Ivy

“No!” Ivy cried, ripping the cloak off and shaking it. Two purple crystals tumbled from the garment onto the sandy ground. She gathered them up, cuddling them against her chest like precious creatures.

Two. Just two out of the five.

Would two be enough? It had to be.

It took the rest of that day and the next to get back to her village. She hadn’t slept well in the woods by herself, curled into the hollowed-out trunk of a dying tree. She’d woken multiple times fearing she’d find a Pooka staring at her, like in the scary stories her brother used to tell her a long time ago. Pookas are a gamble, he’d explained as they peered at each other from their beds across the dark room. They can go either way.

Ivy wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.

The tax collector’s hut was already closed for the day when she arrived, but Ivy could see the attendant moving around behind the barred window. She lifted her nose above the pass-through meant for receiving payments. The fat-headed tax collector glanced her way, but he didn’t come to the window. Ivy reached for the call rope and tugged on it, the bell jangling. He ignored that, too, but she didn’t stop until he came over and enclosed the bell in his meaty hand.

“We’re closed,” he barked. “Can’t you read?”

“I’m here to pay the taxes on my parents’ farm.” She held up a purple crystal.

He eyed the crystal warily, but didn’t reach for it. At least she had his attention.

“You know what they’re saying about those things? They make some people sick.” He studied her. “It hasn’t made you sick?”

Ivy shook her head.

“You know what else they’re saying about them?” He used a cloth to pluck it from her fingers, then dropped it immediately on the counter in front of him. “If you can stomach ‘em, they’re wondrous. The smiths say they make metals stronger. The dragoons say their weapons land harder and truer. Even their horses run faster.” He screwed an eyepiece into his eye socket and peered at it, then straightened. “Where’s your parents’ farm?”

She gave the address to him and waited while he swooshed open the pages of a giant, ink-marked tome. After adding up the figures, he frowned at her.

“It’ll take more than one.”

Ivy fished the second crystal out and slid it into the slot.

“It’ll take more than two.”

She had no more. And her coin purse had been lost when the Alchemist ripped her cloak.

“But, at least this will reduce the debt.”

Ivy watched in horror as he swept the two crystals off the counter with his rag. Now she had nothing.

Where would she sleep tonight? What would she eat? Of course, she could always go back to her original plan—selling the intel she got from spying. The Dwarves were fixing the golems from the Rift War, had even managed to power one up. That information had to be worth something.

Stolen story; please report.

A twinge of guilt poked her like a needle. Bayne had been kind to her. He hadn’t turned her in. She didn’t want to sell his secrets.

But she was desperate.

“I have intel,” she whispered through the slot. “About the Dwarves.”

The tax collector’s jowls jiggled with laughter. “No one’s paying for that anymore. Haven’t you heard? We’re allies with the Dwarves now, at war against the Wizards and Elves.” Her devastated face must have softened him because he stamped a thin piece of paper and passed it to her. “I’ll give you a little extra for those crystals. Take that receipt to the jailer.”

Ivy studied the piece of paper before she allowed relief to flood through her. Darting away before he could change his mind, she approached the iron gate of the jail and knocked on the metal door. The gate stretched far above her head, topped with frightful, twisted metal spires. Ivy’s stomach growled with hunger. Maybe she could take her parents to the tavern. They could have a celebratory meal of stew, with wine for her parents. She’d order a big glass of cold milk and guzzle it all at once.

The portcullis window slid open. Ivy held her receipt up to the bars. A guard swung down from his perch and unlocked the gate, allowing her in with a sideways look. “The arena’s that way.” He indicated a dark tunnel to the left.

Ivy followed the dank, rusty-smelling hallway into the bowels of the arena. Posters languished on the stone walls, their adhesive failing in the dampness. She turned away from the gruesome depictions of phoenixes and griffins and behemoths mauling human contestants in prison garb.

Thank the stars she’d managed to get the funds before the new moon.

In front of another metal door at the end of the dank corridor, a second guard greeted her with a bored look.

“I’ve come to collect my parents,” Ivy said.

“We’ve no prisoners at the moment.”

Ivy’s empty stomach did a flip-flop. “‘There must be a mistake. It’s not a new moon yet—”

“No mistake,” the guard cut her off. “They scheduled extra shows for Fellsman’s Folly. Sorry.”

No, no, no! Ivy grabbed her face and let her fingernails bite into the flesh there. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to have until the new moon. Why could no one do as they promised?

The guard, ignoring her, opened the door for a pair of his colleagues. Without thinking, Ivy unhooked the keyring from his waist, slipped between them, and ran.

“Hey, come back!” She heard the echoing scuffle as they bumped into one another before barreling after her.

Fellsman’s Folly wasn’t over. Maybe there were still some prisoners who hadn’t been sent into the arena yet. Or perhaps the guard was mis-speaking, just to get rid of her; no one could be trusted.

The underground corridors were a maze of empty cell blocks smelling of unwashed persons and tinged with the exotic, feral scent of wild animals. Ivy wound her way through them as the guards’ shouts echoed behind her. She spotted something lying on the floor in one of them—was that Mother’s headscarf?

It was filthy, but yes, it was hers—turquoise blue with red poppies.

Her boots carried her to the end of the corridor and an oversized cell, separate from the others. There was no high window in this one; it was cool and quiet and black as night. It smelled like dogs and something dry and slightly familiar that she couldn’t pinpoint.

It was locked, but also empty. Her eyes fought to adjust to the dim light, but all she saw was a fusty blanket on the floor and a wide, shallow bowl with a little bit of water in it. Whatever had been caged here was long gone, along with the prisoners.

The sound of slamming metal doors drew closer. The guards would be here soon. She had to hide. Slipping the key into the lock, she opened the door without making a creak, slipped inside, then adjusted it so it appeared closed. In the middle of the stone floor, she dropped to the floor and made herself as small as possible, back rounded like a turtle’s, tugging the disgusting blanket over herself. She breathed through her mouth so she didn’t have to smell the doggy smell, which was ten times worse under the blanket. Then she waited, listening.

The voices of the guards grew louder. They, probably two of them, blathered to one another for the few seconds they spent in the room before leaving and pulling the door shut behind them.

Ivy counted to ten, threw the blanket off her, and froze. A great wild eye greeted her in a white feathered face—that was the smell she couldn’t pinpoint: feathers. The rest of it was lion, not dog.

She was face-to-face with a griffin.