A nervous ache settled in my belly as I drank in the gypsy. Her colorful clothing, her jeweled neck and fingers, her snow-white skin and the maze of wrinkles on her face and hands. Time seemed to slow and the wind picked up, ruffling the woman’s gray hair.
“Learn your future for a dagnon,” she said, her voice low but sickly sweet.
I slowed my pace and my sister shortened her step to match it. We didn’t often see gypsies in Haevene, and that alone made me curious about her and what she would say to me. But I couldn’t afford her fee. A dagnon was nearly a full day’s wage; it was absolutely out of the question. My mother would have had a fit at my senselessness, but I would have been lying if I said I didn’t consider it…
Disappointed, I shook my head at her, mouthing a “No, thank you.” Placing my hand at the small of my sister’s back, I guided Lilley forward. Lilley frowned at me and resisted before finally taking my lead, but as we continued to browse the other peddlers’ carts, I couldn’t help but glance back at the curious woman. What would she see in my future? I desperately wanted to know. Maybe she would tell me not to worry, and that I wouldn’t have to marry after all, that all of my dreams would come true. I doubted it, but I couldn’t help but hope for it, and I desperately wished for her reassurance.
“Did you see her sign, Meme?” Lilley asked. “She’s from the fairy island.” Lilley’s warm brown eyes were wide as she looked up at me. Bouncing on her toes, she clapped her hands together and her corkscrew blonde curls bounced right along with her.
The sign on the gypsy’s cart read FORTUNES FROM FAEMELL. Savages and exiles called the far south island home, as well as fairies and half-breeds.
“Rumored fairy island,” I whispered. From what I’d read, there was no real proof that fairies actually existed. I’d only seen drawings of them in books.
“Is that so?” the gypsy said.
My hair fanned out as I spun around to face the woman, who now stood four or five feet behind me. I had glanced at her only seconds before but, at that time, she’d stood on the other side of the square. How had she moved so quickly?
As her gaze traveled from the tips of my toes, up the length of my plain linen dress, to my slack-jawed, crimson face, a lump settled in my throat and my chest became tight. I hadn’t meant for her to hear me, and I certainly hadn’t meant to offend her. Not a wise thing to upset a gypsy. For they were nothing more than wandering witches, famed for being loose with hexes. Just last year an albino witch from Northern Copaxa was said to have cursed an entire family with goat hooves after they refused to offer her a night at their inn. I was rather fond of my human feet, thank you very much.
“Have you been to my fair country?” she asked me, pointing a thin, wrinkled finger in my direction.
“No,” I said, with a shake of my head. “I wish it were true, honestly I do, but no human has ever seen a fairy, so it seems rather unlikely, does it not?”
“One doesn’t need to see to believe.”
“So, it’s true? There are honest to goodness fairies there?” Lilley clapped her hands together. Her excitement radiated from her like a forest fire.
“Some think so,” the gypsy said. She glided closer, so smoothly I wondered if her feet had touched the ground. The way she moved seemed so unnatural; it caused the fine hairs on my arms to prick and my back to straighten.
“Do you want to know your future?” The gypsy smiled, showcasing her stained teeth. Her gaze deepened as she tipped her head to the side. Her eyes were like daggers, penetrating my flesh to poke at my bones. I had to take a step back just to breathe.
“Yes, but I can’t spare a dagnon. Sorry.”
As we turned to walk away, the gypsy said, “I’m feeling charitable today, my dear.”
Lilley halted. I collided with her back, propelling her forward. Before Lilley fell onto her face, I reached out to yank her back, hugging her tight against my chest.
“Let me go, Isame!” Lilley said, smoothing her dress before pushing me away. “I’m fine.”
After I looked over Lilley, I turned back to the gypsy. She beckoned me to come toward her with a come-hither motion of her fingers. My gut told me to keep walking. It had never once been wrong, but curiosity drove me forward. Nothing good would come of my interaction with the witch, yet I couldn’t walk away. My mother once told me my inquisitiveness would get me into mounds of trouble one day. Perhaps this was that day.
The gypsy fluffed her dress and plunked down on a wooden stool by her cart. She patted the stool beside her and a fit of nausea overcame me as I inched toward it. I closed my eyes and prayed to the gods she would tell me something to give me hope of the life I wanted, and not the one that I seemed destined to live.
“Give me your hand,” she said, drawing me from my thoughts. She extended her ghostly white hand in waiting. As I looked down at it, I couldn’t help but stare. Her fingers had an extra joint. Instead of three sections there were four.
“I haven’t got all day,” she told me.
I shook my head to regain some composure, reminding myself that it was impolite and stupid to stare. After heaving a deep breath I offered my hand. She snatched it and flipped it over, holding my arm at the wrist. She studied my palm for several minutes before brushing the nail of her index finger across the random faint and solid lines that streaked my calloused palm. A tickle ran up my arm, destined for my spine. After a minute or two she tutted and stopped abruptly. She flashed her eyes up at me, and her brows arched toward her hairline. Her jaw dropped a fraction of an inch.
“How curious,” she began, “that you should not believe in fairies.”
“Why is that curious?” I stared at the lines on my hands, trying hard to see what she might see.
“That is not for me to tell, my dear. I’m afraid I cannot help you.” She dropped my hand and stood before packing her things away in a cedar chest decorated with intricate carvings and words in a language I couldn’t identify. Her refusal to continue reading fueled my interest. Peddlers made most of their profit on Saturday afternoons. Papa didn’t even bother setting up on Saturdays until midday. What could she possibly have seen to persuade her to pack up early?
“Tell her you’ll pay the dagnon, Meme,” Lilley said, tugging at the hip of my dress. “Tell her.”
Was it a ploy? Had she meant to make me interested only to insist that I pay her? Something deep inside me told me that wasn’t the case, and that the woman had seen something she had not expected to see: a glimpse into my future that I wanted—no, needed—to know. Perhaps a future very different from the one I expected. So, despite my usual level-headedness, I offered her the dagnon, knowing full well I couldn’t pay it without severely disappointing my mother.
“You insult me!” the woman snapped, her cheeks burning with irritation.
I froze, waiting for magical sparks to shoot from her fingers and for my feet to morph into hooves.
“I told you there would be no fee and I meant it. Some futures are cemented. They cannot be changed. But, I can tell you this: you are about to embark on a great journey. It will not be an easy one, but you must persevere. Be careful who you trust. There are those who are not what they seem.”
“A great journey. Me?” I pointed to my chest, half surprised and half elated.
Instantly, her demeanor changed. She jerked her eyes from left to right, right to left, and then repeated this a half dozen times over the trees behind me. What was she looking for? It was as if she worried someone watched us, as if she might get in trouble for something. How odd. I tried to follow her gaze, but keeping up with her rapid eye movements threatened to make me dizzy.
The color in her cheeks faded and she backed away from me with her hands raised. She resumed packing up her cart, mumbling words under her breath that I couldn’t understand.
“What about me?” Lilley exclaimed. “Can you read my future?”
“No! I am closed for the day.”
“Please, madam. Isn’t there something else you can tell me? Anything at all?” After a moment of silence, I added, “Please. I must know!”
“I am not about to damn myself for a stranger!” she said. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“I don’t understand. Why would talking to me damn you?”
The gypsy whirled around to face me. With intense, penetrating eyes, she said, “Faemell. You will always be safe in Faemell.” I could have sworn her irises pulsated.
“Now, go!” With a loud bang, she slammed her chest shut and loaded it on her horse-drawn cart. The gray horse whinnied and turned to face me. We made eye contact before the horse shook its head and snorted at me, as if it had understood everything we’d said. Impossible.
“I have said too much and I will say no more,” the gypsy said before climbing onto her horse.
I didn’t understand. The gypsy had seemed so eager to read me, and then all of sudden she couldn’t get away fast enough. Was it something in my future that scared her off?
It didn’t make any sense to me, unless she saw a future very different from the one I expected. No. It couldn’t be that. Could it?
With a shout the gypsy galloped away on her horse, her packed cart following precariously behind them. I followed them with my gaze. I’d never forget meeting her or wondering over the words she refused to speak to me. Perhaps not for as long as I lived.
I wanted to know more about the journey she saw. It lit a fire inside of me to think about traveling and exploring new lands, about living a life so different from the one I was about to live. Traveling was something I had always wanted to do but had never dreamed possible. And now, I felt a glimmer of hope.
“At least she gave you something. She wouldn’t even attempt mine,” Lilley said through a pout. The gypsy’s puzzling actions and words seemed to have zero effect on Lilley, but they had completely shaken me. Lilley seemed to be more concerned that the gypsy refused her.
“Do you think she was the real thing?” she asked, the tone of her voice showcasing her doubt.
“Yes, Lilley, I think she was.”
Lilley frowned, as if deep in thought, before her gaze wandered over to the stonewalled mercer’s shop where yards of colorful silk decorated the window. “Silk!” she cried. She flitted over to it, probably having already forgotten my strange exchange with the gypsy.
I sighed and followed Lilley. Her ability to shake things quickly from her mind made me jealous. If only I could have done the same. I tried and tried to push the gypsy’s words into the far recesses of my mind where I wouldn’t think about them anymore. What was the point in dwelling? The woman had left and she refused to answer my questions anyway, so what choice did I have? So, I let Lilley lead me through the town and the market until our stomachs distracted us.
The Blacksnail Inn had the best dandelion cider and stew in town. Our brother, Ethan, Lilley, and I had visited the place regularly since we could walk—and perhaps even before. Something about the building comforted me. Or perhaps it was the people who worked there. The building was made of smooth black and tan stone. Its windows were paneless and shuttered, its roof thatched with dark brown water reeds. The thick wooden door sat ajar, and when we passed through it the strong scent of baking bread, tobacco, and ale assaulted my senses. Only a dozen or so people sat inside, scattered throughout the space, and most of them were absorbed in their conversations or food.
I scanned the room for an open table and found one not too far from the bar. With Lilley’s tiny hand in mine, I led her over to it. Halfway there she stopped, yanking me back to where she stood.
“Who are they?” Lilley whispered. “Look at the size of them! And all those weapons…”
I peered through clouds of tobacco smoke as farmers puffed away at the tables between us. My jaw fell slack, almost to the floor, when I saw who—no, what—she gawked at. She pointed to a group of unusual men sitting in the far corner of the room. And, as if their presence wasn’t alarming enough, all of their dark, penetrating eyes were trained on me.
Chapter Two
“Savages.” I sucked in air. My whole body stiffened. The buzz and laughter of the men around me quieted into nothingness as time slowed to a crawl. They looked every bit as fierce and intimidating as pictured in my books.
At first glance I might have mistaken them for guardians. It took but a moment to identify them once I focused on their telltale features: the black ink on their flesh and the long hair braided down their backs. Papa once told me the more art a savage wore on their flesh, the more people they’d killed. How could savages be so cruel? Not only to kill, but to brand their victories on their flesh as a sort of trophy. No. These men were nothing like the noble guardians who patrolled the country and protected its citizens.
They were bigger than most Copaxan men, both in height and width. They were perhaps six to six and a half feet tall. Each wore an elaborate tunic with gold or silver embroidery at the wrists and neck. Their trousers were made of tan or black leather from animals I was sure they had caught and killed themselves, especially considering the array of weapons they wore. A belt of daggers, a sword, a whip, and intimidating maces crisscrossed on their backs. Three of them were handsome, in a tough and rugged sort of way, with two far more eye-catching than the others. One with golden-blond hair and ice-blue eyes, and the other with hair as black as night and eyes that reminded me of storm clouds. Yet another one was scarred and scowling and looked as if he was capable of selling his mother.
“Meme? Who are those men?” Lilley asked again, a few decibels louder than before.
After pulling myself together and breaking free from their stares, I placed my hands on my sister’s shoulders and guided her to a vacant table on the opposite side of the room, meandering through the maze of tables.
“Meme, I asked you a question!”
“Stop. We’ll talk in a moment. For now, don’t move,” I ordered, pointing my finger in her face. “I’ll be right back.” In my peripheral vision I noticed the men still ogled me. I swallowed a lump in my throat and tried to control my breathing. Everything about them unnerved me.