Promise of Dusk (Endings #1)

Chapter 7

“I do not have anything to give you.” The stubbornness is in my voice, the set of my shoulders, the cross of my arms over my chest. I hope she can see my proverbial heels digging into the ground. See the trails they left as my heart dragged me all the way here.

My father is dying. Slowly. It started with a wet cough and has deteriorated over several seasons. She is the only healer in this godforsaken place. Who really cares if this woman could rob us blind if the alternative for not finding him some help is that he dies?

The woman in front of me simply stares back at me. Her hair is a shade of white so pure, it is hard to believe there was ever any color to it to begin with. Her body, hunched in a chair, may be frail and elderly, but she must have some power to have escaped persecution from the new soldiers lurking around the square lately. A woman with her own business, making her own money, living alone, practicing medicine without the direction of a man. She must be a witch. Hold some sort of leverage over the right people. Instill the right amount of fear.

I keep my back straight, presenting some semblance of togetherness. Do not let her see that she could ask for my right hand and I would sacrifice it for her help. Power is only to be exploited. Everything comes at a cost, but if I play the game correctly, I may be able to get out of here without losing a limb.

She sees through me, the witch.

Her eyes have a twinkle in them, whether from malice or amusement I have not yet decided.

“Nonsense, all people have something.” She is playing into my childish fear, just for the fun of seeing me squirm. Like she is going to ask for a lock of my hair to bind my soul into eternal servitude or turn me into a toad.

“I mean it. I don’t have two stale pieces of bread to rub together. The crops have turned gray and shriveled. I sold my horse last year to pay for the tariffs. I have nothing to trade.” My voice is cold, the comments sound throwaway. I don’t care. Perfect. Except that I’m begging for her help. Of course she knows that. I try to stare her down harder.

She chuckles. “Well, do you not have two hands to rub together? Hands that can pick herbs for me. Hands that can mix teas, wrap bandages. Help a poor old woman lift, move, maneuver patients.” Her own hands are moving gently, driving her patronizing words into me. “How about a brain? Can you read a recipe? Learn?”

I stare at her deadpan and let her finish her condescending. I hope she sees only the slow freezing of my eyes. I hope she does not see the gross feeling of hope bubbling somewhere deep inside with the other useless things.

“I can’t leave him all alone in that house. The farm needs tending to, I need to start new seedlings, I need to try to fix whatever blight is living in my soil leaching life from all of my damned plants.” My hands are tied. There. What are you going to do about that? I don’t know either. Please tell me.

“So you would like me to help him in exchange for….” She leaves it hanging for a moment, “… free. Is that what you’re suggesting?”

It does sound ridiculous. Nothing in this world is free.

“Why are you trying with that farm, child?” Her expression is pitying. “It does seem that you are no farmer. Let us see if you are a healer, if your black thumb may help preserve human life if it cannot preserve plant life. This way you get to chop up herbs, dry them. They aren’t supposed to live through it deary, so you are already half-way there.” A twinkle in the eye and a smile follow her words.

She has jokes. Funny.

“If you are done ridiculing my failures, I may point out the small matter of my father and his ailment. I can’t just leave him in that house, all by himself. He can hardly even walk from his bed to the hearth. He cannot tend a fire. He can barely feed himself if I bring the food to him.” My voice trembles only slightly at the end. I dig my fingers into my thighs to stop it.

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to hear the weakening of my voice. “Well, I had imagined that we could bring him here for a time. See if we can get him spry enough to support himself. See if we can get him toddling about again… I do not think I can reverse the damage already done. But…” She stares at the floor, hands clasped together, thumbs twiddling, and lightly nods her head back and forth. “I do think I can give him some more quality of life for a time. Keep him comfortable. Maybe you’ll see a few more good summers together.” Her wrinkled eyes return to mine, awai ting my response.

A few more summers, she had said.

“You really can’t save him?”

I sound small—like a child. I hate the words as they tumble out. I’m eighteen, not eight. I hate the tears that force their way out of the hole I had them tucked away in. They choke me. Make me weak.

I had not realized that I had hope. That there was any room for “maybe.” Some stupid part of me thought she would tell me that she could fix him. Keep him from leaving. But she threw out terms like “keep him comfortable.” There is no hope in that.

Her eyes lose any remnants of teasing. “No, deary. But some extra time. Some comfort. That is worth much to a man in his position. It will be better for you as well.”

I can’t look at her anymore, not while the choking loss rips a tear from my eye. I stare at her drying herbs on the walls.

Her place is cluttered. So full.

My house is empty, only a bed and some near-empty cupboards and the little spot where I sleep on the ground. So empty.

A few more summers is better than what I’m looking at without her. In a few summers maybe I’ll be ready. Maybe we can have some good times once he starts feeling better.

I weigh my options. It’s easy when this is my only real one. She is the only healer anywhere near here. I could not leave for any considerable length of time to seek out another one. Nor could I afford one should I find one. She doesn’t seem to be asking for much. I get to keep my hand. I’m sure she will pile on the conditions once I start.

I whisper my answer.

“Alright.”She stays quiet.“I’ll work for you. But I don’t have anyone to help me get him here.”

She stands from the wooden chair, hobbles over to a shelf full of books, reaches her wrinkled hand up and plucks one from its spot on the top shelf. She turns and holds it out for me. “Rhodri will surely help in exchange for some of Elena’s favorite teas.” She winks.

So empty. I feel like an empty well.

I take the book slowly.

“You will need to memorize these plants. Their uses, their growing conditions, their names, and appearances. You start tomorrow. So does Gerrick.”

My dad’s name. I hardly ever hear it anymore.

The faded green cover has an etching of a lily. I skim through the roughened pages, faded with age as the woman who had handed it to me. Every flower, leaf, or root is sketched in ink; directions hand-written in wobbly handwriting. God she has terrible handwriting, like a child. Even I, barely educated in reading and writing, have better script than this.

I stand and make my way to the front door.

Diana speaks again.

“I’m glad we will finally get to know one another. I haven’t seen you much since you were a babe. Your hair was almost as white as mine then.” She chuckles, lost in a memory. “You used to be so finicky, squealing all hours of the night and day. I’m glad fate gave you to a young couple who had the energy to manage you. That your soul found a world where you can grow into the person you’re meant to be.”

I stop in my tracks. I never knew she knew my family when I was a babe. Although babies get ill, and it makes sense she would have treated me whenever I did. I have no memories of her from childhood. I wave it off as mere babbling of an old woman. She loves to hear herself talk.

I hum slightly in acknowledgment, unsure what to say to that. I shove the green book under my cloak and step out into the mist.

There weren’t a few summers. Things didn’t get better. And the way he went wasn’t soft or comfortable. But at least for a moment in time, things didn’t feel quite as bleak.

A shiver running down my spine tears me from my memory. My eyes trace the etched lily on the cover of a green book. It somehow survived the desecration of the temple around us.

I crouch in front of it, reaching for it hesitantly, like the first time. It still feels the same. It still looks the same. It still carries the touch of her, of me. It was with me in the woods, while I referenced it to find elderberry. I’m sure if I turned to that page it would still be water-stained from when I dropped it onto grass wet with rain. I still cringe when I think of it, the painstakingly drawn diagram blurred with my carelessness. I hope she never saw. She probably did. Somehow, she always knew when I had messed up in some small way. The witch had eyes in the back of her head. The thought makes me smile a tiny bit.

I’ve memorized the contents front to back, but I cannot bring myself to put it down—to toss it away. I stand with it, eyes still glued to the front cover. I chew on the skin around my last finger, the slight callous that now grows there.

“Are there any other books in the other rooms, or were they all kept in here?” Fionn’s voice, low as it may be, echoes in the dark space.

I shake my head. They were all kept here, aside from some romances I know she kept in her bedroom. I teased her about them when I found them, though she bore no shame from it. She must have been lonely.

“Well, we cannot afford to reminisce. Start searching for things that might actually be helpful.” His voice is trying to be hard, but fails.

I hear the sounds of him sifting through dried plants, crunching over broken glass.

I force my feet to shuffle forward, pulling my head from the fog it floats in. I search for some stupid mythological remedy for some stupid mythological malady. I’m still unsure if they’re lying about the Merrow. They have to be. But what else could have inflicted such a wound? And why would they lie?

I pick up the book with the gray cover. Animal Bites and Injuries . Leafing through the pages I only see references to normal things. Real things. Garden snakes, rats, felines, canines. No Merrow.

I grab a book with a maroon cover and gold script. It is high-quality; the stamp on the inside cover reveals it is from the Chof o Byd, said to be the largest library in all of the continents, located in Ashvynd to the west. Diana must have picked this up from a merchant who traveled the channel in between our two countries. A merchant and a thief. Possession of this book alone would get her a trip to the Crow stage.

Few are brave enough or connected enough to get into the Chof o Byd. It is perpetually under guard and very selective about who is permitted entry. Knowledge is power, even to a country that prides itself on freedom. No slaves. Little to no class system. People there can be whoever they want. Except an immigrant. No, immigration from Suri is strictly forbidden. There is no asylum for us there. The Dragon King is fine with letting us be picked off little by little by the birds. There are continents to the south and west, but they are so far, with so few ships going between them that they are hardly viable options. You’d have to sell your soul for a place on one of those ships.

Few people are allowed through the borders or into port due to the ongoing decade-long stalemate between the two countries. The Dragon King put a strict embargo on trade between Ashvynd and Suri. It’s all over disputed territory—the Ghaels—the hulking mountains that act as the border between our nations, and the resources they contain. Only kings think those things are worth the lives of so many.

The embargo stops little. Hence the book.

Few people are allowed through the borders, but merchants always find ways. Smuggling through art, spices, alcohol, drugs, anything that has a market., is an art in itself. Anything to grab a coin. Who can really blame them?

I trace the title of another volume with a navy-colored cover, Poisons and Potions , and snort. It really is a wonder she wasn’t killed sooner. The dark amusement is swallowed quickly by my melancholy. It feels too soon to laugh. I don’t know when I’ll get it back.

I pick through countless piles of books splayed all over the ground. But my eyes are drawn back again and again to Fionn’s ruggedly handsome face. His brow is furrowed, his eyes staring intently at one page of a book. The Wench and her Wandering Eye . One of Diana’s filthy novels that made its way down the hall into our workspace. I can tell he’s not even reading it. Are there drawings in there? Did Diana get to explicit doodling in her spare time?

“Storing material for the lonely nights?” I meant to be teasing but it comes out frustrated. He brought me into a wolves’ den so he could read about full bosoms and aching members.

His head whips around like a child caught, golden eyes wide for a moment before he quickly brings his face back to neutral disinterest.

“Whatever do you mean?” His voice is cool and composed. He snaps the book shut and looks at the front cover, eyes scanning over it quickly before returning to meet mine.

“What does the title say?” I ask scathingly.

He doesn’t say anything for a breath and shrugs insolently. “Something about wounds and exudate.”

My eyes narrow. Does he not realize I can see it?

“No. It doesn’t.” I stand from my spot on the ground, storming over to him. He stands his ground. I snatch the book from his hand. “Can you not read?” The question is genuine, not sarcastic.

The grit of his teeth and feathering muscle in his sharp jawline is his giveaway.

Shock and anger battle. Anger wins.

“So you just pretend to be helpful? You don’t want to seem dumb, so you say nothing? What if I had thought you already searched that pile and didn’t search it myself? What if there was something useful there?” I can feel my lifeless pin-straight hair shifting as I shake my head at him.

He doesn’t even have the good grace to apologize.

I huff out a breath and look away as his stare is causing a flush to rise in my cheeks. It’s the rage. I’m angry with him. It has nothing to do with his proximity or the sharp edge of his jaw as he grits his teeth, the muscle ticking in the corner.

“I’m not from around here. The continents across the sea write in different languages. I only know how to read in my home language. It is quite different.” His excuse is rushed.

I only nod in response and shove past him to look over the pile he was supposedly reading. I knew of the different languages in the lands to the east, they varied greatly.

“Well you could have said so.” I could leave it there. I should just leave it there. “Just so you’re aware, the book you were reading came from Diana’s private library. The book details all of the smutty trysts between a wench and a knight. I thought perhaps you had some trouble bringing your women to completion. Maybe you needed some pointers.” I make a show of looking him over from top to bottom and shrug, looking away again. “Just seemed the most likely.”

The silence is deafening. I’m pretending to move through the books one by one, but I can feel him approach. Suddenly I remember gasping for breath, the silence with which he sneaked up on me at camp. This man is a predator, and I’m baiting him. I freeze when he gets too close, his heat warming my arm.

“You’re certainly brave to say such a thing to me. I remember you at my mercy but a few hours ago. You trembled so pathetically.” His words are cruel, as I knew they would be. “I wonder, would you tremble like that if I touched you? Your blush earlier suggests you would. I doubt you would think such a thing about me and my women then.”

I glare at him through the heat warming my face.

“I would rather be carrion.”

His smirk says he doesn’t believe me, and he longs to play the game.

I want to crumble into the floor in embarrassment.

I want to claw the smirk off his face.

I want to say that he’s illiterate and insufferable. And that swaggering insolence is usually indicative of a man who feels like a boy and hasn’t the first clue how to pleasure a woman.

But I won’t. He has not had a problem hurting me. The scab on my neck where he held his blade only a few hours ago is proof enough. I should not push him. I don’t know what he is capable of.

I look away. Letting him win.

I hear his huffed out laugh. Celebrating his win.

I extract myself from the corner I was trapped in, moving into the hall.

I’ll check one more place. It’s unlikely, and I feel like I’m violating the dead, but I have to check as if my life depends on it. Armund’s arm depends on it.

The door creaks as I slide it open.

The bed is mussed; she did not make it after waking. This place waits for her. The clothes hang in the wardrobe. The slippers are messily discarded next to the bed, awaiting her feet. The half-drunk glass of tea on the table beside her bed is over-steeped. This waiting scrapes at fresh wounds.

Diana was a good mentor, an even better person. She would always make extra portion of dinner, early, before I made my way home for the day. She tried to make me eat. She teased me when my eyes were dead. When my silence was loud, she always kept my hands busy. She never minded my sharp tongue when I could do nothing but cut her with it. She kept me with her—kept me from withering away, alone in that house.

How many people does one lose before they have to assume it’s them?

Maybe I’m just a poison in the water.

Fionn’s obnoxious presence presses against my back.

I sweep around the room, yanking drawers open, looking under the bed frame. Fionn has moved in behind me and is picking his way through the closet. He approaches the bed as I move the pillows, looking under them.

I search and I search and I search .

Every spine on the shelf opposite her bed.

Combing through every dress, searching every pocket.

I’m so lost to the mindless task I don’t even notice when Fionn pulls a leather-bound book from underneath her mattress.

“Well, this is promising,” he says.

He’s scanning the pages from left to right—reading. I move to his side, peeking around his bulk. I behold a foreign language, written in ink. Looping and smooth script scrawls across the parchment. I don’t recognize the letters, the words, or the writing. Diana’s handwriting was wobbly, written slowly in every piece of parchment she’s ever handed to me. She didn’t write this. Unless… unless her handwriting was like that because she had just learned to write in that language. She and Fionn have a shared past. She said she knew Fionn’s mother. Perhaps her first language is the same as Fionn’s.

Fionn turns page after page, seeking.

“Where did you say you were from?” I ask.

“I didn’t. These seem to be more medicinal journals…” He trails off, a grin smoothing his handsome face. It’s a look I’ve never seen him wear. Not a mocking smile nor a smirk. This one makes him look boyish, hopeful.

The page shows the naked top of a woman, her breasts and face covered by long inky black hair. A scaled tail starts just below the navel, fading into the skin. It is lean and muscled, contoured for speed and force. A larger diagram shows razor sharp fangs. Canines longer than her pointed incisors are framed by beautifully curved lips. Another diagram of her five-fingered claw is in the bottom right corner. Long talons, drawn black, drip with some sort of fluid at the tip of one claw as long as her finger. Translucent webbing stretches between each digit. The Merrow, I can only assume.

“Where did she get this?” I demand. “Does it say anywhere?” Is this another Chof O Byd find?

“She wrote it. I knew she would have had to write it somewhere.” He points to the drawing of a plant on the next page. “It says this plant carries a sort of remedy for the venom of a Merrow.”

The plant is drawn in great detail. The white petals have streaks of fading scarlet as they move from the inside to the ends of the petals, like blood streaks on clean linen. Its small round leaves and short stems both have pale striations against a dark green pigment. She uses her usual symbols to depict the method of extracting the active component.

He snaps the book closed. The book is as long as his palm, which is almost half again the length of my own.

“Let’s go.” He sweeps out of the room.

“Wait! Are you sure that has everything we need? Does it say where that plant is found?” I shout after him. He is already into the front room when I look out into the hallway after him.

“Yes. In the bog. Under the water. Let’s go.” He looks back at me impatiently. His arms jerk out to his side, lifting a bit in a “what else” motion. “Let’s go. This place makes my skin itch.”

Hesitantly, I step out of the room and follow him, through the hall and into the front room. He cracks the front door open, peeking through the sliver of space in between it and the wall. Checking for Crows.

I glance around the room and land on the little green book with the lily on it. I don’t need it. It lives in my mind as sure as any memory. I could name all of the herbs in that book, their names, their growing conditions, their medicinal uses. But I want it. Want to hoard it like my own treasure. I know I can’t. Just as I couldn’t take my bracelet. Things like this are just things, they don’t keep them with me. They don’t keep the memories any fresher, don’t keep them from dulling with time.

I turn to see Fionn staring at me silently. Measuring me. Debating if he still needs me now, with the clear instructions, written in his odd language. I would have left me if I were him. I need him more than he needs me.

The silence stretches between us.

Taking one more glance, he opens the door and waves me forward. I slip out right after him, drawing up my hood, feeling like my time with him is measured.