Wicked is the Curse.

17 | Tricksters

Chapter 17 | Tricksters.

Aire was not the first to wake.

Chatter and the rustle of movement woke her. Aire stirred, head heavy and tired from broke sleep. It was daylight, but she felt exhausted as she raised her head. Her tongue was dry, and her first thought was that of Eoban.

As she rolled over, she jolted at a sharp prick against her hand. A small line of crimson beads appeared, and Aire sat up, cautiously reaching for the small twisting branch of blackthorn, that had been left beside her. Had she done this in her sleep?

Her breath was shaky and as she touched the stalk, she felt a shudder of magic rush up her arm. It seemed like the blackthorn had twisted itself into the shape of a crown. She shot a glance towards the dark trees surrounding their camp, then to the camp, perturbed. No one seemed to notice anything amiss. 

 Aire set it down, slipping out of her bed-roll. The morning air was crisp and clean and as she breathed in, she could feel the headache blooming beginning to fade.

"Aire!" Nyeth waved to her from the pond's edge.

The Knechru woman was eating something, her face tipping up to the golden light that cut into the clearing, broken only by the gaps in the canopies it angled through. Across the clearing, great swaths of white heather moved with the morning breeze. They had not been there last night.

Aire took the wooden cup that Nyeth handed her, desperate to quell her panic and thirst. The water did nothing for either. Even as it went down her throat, she could only think about how Eoban would help her now. How Eoban would calm her racing heart. Nyeth leaned close as Aire drank, her eyes on the Aether.

"They are whispering."

"About what?" Her panic was forgotten for a moment, her interest piqued.

A wry smile curled at Nyeth's full lips. "They seem to forget that Anluan hears more than he lets on. He says they are speaking of the flowers in the clearing. They were not here last night."

"Anyone with eyes could see that." Water dripped down Aire's chin. The path of the white heather was not obvious, but Aire could see the path that it made. From her bed-roll, from Anluan's bed down to the pond. A full bloom in mere hours. Brice was examining them, with the Aether soldier Sloane standing at her shoulder. They were talking in low voices and Brice laughed at something Sloane said.

Sloane broke off a few sprigs of heather and handed them to her. She said something again that made Brice laugh, before turning towards the pond's edge.

"Good morning," Brice's smile was warm as she beheld them.

Aire drank again, murmuring a greeting. White heather. Primroses. Blackthorn shaped into a crown. These were no coincidences, but the answer was impossible. Wielders did not develop abilities when they were older. Their magic was twined with their blood. It was born with them, but only developed when they were physically strong enough to Wield it. Her sisters and brothers had all gone the granting of a Wield and she had reached the age and passed it.

Seeing spirits, she could understand. Perhaps there were no spirits in her home for her to see. Perhaps that Wield was overlooked because it was not like the others.

But this – the growth, the awareness of life around her...that was something she could have been aware of. The gardens in her home, grand and broad as they were would have responded to her Wield.

This was not right. Aire wished that she could speak to the others, but that would have led to too many questions. Besides, she had kept her Wield to herself for years. Aevran had known she was a Wielder, but she had spared him the details. It had been safer for him that way.