over and forgotten.  Issi was forever trying not to feel like another collectible.

           Her master stood before a set of heavy wooden doors.  Gifts from Repren before the war had wiped them from the maps.  She hurried to open them, letting the Grand Mage through before following on his heels.  The room smelled of hot earth and metal, oranges and perfume.

           A dozen or so empty desks sat in the center, while books and cabinets lined the walls, beneath high arching windows.  Extra shelves dotted the floors to cram more tomes, reports, and experiments.  Fire crackled happily on a pile of logs in the hearth on the far wall.

           Her master pointed to one of the desks, “Sit.”

           She crossed the room quickly, trying not to feel exposed.  There was an emptiness to it during the day that she couldn’t articulate.  She wove her fingers together as she perched on the table’s edge.

           She tried to breathe past the panic fluttering in her chest.  By the time he returned, she’d worked herself into a frenzy.

           “Can you unbutton your dress?”

           Issi nodded and in moments had the garment undone.  The Grand Mage’s eyes swept over her, taking in the brands that crossed her torso and the scars that traversed everywhere else.

           “Does it hurt?” he breathed.

           Issi stiffened, her body wanting to answer. 

           Her master tutted behind her, “I should have phrased that better.”  A finger tapped the center of her spine, “Out with it.”

           “No,” she panted.  Her shoulders rose and fell as she sucked at the air.

           “How much does it hurt?”

           She hesitated, searching for a safe response, “A—, master it…I’m fine.  It’s fine.”

           Issi gasped as pain forced the world dim.  She pitched forward, the only thing that kept her from tumbling onto the floor was her master’s arm.  Her teeth gnashed together, narrowly missing her tongue.

           Breathe.

           She willed the room into focus.

           “I didn’t ask if it was fine,” he muttered.  The Grand Mage pulled his fingers from the wound and righted her.

           “Sorry,” for what, she wasn’t exactly sure, but she felt like she should say…something.  Anything, to beat back how empty the room felt, “It hurts…very much.”

           He muttered disapprovingly.  A soft pop sounded behind her.  The scent of rot and the bright high noted smell she associated with the turning of plants reached her nose.  She twisted to get a better view.

           “Face forward.”

           She complied and tried not to flinch as his fingers painted over her wounds. 

           “I told her to bring something better smelling,” he grumbled.

           The tension in her shoulders eased as the poultice numbed the pain.  A sigh of relief escaped her. 

           “I couldn’t get a proper healer to patch you.  They’re cutting me off,” he laughed darkly, the sound of it set her heart thrumming like an Egrean engine as she recalled how the last healer howled when the Grand Mage struck him, “I’m not dead yet.”

           She tensed as a needle broke her skin.

           “Hold still,” his voice rang hollow, “It’s been a while.”

           Issi narrowly stopped herself from asking what he meant by a while.  

           The current Grand Mage had made a name for himself by designing a few very nasty enchantments and having a hand in the creation of the Transfer, a large, hulking machine that could send letters across vast distances in a matter of moments.  But before all that, he’d been a boy in a particularly bloody war where mages had served the frontlines.

           She imagined he’d done a lot of patching.

           He didn’t speak as he worked, his movements rigid.  She felt the needle shaking between his fingers.

           There was a lot of work to be done.

           By the end, a heap of bloody gauze had been added to the table and she felt stiff from sitting still for so long.  The ring of metal as scissors cut thread was musical.

           She yawned, the world having long gone soft at the edges.  A shiver shook her despite the fire that still snapped away behind her.

           “To your rooms,” the Grand Mage ordered wearily as he dropped the needle into a shallow porcelain bowl. 

           Issi leapt down, gripping the edge of the table as the world pitched. 

           “Your rooms,” he repeated impatiently.

           “Yes master, and…” she frowned, this felt all sorts of wrong, “thank you.”

           Surprise shifted his features. His dull green eyes widened a moment before a blush touched his cheeks.  Then it was gone, like a curtain had pulled across his face.  He started brushing the gauze into a bin, “Yes, you’re very welcome for fixing a problem I caused.”

           Ah, that was right, wasn’t it?

           She nodded faintly and tottered to her cage to find her sheets cleaned and any trace of the night before wiped away as if it’d never happened.  She flopped gracelessly onto her bed.

For the first time in ages, she sank into oblivion and woke only after the sun had risen.