The Fall Of Snow: Guard Your Heart

7. Seven

Seven

A Fruitless Power

A s I doze off in my makeshift bed in the back of the closet after a long day of failed attempts at fuzing, I dream of the woman in the picture near Huck's bed and wonder who she could be. The entire day had gone by without a thought of it as I replayed my conversation with Coy repeatedly, wondering if I made the right choice while I tried my magic on apple after apple to no avail. But now, in the silence where my mind is fuzzy in the twilight, the image comes back to me. Could it be his wife and children? His sister? His mother?

Most warriors do not have their own families, choosing their legion as their family instead. It makes sense, forfeiting creating a family of your own and choosing your men in arms instead. Who would want to start a family with the very real possibility that you might not be alive long enough to enjoy it? Or be around to help raise them? That's not to say that warriors cannot marry. There is no law against it. It just seems to be a common understanding that warriors commit themselves wholly to their cause and nothing else.

I believe that's why our lands haven't been successfully invaded and overthrown in many years. Our warriors are committed. Our numbers are strong. We constantly have soldiers rotating along the borders of our lands, defending against invaders of land and sea. Every few years neighboring countries try to overthrow us, but so far, we haven't broken out into full-on war which is another reason I am hesitant to flee on a ship to another place. My entire life I've only known this land. I don't know what to expect in another land across the sea. Fear of the unknown is an endless chasm that I contemplate daily.

But the constant push and pull of territory lines does weigh on its people. It feels as if the continent is at a constant state of battle in some way or another.

It's been a week since Coy's discovery of me and so far, he has been more than generous, leaving me a bowl of stew or a plate of potatoes and venison every night. One night he even managed to slip me a sugared pastry along with dinner. I nearly melted with bliss when I found it wrapped up and tucked away behind the stack of linens. If Coy were to reveal his secret to the others, he would have done so by now. I breathe easier knowing that I read him right. That I made the right call in trusting him .

As comforting as it is to know my whereabouts are undetected by the huntsmen my mother has sent off to search for me, the cramped dark space of the cabin's closet is already growing old. It is only a matter of time before Coy or I slip up. I need to keep moving.

Every time I think of my next move, a twinge of pain emerges as I squash down that pesky desire for a safe home—that silly part of me that wishes to stay in this cabin just outside of the forest for just a bit longer. I just need a little more time to get my magic under control. Then I will be better prepared to venture into new land.

One morning, when the golden sun shines through the windows of the cabin and the warriors are getting ready to leave for the day, I hear the eldest of the group stop Coy on his way out the door, grabbing his arm and pulling him aside as the rest of the warriors file out for duty. Archer’s back is to me but I can see Coy's cheeks redden as he peers up at his elder with those wide baby eyes.

"Coy." The silver-haired man pauses to eye Coy. "Is there something you want to tell me?" My pulse quickens at his words and my heart pounds in my chest.

"I . . . no sir." Coy's voice quivers in response. Not in fear, but in a way that tells me Coy is one hell of a bad liar, like keeping secrets isn't something he's familiar with. I close my eyes as I silently curse Coy's good nature. The same good nature that has kept me here safe and fed is now the thing that might unravel this whole thing. Damn it. I knew I should have left last week.

"So, your strange behavior lately . . . there is nothing worth mentioning as to what has you so skittish?" The more he speaks, the more I think Coy will acquire a permanent blush up his neck after this interrogation is over. A silence follows his question as he waits for Coy to explain and I hold my breath as I wait for him to spill.

"Maybe your farsighted ability is giving you the false assumption that you can see things that may not be there." Coy raises a brow in friendly challenge, but the look on Archer's face shows he isn't backing down. But I do wonder what kind of ability farsightedness entails. For my sake, I hope it doesn't mean I've already been spotted.

"You're the last one to sleep each night, your appetite has doubled as of late, and you've actually combed your hair." He gestures to Coy's short parted hair in reference. Coy ducks his head and turns away from the other warrior, as if he can't stand the attention brought to him.

"You know as well as I do that I don't need to see far distances to catch your change in behavior. I was the captain not too long ago, you know." Before Coy can say anything, the weathered warrior continues, "And is it just me, or did I see you tying a ribbon around a puff pastry last night?"

I tilt my head to the heavens and sigh in defeat as if this detail is the nail in the coffin. Coy will most certainly break now. I check that my boots are laced up and ready for when I need to dash out the back door once he reveals his secret. But I right myself in surprise when I hear Coy say, "Archer, you're too on edge lately." His voice is shockingly calm and quiet. "I know this last attack had us all really shaken up, but we're here to fight another day." Coy pats Archer on the shoulder, encouraging him out the door. I see Archer deflate as he heads out the door of the cabin.

“We don’t have another Whip situation on our hands now, do we?” Archer’s brow raises in suspicion.

“Of course not, brother.” For all his effort, Coy does look slightly more convincing than he did only a moment ago. Whatever the Whip situation was, this isn’t it. But I can’t help but wonder what the situation was. Am I not the first stowaway he's harbored?

"You're hiding something." Although he's dropped the interrogation for now, he's no fool. He knows something is off. Just not enough to push any further.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Coy retorts as he follows Archer out, closing the front door behind him.

As the door clicks shut, I slide down the closet door and exhale a breath of anxiety. That was too close. I might know the fundamental parts of what makes up Coy, but I do not know him well enough to trust how well he can keep a secret. Although he held his own in the end, he almost broke at the initial question. I could see it on his face.

I need to move on. I need to form a plan. I need my magic to work.

As I trail through the forest, the morning dew streaking my boots, I check my traps to no avail. It seems the woodland creatures have discerned my presence now, leaving my stomach empty until dinner tonight when the warriors have gone to sleep, and I can fill my belly with whatever Coy brings.

I wash up in the cool stream and admire the signs of fall on the tips of a few mature leaves high above my head. Late summer is gone, and everything is overgrown and tired, ready for change to come. Ready to take a rest during the long winter ahead. By then, I better be settled somewhere stable, somewhere my mother cannot find me. I won't make it through the winter on foot, traveling. I don't have much time.

I venture further east today, in hopes I'll come across a miracle. Maybe I’ll find some food or a pile of gold. Or maybe some direction as to where I should go next. At this point I'm not above stealing if it means it will get me passage on a ship. Long gone is the lady I was destined to be. Instead of worrying if my curtsy is graceful enough, I get to worry about where my next meal will come from.

I stop to check my head wound in the reflection of my dagger, pulling it from its sheath at my side. The wound is pink and puckered now, in its final stages of healing. I clipped the stitches out yesterday, deeming the wound fully closed. I checked the sorry excuse for a frost apple tree for any lingering fruit to attempt my magic again, but there was none to be found. It’s been picked over by all of the wildlife .

Probably for the best that there wasn’t any fruit left because if I'm being honest with myself, I was a bit timid to do this type of fuzion on the apple, not having spent much time with lacerations. As silly as it sounds, the wound being on my face, even my forehead, made me think twice about using my magic to heal it. Who knows what damage I could have done.

It wouldn't have worked anyway.

Lessons with my mother ended much too soon for my liking. I could feel it within my veins that we'd barely scratched the surface of what I could really do with my power. Her vanity was stronger than her drive for further success with the business. She would rather stay the strongest fuzer in the land than see what my power could do for the shop.

Not many people are gifted with magic in their veins, but the ones who are, find ways to use it to their advantage and make it profitable. My mother told me how her apprenticeship with a fellow fuzer were some of the best times in her childhood because she was able to fully own her power in a way that made her feel fearless. It gave her a confidence that I believe may have surpassed into self-righteousness. I don't know where my mother's vanity began, but it certainly bloomed before I came around, and it may also have something to do with the fact that I was willing to have my face stitched up by a stranger rather than risk using my rusty magic to heal it.

As I brush my fingers over my forehead, the skin feels tender and uneven under my touch. It will most certainly leave a scar, but I would take that any day over an infection or a botched fuzion of my own doing.

In truth, I’m grateful for Coy’s kindness. I’m sure basic first aid is taught during training. Typically, I don’t try my hand at fuzing too often as it reminds me of my mother, leaving me with a dark shadow following in my wake, and Coy gave me an out. I also don't trust myself enough to use my magic without her guidance. As a child, I used to practice simple fuzions, like coloring my hair purple or blue, but my mother was always around in case I did any real damage. Now, the fear of doing something irreversible is enough to let my magic simmer and rot. Sheathing my dagger, I continue in the same direction, finding only more forest.

I nearly give up walking along the glittering stream when I come across a perfectly plump frost apple tree, shining bright red. Its promise of sweetness nearly brings me to my knees.

As I come up to the tree's canopy, I see that the bottom branches have been cleared by the deer already, but I can climb up to the higher limbs and grab a few for myself. Maybe knock a few down for the next deer that ventures over looking for a treat just as I did. I pick a beautiful deep red one from above my head and hear the thud of another hit the ground as the branch bounces back in place. I shine the apple on my cloak and stare at it resisting the urge to dive in. I inspect the fruit and sniff it.

Since I was nearly poisoned by one of my mother’s apples, who could blame me for being overly cautious? Over the years, I've learned to detect the signs of a poisoned apple. The faint scent of metal clings to the skin .

People from all across the land come to purchase my mother's poisoned apples, if they know where to look. Battered wives looking to end their pain, a jaded man looking for revenge, even a grieving mother who couldn't get over the loss of her child. I haven't the faintest idea of how the knowledge of my mother's darker magics spread around Roselaria, but I'm smart enough not to have asked either. I know she spends hours a day in her den and that the results of which are various kinds of apples. Some paralyze, some blind, some kill instantly, and some bring on a slow and painful death. It all depends on what her clients are looking for and what evil my mother can provide. Of course, my mother’s tainted apples aren't common knowledge to all, but even royals have friends in low places.

Lucky for me, I am nowhere near the manor, or my mother's orchard of tainted apples. I am safe from her threats for now. So, I relish the fact as I watch the sun reflect off the deep crimson skin of the fruit, creating a blinding white patch. As perfect as a picture.

I sink my teeth into the fruit and feel the crunch in my skull, the sweet juice trailing down the sides of my chin. I wince at the tug of my healing skin before closing my eyes and resting my head against the trunk of the tree, enjoying this small moment of peace.

A twig snaps and I jerk my body at attention, searching the area below, then around me. My eyes are met with the big, beautiful brown eyes of a young buck just under me on the edge of the tree's perimeter. Two small points shoot out from his head, horns that will one day become full antlers. His thick lashes flutter once. His wheat-colored coat is shadowed by the canopy of leaves. I nod to him, hoping he feels in my gaze that I will do him no harm. Hunger no longer guides my actions as I take another bite and watch as his ears twitch at the sound of the crunch. After a moment, he ducks his head to pick up the apple that dropped earlier, breaking it in half with his jaw.

For several minutes we enjoy our fruit in silence, our teeth mashing the apple the only sound. In that moment I notice we are more alike than I may have once believed. We are both on the run for our lives, never settling for too long. The life of a deer is one of prey. Always on the lookout. Always on the defense. Just as I am.

Someone is always trying to kill us.

I try another feeble attempt at fuzing my magic to an under-ripened frost apple with no luck, still feeling the block to my flow of power. It’s like my mother is standing over my shoulder willing me to fail. My body shakes with unspent energy when I chuck the unfuzed apple into another tree, watching it explode on impact. Useless.

When I get my fill of apples, I pocket a few before leaping down, feeling a twinge of pain in my weakened ankle, and head back to the cabin a bit early in hopes of snagging a small piece of soap from the bathroom. Scrubbing my fingers into my hair with just water from the stream can only do so much. These warriors can spare a piece. Somewhere in this camp, there must be a supply stash for replenishment.

As I walk back, I wonder how warrior camps keep stock of their supplies. How often do they restock and from where? With the warriors always rotating, it must be difficult to keep track. Not something I'd want to be in charge of.

When I reach the cabin, I pull the handle of the back door that I keep unlocked when I leave in the morning, but instead of swinging open, it doesn't budge.

My heart falters in my chest as I try again, grabbing the knob with both hands. I jiggle the door and lean my weight into it but it doesn't so much as budge. Shit. I'm locked out.

Did Coy change his mind? Did he suddenly decide that I've overstayed my welcome? Or worse, did someone else discover the back door was unlocked? Either way, I'm screwed.

I try again, pulling my dagger out and attempting to pick the lock. I'm concentrating so hard on unlocking the door that I don’t notice the sound of footsteps approaching until the door swings open and I tumble in.

Panic seizes my muscles like frost as I straighten and look up, taking a defensive stance, dagger in hand. My eyes are met with Archer, the warrior who questioned Coy earlier, the one with the farsighted ability. Shit. Either I've gotten Coy into trouble or this is really bad timing. Likely both. Before I can even think about running, he grabs me by the arm and pulls me further into the cabin.

"I don't think so, shadow girl." His growl is enough to make me quake, but I hold my ground weighing the pros and cons of stabbing him right in the chest. Anything to get out of his vice grip. But he's wearing armor and I doubt I will do much damage before he grabs me again. I will likely only make things worse for myself.

Still under his grip, Archer drags me inside and locks the back door as I tug my arm free. The only reason I feel the release of his hand is surely because he allowed it. He's triple my size and a trained killer. No match for a tiny, hungry runaway.

"How long has Coy been hiding you here?" He towers over me, his broad frame like a monster's shadow. His demeanor is nothing like Coy’s. This male is no-nonsense, commanding respect and response. His voice makes me want to answer his question like he's my superior, even though I'm not sure what to say. It’s clear this is an interrogation, not an execution…yet.

I look at him quizzically, wondering who this person is and if I should fear for my life once again. But I feel like I know this man. I know he wakes up before the rest of the group to start the coffee most mornings. I know he is a slow eater, always the last to finish his plate. And I know that he double-checks the amount of firewood stacked each night. This man is frightening, but something deep inside of me tells me he will not harm me.

I mull over how to answer his question, but am saved by the whoosh of the front door swinging open wide. Coy's eyes are wide as saucers as he freezes in the door’s frame.

"Archer, it's not what you think." Coy steps into the cabin space, his cheeks already heating up.

"I think it looks like you've been harboring a stowaway in our cabin . . . again." Archer's commanding voice holds a lightness to it like he might not be taking this as seriously as he should be.

"Oh, well. In that case, it's exactly what you think." A laugh bubbles from within me and Coy's arms drop to his sides as he meets us at the kitchen island. Archer turns to me then, uncrossing his arms. "This isn't the first time Coy's bleeding heart has resulted in harboring a stowaway." His eyes slide back to Coy then. "Even though it is completely against regulations. But what do I care? I'm not the captain anymore." His voice turns light at the end, like he's glad to not have the weight of responsibility on his shoulders any longer.

"Are you alright?" Coy's sweet eyes scan me for injury, jarring me from my thoughts, but I nod my head.

"I'm not your first stowaway?" I try to sound jokingly accusing but my voice shakes from residual panic and I mentally scold myself to get it together.

“Sorry, Snow. Whip was my first stray. There’s no chance you want to join the force, is there?” Coy quirks a brow as Archer chuckles, but my shock cannot be hidden. Whip was originally a stray before she was a member of the Arion. Suddenly my predicament seems much brighter.

"So this is the source of your strange behavior." Archer folds his arms across his chest, eyebrow raised in question.

"She was hurt. I couldn't leave her for the wolves. We made an oath." Coy's explanation makes me sound weak and helpless. I resent it, despite his kindness. I try to find something to say to explain but pause when I realize we're waiting to see what Archer says next. Coy’s waiting to see how Archer reacts to our situation—to see if last night was my final night spent in this cabin.

He looks at me with wonder in his eyes, assessing me. But he doesn't look challenged or angry. He looks…relieved? Honored? Like the possibility of harboring a stowaway in the cabin isn’t a terribly insane idea. I hold my breath as I wait to learn what my future holds. A pin could drop and I would hear its echo.

"So . . . how do we break it to the others?" A grin cracks across Archer's face as his eyes shift from Coy's to mine and back again. Coy's cheeks turn berry pink as he smiles back, and I fight the smirk that tugs the corner of my mouth.

Thanks to these two warriors, I might have a few more days to figure out what comes next.