SINDRED

"Sindred, look at their feet. Eyes down," Mama says softly, giving my hand a comforting squeeze. 

It's because of me we have to hide, can't stay too long anywhere we go. They don't tell me it's my fault, but I know. Mama reminds me to be careful not to look up at strangers, always keep my eyes down when they come too close. But I see her smiling at every stranger we pass on the road. And when we stop at a village and she puts on her nice dress to sing for a few coins and three bowls of hot stew, Papa tucks me in his arms all the way at the back of the crowd, making sure Mama's shawl is pulled up to cover my hair. I know how much he wants to be up there with her, strumming on his old lute, but he's afraid. He's afraid I won't hide well enough. That they'll see. So he hides with me, and in the morning we leave. 

It takes us many days to reach the little wooden cottage nestled in the farmland at the edge of the city. I'm not a baby anymore, but I got tired. Mama holds me against her chest, bouncing from foot to foot to keep warm. Her boots crunch into the snow, and layers of colorful skirts swish back and forth against her legs. I can see the fog of our breath in the air. 

My father bangs his palm into the front door three times. He steps back to wait, shivering even in his thick hand-stitched furs. There are little ice crystals in his beard, and his cheeks are wind-bitten red. 

The door cracks open and a man peers out at us. His skin is gray-tinged, eyes sunken with exhaustion. “Berl?” he says. “Is that really you?”

It's clear they're brothers: same broad shoulders, big hands, mess of dark hair. My papa is shorter, rounder around the middle. He's got a gentler smile. 

We are ushered inside, our outer clothes taken off and hung to dry, our frozen limbs moved close to the hearth for thawing. There is only one room in the cottage, with a loft above for the boys’ bed. “Did you come for the festival?” someone asks. “Because I’m afraid you just missed it. The parade was yesterday.”

Mama sets me down, despite my mewl of protest, and the other woman kneels down to get a closer look at me. She's got long stringy hair the color of straw and a pointed chin. 

“Mara,” the woman whispers. “Your child. Her hair. Her eyes.”

“Lin,” Papa says. “Shush.”

Lin continues to stare at me, and I stare back into her watery eyes, an unpleasant shade of yellowish brown. “She's a faerie child, Andor!” Lin squeels breathlessly.

At her words, Mama reaches down and pulls me back into her arms, wrapping me up in a protective hug.

Lin takes a couple steps away from me and Mama. She gestures at me with a panicked swing of her wrist, fingers twitching. “She shouldn't be in this house.”

Andor looks back and forth between his wife and my papa. His two boys hover behind him, one of them almost as tall as his father. “Explain, Berl. What is the meaning of this?”

“We need your help,” Papa says in that deep voice. “Please, Brother.” The words hang there in the air, humming.

The youngest boy speaks, breaking the tense silence. “One of Paulson's girls got taken by a faerie a month or so ago,” he says, his voice shrill. “A satyr, the ones with those horns. Seduced or something. I heard them talking. She disappeared into the Wood, just like that.”

Lin brings her hands to her mouth and whimpers, long and tremulous.

“Nonsense,” Mama says. Her voice is light, but there is an undertone of anger. “You know better than to believe such things, Edvor. Those who respect the Other Folk are respected in return. It's all a bunch of foolish talk, blaming the fae for failed crops and disappearing wives, collapsed roofs and spoiled milk.”

“Mara, this is my house,” Andor says. It sounds like a scolding, but there's no energy behind it, just a weariness, tinged with fear. “Keep your legends and songs to yourself. We're simple people living simple lives. We can't help you.”

“Please, Andor,” Papa says, reaching a desperate hand towards his brother. “We have nowhere else to go.”

“You can stay the night.” Lin gasps as he says this. “At dawn, take your silver-haired demon and go. I will not have the wrath of the Ironborn down on my family.”

“Where will we go?” Mama's voice rings out. “Where is your compassion? We have traveled all this way. She is a child! Not a monster.”

“She is born of treachery and evil,” Lin says, glaring at me and Mama. 

“Demon,” Edvor sneers. 

Mama makes a sound like a growl in the back of her throat, and I start to feel scared for the first time. I try my best not to cry.

The older boy opens his mouth, but hesitates. Papa sees and snaps at him, “You have something to say to us? Speak, Boy.” I wince at the uncharacteristic harshness of his tone. My chin starts to tremble. 

“I tend to horses at the palace. There's a woman there who works for the king. I heard she takes children. As servants or somesuch. I don't know what happens to them. But she takes them, the ones like…” He doesn't finish his sentence, but his eyes dart to my face before lowering abruptly to the ground. “Her name is Ezebel.”

“Let’s go, Berl,” Mama says, voice low. “Now.”

They wrap me in a blanket, pulled over my head like a hood to hide my hair. I fall in and out of sleep in my father’s arms as he walks. At one point I hear him say softly, “We knew we shouldn’t’ve. That night. If we hadn’t gone so deep into the wood… hadn’t drunk from that spring… Oh, Mara, sometimes I just wish… I wish we’d been more careful. If we had a normal child...”

“A twilit night,” Mama sings, making up the tune as she goes. “The sweetest water, the softest moss, fireflies glittering through the grove. The most amazing man.” I can’t see her, but I know she’s giving him that irresistible smile. 

“But, Mara…” Papa sounds so sad. I nuzzle my head against his shoulder. 

“I will not regret such a beautiful thing,” Mama says, no song in her voice now. “Our child is perfect. A bunch of powerful wizards slaughtering babes because they’re afraid.” She makes a sound of disgust. “It’s wrong. They’re--”

“Mara!” he interrupts, his whisper panicked. 

Mama can be a bit louder than she means to be, and she likes to say exactly how she feels. Papa told me that’s what makes her such a good storyteller. She’s full of passion. But sometimes, such things are dangerous. Even I know we can’t talk that way about the Ironborn. 

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

I open my eyes. My father’s fear is contagious. I peer out over his shoulder and see city streets sloped down behind us, cobblestones glistening with dirty patches of ice. By the light of the moon, I can make out colorful banners strung below the eaves of buildings, and the bright smudge of crushed flower petals swept into the gutters, inexplicable in the dead of winter. There is no one else out in the night, but the tall buildings on either side feel as though they’re watching us, looming like shadowy predators. I squeeze my eyes shut. 

For the rest of the way they walk in tense silence. I drift back to sleep, warm in Papa’s arms.

“Wake up, Sindred,” Mama whispers, kissing my cold cheeks. She sets me down on my feet as I blink sleepily, and kneels down to match my height. “I have to tell you something very, very important. Are you listening?”

I nod slowly, glancing around to see where we are. There is a gate before us, thick bands of iron elegantly twisted. It connects to a high stone wall that winds down the street to either side, and through the gate I can see the dark shapes of a vast structure. A wide path has been shoveled through the snow leading up the building. 

“Sindred.” I look away from the gate and back at my mother. “We might have to go away, and leave--” Her voice chokes on the word. I notice there are tears pooled in her eyes. “Leave you with someone else for a while. Someone who will take care of you while we’re gone. But you have to understand that your papa and I love you very much. We want more than anything to take you with us.”

“I love you, Mama,” I say, reaching out to touch her damp cheek with my small hand. I don’t like that she’s crying. 

“Give Papa a hug, now,” she says, wiping her face with her own hand.

I leap into his arms and he lifts me into a snug embrace. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are wet, too. I’m confused. Why are they sad?

Mama carefully pulls the blanket completely over my hair and down over part of my face, tucking it in place around my body so it will stay. Then she turns to the gate, pulls out two long pieces of metal, and starts playing with the lock. She’s shown me that game before. 

“The first guard will be back this way in less than ten minutes,” Papa says. 

“I know, Berl. Shush,” Mama mutters, concentrating on her task. A moment later she grins and steps back. “Hurry up, now! Come on.”

They walk with purpose down the path, not sneaking about. They’ve taught this trick to me. When hiding is impossible, act like you are exactly where you’re meant to be and you’re less likely to get questioned. I’m good at it, Mama says. I have a knack for being invisible in plain sight. 

A large woman opens the door before we reach it. There is commotion in the room beyond, many fires lit in big hearths and lanterns glowing on long counters. People knead dough and cut vegetables and stir broth. It is hard to see much of our surroundings outside, but I can smell the distinct odor of food scraps rotting. 

“Who are you?” the woman asks, gruff and unwelcoming. She wipes her large hands on her apron. 

“We’re looking for Ezebel,” Mama says in response. “We have something for her.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” The woman narrows her eyes. “How’d you get past the guards?” 

“Please, can you help us or not? We’ve traveled very far,” Papa says.

The woman seems to soften a bit at this. “In the dead of winter, no less. It must be something very important you’ve brought, eh? Alright, hand it over then. I’ll see it’s given to the White Witch herself.”

“The White Witch? That’s Ezebel?” Mama asks. She’s tucked her hands under her arms to keep them warm. I feel the warmth seeping out of the kitchen in waves. I wish the mean woman would let us inside. 

“Yes, that’s what I said. Be quick with it, now. I don’t have all night. I’ve got a whole palace to feed.”

“Can’t we see her? The White Witch? We can’t just give you… We have to know it’s in the right hands.”

The woman scoffs. “I’ve been patient enough. Hand it over and leave or I’ll call the guards and get you both thrown in a cell.”

“Please, I--” 

“Mara,” Papa interrupts. “This may be the only way.” He takes a step toward the woman and lifts me away from where I’m tucked against his body. “Will she be safe? Do you know?”

The woman stares at me for a moment, wrapped in my blanket and held in my father’s gentle hands. “Thought as much,” she says. “No telling how safe she’ll be, is there? Better than all three of you dead. Hand her over, then.” 

“Wait, Berl, I...” Mama sees his face and falls silent.  

I shrink away at first and reach back towards my papa. I expect to be handled roughly or hurt in some way, but the woman tucks me solidly against her side and shushes me. 

“Leave,” she says to Mama, who has her hands over her mouth and is making small sounds like she can't breathe very well. “Now.”

Then she takes me inside and shuts the door.

.

The White Witch has a thick braid of white hair that falls all the way down her back and wears trousers, like a man. She looks like a grandmother, but holds herself like a warrior. 

In the palace kitchen, she looks me over like an animal she's considering for dinner, but as soon as she nods and lifts me into her arms, I feel safe. She brings me to a room full of plants hanging to dry and concoctions soaking in jars, sits me down on one of the long counters. Without a word to me, she puts on an apron and begins to work, mashing and grinding materials into a stone bowl, adding drops of water and other strange liquids at various stages.  

I watch her silently. When she is finished with whatever foul smelling paste she was creating, she brings the bowl over and pulls the blanket off of me. I swallow my cry of complaint as she begins to work the paste into my hair with strong hands. 

Then she pushes my head back over a big basin and pours water through my hair, washing away some of the gook that clings to the once silvery strands. 

When she's done, my usual wispy tufts hang heavy from my head, a dirty yellow color. 

She surveys her work. "It'll do."

.

For my first few months in the palace, I am glued to Ezebel's side. I sleep tucked against her in the small cot she keeps behind a curtain in her apothecary, and spend much of my days watching her sort and measure herbs and essences, brew teas and tisanes, create salves and poultices. Mostly, she expects me to sit quietly, but occasionally she'll break the silence to teach me the names of a plant, or tell me the type of medicine she is making. She has me repeat it back, then brings it up later to check if I remember. I always do. 

I learn other things, too. She tells me the names of important members of court, how to identify them, any ailments they come to her for, what kinds of political motives they have. I meet palace staff and listen to their gossip. 

Some of our visitors whisper things to Ezebel when they come, or slip her small pieces of parchment. These people come regularly, but never stay long to chat. Sometimes they give me odd looks, but they don't speak to me. Mostly, these are things I don't fully understand. But I still tuck each bit of knowledge away for later. I watch. I listen. 

It is years before I realize that the big man we bring news to almost every night in his study is the king himself. He reminds me of Papa, mountainous and rosy-cheeked. But louder, even taller. He always pats my head with a huge hand and calls me "little lass." Ezebel never explained to me what their relationship was. She let me piece it together myself, training me to be one of her spies before I even grasped that's what was happening, or knew fully what that meant. 

When I am eight years old, she tells me I am to have my own room in the servants' wing. At first I think it's punishment. My stomach twists with anxiety. My heart pounds. She's leaving me, like my parents. 

It takes me a long panicked moment to realize it's not a rejection. Not that I'm not good enough, or that something is wrong with me. She's giving me a gift. She thinks I am ready to be on my own, that I don't need her constant supervision. 

She trusts me.

But Ezebel never fully trusts anybody. I should know that by now. Her world is one of secrets and lies, a web of careful contracts and manipulation. 

She asks for an oath. Knowing that it will break me to break it. That it will bind me like an iron cord wrapped around my soul. Knowing she asks too much from a child who just wants to be loved. 

“Promise me, little Sin. You must.”

I stare into her steely gray eyes, a dark stormcloud to my pools of ice. Her face is old and lined, but in her eyes I see power, ferocity, crystal-sharp determination. And something softer, something I could almost mistake for love. 

“Say the words,” she insists. 

My words are ever so quiet, but they slip out all the same, stretching out to touch that softness in her eyes, my obedience a plea. “I promise, Ezebel. I will do exactly as you say. You are my master, now and always. I swear it.” Please, just love me. Please. That's all I wish for in return.

Children are foolish. They wish for foolish things.