CHAPTER 4 : HARD BOILED

"Just when all hope was lost, He fell from the stars. His bones forged mountains, his blood fed the sea, and his final breath cleared the sky of ash." ~Yevin Yangur, Endless Scrolls, Volume 1

SILK SISTER - NEEDLE

"How do you plead, Lyara?"

The woman, an oakwood sprite veering on the upper end of middle-aged, stands on a small iron platform that extends out into the clouds. Below her is nothing but Endless sky. The wind whips her leafy hair around her ears, crumpled and dry after a week in a smoke cell.

Her blue serving robes are stained with soot, and any jewelry she possessed has already been ripped from her ochre skin. Blood collects in a dried clump under her nose, and her hands are tied behind her back.

She's crying, and shaking, and clearly scared. Despite this, she faces the semi-circle of oracles, silk sisters and skyguards with a stubborn, defiant pride.

"You're all monsters," she spits.

"I'll take that as guilty," I say, lips twisting in dissatisfaction.

Unfortunately, Lyara is much stronger than I thought—she's already survived a week of torture and not said a word.

But everyone breaks when faced with the Endless sky. She knows if her body is not burned, she will never be reborn.

She will fall forever.

I step forward, lowering my voice. "Last chance to save yourself. Where is the King initiate?"

"Dead. It's a better fate than what you had planned for him."

I regard her cooly. "I don't believe you. You loved him too much. Tell me where he is or face the judgement of the sky."

She glances between us, then takes a small step back, sliding her heel over the metal grate, towards the edge. "Everything must end," she whispers, then leans back.

Lyara makes no noise as she falls. If she screams, the wind is too loud for us to hear it.

I turn to my sisters. Their expressions are covered by thick, porcelain masks that hide their faces, leaving only the sheen of their eyes behind open slits.

"Find him," I say.

They move at once, their silk robes whispering and their feet clicking as they descend the execution steps and disperse.

Twelve sisters, including myself.

The other skyguards and oracles depart as well, except one.

An oracle named Zhir, head bald and pale as the moon, eyes dark with kohl, lips sealed shut, approaches me. His voice is slick as oil in my mind, but I let him in.

We need contingencies, he says.

"Faust was fed the ichor for nearly a decade, no one else can take his place," I say. "There is no time. The Endless King must be crowned by year's end."

We could speed up the process, he suggests. Increase the dose.

"Very few children could survive that."

...Then I better get started.

I regard Zhir with disgust. How cruel. But as keepers of the Endless, weavers of eternity, we have no choice.

"Do it quietly. Take only from the ground. I don't need a riot on my hands."

He bows and takes his leave. Yes, Sister Needle.

I wander to the edge of the platform and look down.

A sea of pale clouds, painted in hues of blue, pink and orange swirl inches beneath my feet, obscuring the Endless.

Where are you, my King?

EGG

I turn the undershadow eye over in my palm, throw it in the air and catch it. No matter which way I look at it, it always appears as though it's staring back at me.

Bavetna and three other voices are speaking in hushed tones in Little Abbey's kitchen.

I've been sequestered down the stairs, and lounge in the stone windowsill, a single leg hanging loose. My whole body is one big bruise.

A mound of witches are eavesdropping at the kitchen door, ears pressed against the wood. The dark-haired one is squinting through a keyhole. A few are balancing precariously on each other's shoulders.

I consider ratting them out, but to be honest I'm curious what the head witches are saying too...

The undershadow eye hums in my hand.

I hold it up to a ray of light, golden from the setting sun, that's streaming through the window pane.

It refracts, splitting apart.

Suddenly, my vision tunnels, like I'm being thrown face-first down a long hallway at unimaginable speed. I blink, and I'm not looking at the eye anymore, but out of it..

No, I'm not seeing out of my eye, but out of the one Bavetna took.

The world is stained red and bent unnaturally, like looking through a ruby fishbowl. There are bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and shelves full of ceramic dishware lining the stone walls.

I'm on a table in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by a gruesome pile of teeth and claws. Clearly she dumped her bag for the Warden to see.

Stranger still, I can hear what they're saying—though their voices sound far away, almost underwater.

"An undershadow in Rock Valley," the Warden murmurs. Her knuckles are pressed against her mouth, and she's staring at the table.

It feels like she's looking right at me.

Can she see me?

Will I get in trouble for eavesdropping?

I'm unsure how to turn off the eye, or remove my perspective back to my own vision. I'm forced to watch the scene unfold.

"Impossible," the cook, Yendy says. She's a dark-skinned woman with a wicked scar across her nose, but otherwise has friendly features. She's wearing an apron and her hands and face are covered in flour dust.

When I first arrived I wasn't certain she was a witch at all, until I caught her levitating eggs from the chicken coop one morning.

"You don't normally see creatures like that outside of the Burning Lands." This voice comes from the third head witch, Tirma.

She's a woman with hooded eyes, an elegant neck and a frightening demeanor that, for some reason, reminds me of a praying mantis waiting to strike.

Bavetna is hunched over in the corner, four of her arms crossed—as usual the ceiling does not accommodate her height.

"Look at those teeth," Yendy whistles.

"I will search the valley at first light," Bavetna says. "Set torches around Little Abbey's perimeter. Undershadows avoid fire."

"No. Send word to the villages first," the Warden says. "They need to protect themselves."

Tirma picks up a claw and runs her nail along the length. "I wonder how it got this far southeast?"

The Warden braces her hands on the table, back arched, shoulders tense. "Yendy, tell the girls to stay inside the crop ring until Bavetna returns," she gives the order quietly, but the authority in her voice is clear.

"You got it."

"And the boy?" Tirma asks.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"He can't stay in the farm house alone," Bavetna insists.

Gratitude glows in my chest. I couldn't care less about the witches, but Bavetna is growing on me.

"See to his wounds," the Warden says, "he can sleep in the tower tonight."

"But the students—" Yendy starts.

"It's not proper," Tirma chimes in, arms crossed, "a boy in Little Abbey?"

The Warden dismisses their concerns with a wave of her hand. "He will sleep in my room."

My stomach twists. That sounds like a punishment, not protection. I bet the Warden snores.

"This is a witching tower, Avaris," Tirma insists, "he cannot hear the Leviathans. Just his presence could disturb the havoc. Especially considering his circumstances—"

"Bavetna," the Warden interrupts, still staring at the table, "where is the second eye?"

"The boy has it—"

The Warden snatches a dishcloth from a hook on the wall and throws it over the eye.

Instantly, I'm plunged into darkness. My vision shatters, exploding outwards in a thousand fragmented pieces, then it draws together again all at once and snaps back into place.

I shake my head, blinking.

The door to the kitchen opens and the pyramid of girls tumble backwards on the floor. They scramble up the stairs to their rooms.

I hastily tuck the undershadow eye into my pocket.

The girl with the rooster feather is too slow and gets caught by one of Bavetna's enormous hands.

The Warden steps out, palms tucked behind her back. "Nilah," she says sternly.

Nilah, lowers her gaze. "I couldn't really hear anything," she mutters.

"Lying doesn't help you. You're on honey duty tomorrow."

"But—"

The Warden holds her hand up and the girl closes her mouth, defeated. Bavetna releases her and she scales the stairs back to her room

I snicker, and Nilah looks sharply over her shoulder. Her gaze finds me and she narrows her eyes.

I wave goodbye with a small, satisfied grin.

"You," the Warden's voice hits like an arrow to the chest and I jump, "can help her."

"What?"

"What?!" Nilah's voice echoes shrilly from the landing above us.

"No arguing. I'm well aware of what an undershadow eye can do."

I blush.

"You may keep it. It can't do any harm while I have the other covered. And who knows? It may come in handy in the future."

"But Avaris," Tirma hisses.

"My decision is final," she returns her attention to me. "Go bathe. You smell awful, and I don't feel like being your caretaker if you suffer a bad infection from those wounds."

Bavetna produces a change of clothes from behind her back and tosses it to me.

I catch them and ease my body off the windowsill. My joints feel like rusty hinges. I clutch the clothes to my chest and walk past them up the stairs.

Tirma's eyes, full of suspicion, follow me.

I can hear her whisper as I round the corner.

"An undershadow eye does more than just spy—"

"When you are nearly eaten, you may keep whatever treasures fall at your feet. We have work to do. Torches need to be lit, a watch set up and a salt line drawn—on the double."

Their voices fade as I move further up the stairs.

I pass a dark doorway and a hand reaches out, grabbing me by the collar. Before I can do anything Nilah throws me against a stone arch, her fists full of my shirt. She's half a head taller than me, and she gets so close to my face our noses nearly touch.

I try to push her off but she shoves me harder.

"If you get me stung tomorrow I will make you wish you were never born, chicken legs."

"I didn't ask for more chores—!"

"Stay out of my way. I'm on track to becoming a master and I don't want a weird farm boy with bad luck slowing me down." Nilah gives me one final push and releases me. She throws the door open and slams it shut behind her.

"I'm not a farm boy!" I call out, then mutter, "and I don't have chicken legs." I look down at my feet, then scowl. "Horrible witch." I stomp up the stairs.

The bath is behind a green door with a net of lavender nailed to it. I knock. No answer. Tentatively, I open it a crack. "Any girls in here?!" I shout, hand over my eyes.

Nothing.

Throwing caution to the wind, I swing open the door. I'm hit with the overwhelming smell of soap. The bath is a low-ceilinged room with a dozen wooden barrels, three times the size of an ordinary wine barrel, situated along the right wall within a rectangular divot in the stone floor. The left wall is a series of pine cubbies, benches and wicker baskets for used towels. Copper pipes cover the walls, and there are taps attached to lever-pumps above the barrels.

It's crude compared to the palace's expansive marble baths.

But it'll do.

Wait a second...if they have pumps why do they even NEED a well?

Were the witches playing a prank on me? I wouldn't put it past them.

Women are evil.

I set down my clothes next to the barrel furthest from the door, beneath a semi-circle frosted window arch. Vines and hanging potted plants decorate the windowsill.

I link my arms around the lever and pull from the bend in my elbows to spare my hands. It takes all my strength and my feet lift off the floor, but after a moment the lever creaks and moves downward.

I do this several times in a row, teeter tottering up and down, until the pipes clang, whistle and finally push out water from the tap.

A few more pumps are required to fill the tub, and it's then I realize the water is freezing.

Frowning, I wonder if I did it wrong. I examine the tap, the pipes and then the tub. I spot a metal grate underneath the wooden barrel. Investigating further, I see an iron tinder box.

It takes only a few minutes to find a cubby with tinder to burn, and a pair of flint stones.

I've seen Bavetna start a fire in the farm house stove, so I know how to...in theory. I arrange the wood and straw and strike the stones together.

There's a spark and I yelp in surprise, but it doesn't take. Refocusing, I hit the stones again. And again. A flash of orange, then nothing. Grunting in frustration, I hit them harder and faster.

Come on. Light! Light!

With a cry I throw the stones on the floor, sit back and rest my head on my knees.

Why am I so useless?

In the Clouds, the water came out hot on its own. Was there someone just below the bath doing the same thing? Did I just never notice before?

I sniff but swallow down tears. I don't want to cry. Not here.

I hear a sizzle, and then see a small curl of smoke below the barrel. Suddenly, the tinder box is ablaze with fire.

Purple fire.

I spin around.

Nilah is standing in the doorway. She's wearing a pale nightgown, and her hair is loose around her shoulders. She's looking at her hands, like she's surprised she was able to do magic.

"I don't need your help," I say, wiping my nose with my sleeve.

"Then stop being so pathetic." She turns on her heel and kicks the door shut.

Part of me wants to decline the bath on principal, but I want to be clean more. I feed bigger logs into the box and it doesn't take long for the water to start to steam. I strip and slip inside.

Ah.

Every muscle in my body relaxes at once, like one big exhale. I sink up to my chin and let the warm water do its magic. There's a small tray hooked onto the rim of the barrel with a bar of soap.

It smells of lavender.

I scrub myself clean, including my hair, paying extra attention to my cuts. When I'm finished I hop out, dry off and put on the change of clothes Bavetna handed me—simple underclothes, a long green tunic that was slightly too big for me, brown trousers and warm, woolen socks.

I'm not sure where the water is supposed to go, and leave it. I'll ask in the morning.

I collect the undershadow eye from my pile of dirty clothes and put it in my pocket, then drop my soiled clothes in a wicker basket.

When I exit, I want to go downstairs to the farm house. I'd almost be willing to risk another monster attack if I could avoid the Warden. But they've probably pulled the stairs up already, and I might as well get this over with.

I scale the tower. It's eerie and quiet, so I walk softly, trying not to disturb the peace. There aren't any windows for half the climb. From the doors I pass, I assume there are rooms along the outer wall. Instead, paper lanterns that mysteriously float in place illuminate the stairs with unnatural violet light.

Witch light. I think. It's supposed to attract spirits.

As I get higher, the stairs narrow and skinny windows make an appearance. Some of them are made from a patchwork of stained glass, colouring the moonbeams that stream across the stairs.

There's a black door partially open on the inside wall near the top of the tower. Candlelight flickers through the crack. I knock.

"Enter."

I was not prepared to see the Warden in a nightgown. Her blonde hair, previously tied in a practical bun at the base of her neck, is loose and draped over one shoulder. Her sleeves are rolled up. She looks softer in the candlelight, and smaller somehow.

She's sitting at a desk in the corner writing in a book with a pheasant quill. No, not writing, she's drawing something. There's a row of multiple jars of ink dripping various colours of blood reds, brilliant golds and cerulean blues.

Without looking up she gestures with her quill. "Get some sleep."

There's a cot set up beside a tilted window, bathed in moonlight. It's small, but covered in a thick quilt decorated with wildflower designs.

Her bed is nowhere to be seen. Unless...that is her bed. I swallow. We're not...sleeping together...right?

"What about you?" I ask nervously.

"I won't be sleeping tonight." She scratches her chin and leaves a spot of blue paint on her skin.

"Are you guarding me?" I ask, affronted.

Her brow arches and her pale blue eyes, shimmering with orange flecks from the candlelight, flick up to meet mine. "No."

"Then why—?"

"There are monsters lurking in my woods. In my valley. For the first time in years. The children here are my responsibility. So," she returns her gaze to her parchment, "I will not be sleeping tonight."

I open my mouth, then close it. I'm not sure I believe her, but that pillow is calling me.

I collapse in the cot and bury myself under the weight of the quilt. It's as soft as a cloud, and I smell lavender and ink, and for a moment I can pretend I'm not in a witch's tower, but back in the palace. The tilted window gives a perfect view of a cloudless night sky, and even though the stars are further away than my old bedroom, the familiar view is still comforting.

I drift off instantly, and my dreams are full of the sound of quills scratching parchment, glowing red eyes, and smiles in the dark.

When I wake up, the tower is on fire.