Wicked is the Curse.

35 | Trick

Chapter 35 | Trick

Aire managed not to cause trouble for some time. She was allowed to return to her given room in the Wielders' house, with the bed that cocooned her in warmth. Days passed through Valherin's great eye, grey clouds passing over the sky, the sun weak against the harsh mountain. Each morning, Aire carefully knotted her hair into her shawl and bound it tight, pasting whatever mud or grime she could to the front few strands. Just in case.

Breakfast was taken together, sitting cross-legged in front of the long tables. After breakfast, it was time to train with Fiachra. Aire could barely replicate her earlier actions. Soil remained untouched, her magic dormant unless a particularly errant bolt of frustration made it move.

Dejected by her failure, they would have a mid-day break before heading to train with the Aether. At least here, she could prove something. It had been many years since she had trained with the Aether and though she was rusty, her work in the gang in Irial had given her some opportunity to whet those skills. Often, she was set against Nyeth, who was a formidable foe now that she had a chance to rest after her ordeal. She moved swiftly, each decision, each strike made with certainty. Each rap against Aire's arm was met with just steel-eyed concentration, enough so that Aire melted into a similar pose.

After every session, Nyeth's seriousness would break, and she would clap Aire on the arm. "Well done, friend."

Other days, she was set against the Aether. Mostly Wynn, who thankfully, did not try to break her shoulder again. He had become a nice distraction for her, a warm sort of humour and a gentle flirt who didn't leer nor sneer at her.

During dinner, she sat with the Wielders. It was one of her favourite times of day and at the same time, her least favourite. The longer she spent with them, the more they seemed to worm their way in. They had already embedded themselves in there and Aire knew, since the time she had stepped forward to defend Siseal and his broken ankle, that she would always feel responsible for them.

"What was life growing up in Sibran, Brice?" Nyeth held thick strands of red hair in her hands, combing through the thick hair. Brice knelt in front of her, a cup of luke-warm tea between her hands. Out of the five of them, she was the one who had melded into life in Valherin. A burn here. A broken bone there. Aire couldn't believe Valherin had lasted as long as it did with all the injuries.

"Was it always so cold?" Aire asked, nibbling on some honeyed cheese. Her stomach was sore, stuffed with food but there was so much to try that she could hardly help herself. It was easier then, to slip some food into some cloth.

"Not as brutal as it is here, but Sibran holds the cold longer than any other country on the continent. Our springs melt into summer, into autumn in the blink of an eye. More months of the year were beholden to the bitter cold than not."

"Then your people are tough," Nyeth mused, "To survive such a life?"

"I never knew anything different." Brice shrugged a shoulder. "It was just the way it was."

"Mama said that Cearna was always in a mood." Siseal glanced at Aire for clarification.

Aire hummed, nibbling on the edge of a strange, dark fruit. It was sweet, so she swallowed it down and reached for another. "Each passing of the thirteen moons throughout the year marked rain. We even had names for the types of rain that fell. We cursed the wet ground, hoping for snow in the winter because it was such fun for us."

"I can't imagine snow being a novelty in a country ill-equipped to handle it. Unless you had the luxury of being able to warm yourself, feed yourself and endure the days off work because of it." Brice eyed Aire, whose lips were stained with honey. Jam streaked a cheek.