Wicked is the Curse.

24 | Welcome

Chapter 24 | Welcome. 

                            Aire barely recognised the other Wielders as they headed down to the celebrations. There was a flush of colour on their faces that Aire had not seen before – faces scrubbed clean of dirt and weary bodies clad in soft, warm clothes that had not been dragged through hundreds of miles of suffering, chains and mud. Brice was glowing as she fell into step beside Ferdia, their guide for the evening. Her hair was unbound, tumbling down her back in a mass of withering, ashen red flaming curls. Nyeth was a step beside her, taking in everything around her as Siseal wove his arm around hers.

Only Anluan looked as reserved as Aire felt, drawing back to walk by her side. Aire kept silent for a minute, casting him quick and furtive glances before she could remain silent no longer. "Are you well, Anluan?"

The young lad blinked at her. "Yes."

Aire wasn't convinced. Anluan wasn't a great liar – his gaze shifted too quickly and red flooded his cheeks as he felt the weight of Aire's stare. His silence rankled her, as she knew it would. Throughout her life, Aire had gotten herself into trouble for being unable to let a secret lie. As a child, she had found secret servant corridors, spots to slip into to listen in on meetings that even Ríona had been forbidden to attend. She had soaked in information that she relayed back to Ríona; she had figured that if she had no magic to help her future Queen, then she would find any other way to be useful to Ríona.

Most she hadn't truly understood – talks of rationing, of skirmishes in far off places. She did hang on every word of coming celebrations and festivals that would bring visitors to the capitol and flood the streets with music, foreign food and performers who danced with fire and pulled coins from behind her ear. During Bealtaine, knowing who was visiting meant knowing what honoured guest would be granted the gift of lighting the Bealtaine bonfire to chase away the last dregs of dark winter. She would know of what visitor to watch, of whose alliances her father sought to solidify. Because despite Sloane's words at the fountain, Aire had known her father to be a wary, careful man.

She had tried and failed to listen to the complaints of fisherman and of the wild stories of ships brazen enough to try and cross the Sea of Stars between Kaelara and Cearna – an infamous stretch of water dotted with treacherous islands, switching currents that could suck the ships under and dark waters that hide great monsters who could swallow the isles whole. 'Let them,' Aire had thought. Her Siren friends who swam those waters would be guaranteed an easy meal.

It was those hiding spots, those hidden corridors that had helped her escape the massacre in the castle. That penchance and skill for rooting out secrets had been useful in Irial and was only strengthened by her spirits.

Aire's pace faltered. How lonely they must be, with no way to communicate with the living world?

Did Daria stand on the busy streets, following her sister who could never hear her voice again? Did the orphans slain on dark streets have anyone to sing to them in the dark, or to listen to their fears. Did Royden sit on the banks of the Polliver underneath the city, staring at his bones picked clean by rats? Or had he found where his pinkie bone had been discarded, wondering where I was now. Or if I was even alive? She had tried sending some of them to their afterlife during Samhain when she could feel the veil of the world pulling thin. On that night, the North Star burned so bright that it could have rivelled the sun; mocking them, mocking her as their souls lingered. They had never blamed her. Often, they were just glad that there was someone left to care.

The music grew louder as they walked along the glass street. There were great torches burning as they passed, then tiny flickering lights that beckoned them further and further into Valherin. Aire drew her brat tighter around her shoulders, feeling the bitter chill of Sibran air.