Chapter 8: Immediate Fate

“No,” Mageia muttered on and off, in and out of consciousness as night drifted into midnight and crept into dawn.

A nightmare came over her in her pained distress. She was with her family in the encampment, eating around the Pit under a calm night sky. Everyone was so happy, thanking her for her bravery and compassion to help those condemned. Then arrows whizzed from the trees around them from all directions. They were trapped, but by who, she couldn’t tell.

She screamed in horror as children and teens dropped dead one after the other. Cries of agony and victory chorused the air, and the sky thickened with black clouds of death. A hole grew within the clouds and began sucking up the dead, followed by the commander’s malicious laugh.

Mageia jerked awake from the strong pull towards the Hall of Souls. Her heavy panting echoed about the dimly lit room.

“Rise and shine, lassy,” said a Taefo guard preparing a basin of water. At some point during the night, they had brought in a small table. “Time to bandage you and freshen you up for the Court.”

“Did they find them? The children?” she asked the guard.

“I have orders to tell you nothin’,” he grunted.

Her stomach churned and bile spewed into her mouth. She coughed it up and vomited onto the floor.

“Yuck, you damn Strange.” He pulled out his keys to unbind her from the chair.

A fisican dressed in the silver robes of a master healer scrambled in, his nose turned up, seeing that he had to aid a Strange. He placed his fancy silver leather bag on the table and shook his head, which was wrapped in a forest green and gray turban. His dark brown skin glistened with sweat, and his round eyes appeared full of knowledge and distrust. As he took out what he needed, Mageia observed the emerald silk stole hanging from his shoulders. It had the Ardanian sigil, a tree within a hexagon. This fisican did not come from a local infirmary.

“Hurry, Master. We don’t have all day,” the guard bellowed. “She needs to get to the palace by eight in the mornin’, or the palace authority will deny her access.”

“You mean I won’t get a day in Court?”

“Oh, you’ll get it, but whenever it’s assigned,” he said. “It may be months until then.”

“I have it from here,” the healer said with a dismissive hand.

The guard scrunched up his nose at the man before taking his leave. Once the door was partly closed, the fisican stopped what he was doing to stare at her. Mainly at her eyes.

“Don’t worry, fisican. I don’t bite,” she said.

“Mhmm. I’m Joras Thrand, Master Fisican of Medicine in the Royal Court.”

“Royal Court? You’re from the palace,” she frowned. “Did you leave the comfort of your cushions to come and see the notorious Strange known as the Purple Thief for yourself?”

“Are you a Soother?”

“I am flattered, Master Joras,” she grinned, knowing her teeth were capped with dry blood.

The fisican scrunched up his stubby nose and grabbed what he needed. He took a seat in the chair in front of her.

“Answer my question. You may be pardoned—”

“I’m not going to be pardoned for my crimes just because I am mystical.”

“Are you a mystical? A descendent, perhaps?” His eyes narrowed with pure curiosity.

Mageia shrugged. “Most likely a descendent.”

“So, you are not a Soother?”

“I am not, as I told the Fiisen,” she said, to her dismay. She knew that if she was a Soother with a special power, the fisican may be right about receiving a pardon and becoming a noble servant to the Crown like the commander. She’d rather work in the Runes until old age to avoid kissing the boots of the Fair throne.

“You don’t know what you are?” he asked.

“I do know, right now, I am someone in great pain, arrested for doing what is right.”

“They were chosen sacred for the first sacrifice,” he said. “They had to quickly find adult substitutes last night. Quite unnatural…”

“Superstitious, I see. May they rest in peace,” she muttered. “What I do not understand is why sacrifice those the Diviines see Strange? Why not give them blood of the purest Fair rather than the blood of the cursed?”

“Mhmm,” he said. “That’s a good question for those above my status.”

Mageia studied the fisican as she allowed him to dab the cuts on her face with a liquidated herb that stung the sensitive flesh. “Easy, fisican,” she grimaced.

“Heard you got a beating from the commander, but your bruises are near to healed,” he said.

“That’s good to hear.” She licked at the cuts around her lips, expecting to find them scabbed, but they were nearly gone.

He grabbed what he needed and turned to treat the arrow wound. “You lost a lot of blood. How do you feel?”

Mageia felt her stomach growl. “Hungry, thirsty.”

“Hmm.” The fisican patted the wound. She flinched from the sensitivity of the flesh, but the pain from the night before had somewhat subsided.

“That’s strange.”

“What’s strange?” she questioned.

“The wound. It’s closed.”

He pressed a hand along the area, awaking a sharp pain. She bared her teeth and wriggled away. “Ouch, don’t do that.”

“It hurts?”

“Of course! An arrow went my shoulder.”

“Yes, but the entry and exit wounds are closed.”

She gave him a confused look, then tried looking herself. “What’re you talking about?”

Indeed, there were no open wounds. New skin, red and raw, had covered them at some point during the night.

“Have you ever been stabbed before or received an open injury?”

“No.” Her eyes narrowed at the older gentleman. “Only cuts and bruises, but they would always heal fast. Never thought anything of it.”

“Are you in pain?”

“A bit of aches and such,” she said, despite it sounding weird. She recalled the immense amount of pain from the night before and frowned.

Master Joras backed away to study her from head to toe with his eyes. Hands placed on the belt of his breeches, he pursed his lips, deep in thought. He sat again and carefully peeled back the charred fabric of her breeches where the commander had burnt her. Mageia gasped, seeing the burn mark in the print of his hand had already begun to heal, giving a reddish appearance.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “I caught an arrow in the leg too.”

He carefully propped her leg on his thigh and raised her bloody pant leg. He carefully unwrapped the bloody loose wrapping and searched for the wound. Only two scabs remained, as if she acquired the injury a week ago. He gently pressed the area, and Mageia flinched. Their jaws dropped in shock.

“It’s almost healed,” she said. “And I know I broke some bones or two… I think.”

“Quite strange,” Master Joras muttered, blinking in shock. “There’s blood everywhere, as if your wounds were drastic. The warden said you were close to death. Possibly dead by now.”

The door to the room opened, and the guard shouted, “Hurry up in here! We have orders to clear this room.”

“Very well,” the fisican replied, bushy eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty. He grabbed a tiny coin pouch and placed it into her hand. “It’s amberia leaves for the pain. Eat one at a time when needed.”

He rose and returned to packing his things. Mageia was speechless. This had never happened before. She tried searching for memories of receiving open injuries and found none. However, she recalled one time falling from a tree. She had broken her ankle, but within a day, it healed, and she returned to running and climbing trees. Then there was the day of her failed execution… Her open wrists didn’t leave behind any scarring for proof.

“Purple Thief, I need you to clean yourself and change into something more decent for your Court appearance,” the guard said, carrying items.

“Master Joras,” she said. The Master Fisican halted and turned to face her. “Why did you come?”

His brow quivered together as he thought of his response. He glanced at the guard, who pretended not to listen. “Someone interested in your case persuaded me to do so,” he responded, and before she could ask who, the man left.

After cleaning her blood off, she put on a dress for a proper lady. A dress that made her skin crawl, knowing it belonged to someone else who had died. They escorted her outside, where the dark sky appeared burnt from the sun, promising to rise. They put her in a barred wagon with two other prisoners, then set off northward to the city of Hiilaan, where she would face the High Court at the Royal Palace.

They took the King’s Road, the busiest street in the entire kingdom yet, so early in the morning, barely anyone was out. It trailed from the palace in the north to the Runes in the south. Both Fair and Strange, free and bonded, rich and poor, shared this street, especially as one drew closer to the royal grounds. By the time dawn made its appearance, the street was full of people, and she could see the Hiivale Wall sitting ahead.

It sat like an iconic beacon for the Kingdom of Ardania. Chiseled into every stone were tiny specks of emerald, possibly from the Runes eras ago, mined by Ardanian’s giant ancestors. The morning sun’s rays flickered off the gemstones, creating a greenish hue surrounding the wall as far as the eye could see. She’d seen the Hiivale and Hiilaan only a couple of times in her young life.

She fumbled with the collar of her dress and trembled with worry.

Dean had grown into a smart and keen young man. She knew he would do the right thing and get everyone out of Ardania. He always went with his gut when need be. Her eyes flooded, and she turned away from the staring prisoners to restrain herself. A sense of stupidity overwhelmed her for not listening to Dean and Trekon. This was a terrible idea, but her heart fluttered alive with relief.

, her mom had told her once.

Just as they drew closer to the Diviine Temple, large enough to be its own castle and adjoined to the Hiivale Wall, the wagon jerked to a stop. The driver barked at someone, and shouting arose. Mageia strained her neck to see ahead. The Taefo guards on horseback glared angrily at a wagon that had unfortunately broken down, its wheel in the middle of the street. The rear guard left his post to go to the front as slaves and servants passing by stopped to assist.

“Hey,” someone whispered.

Mageia glanced down through the bars and could’ve jumped for joy.

Striking green eyes peered up at her from under a hooded cloak. “Dean! Oh, gods above. What’re you doing here?”

“What yuh think?” He pulled out a thin, sharp piece of metal with ridges and began inserting it into the lock.

Mageia’s heart began to race as she glanced back and forth between Dean and the guards ahead.

“Either work faster or give up, Dean.”

Sweat dribbled into her best friend’s eyes as he concentrated.

“I’m so sorry about this, Dean,” she apologized, close to tears.

“Don’t be sorry. We did what we had t’do.”

“Hurry up, boy,” one of the prisoners growled.

“Shut up,” Mageia chastised, then back to her friend. “Did everyone make it?”

Dean grinned and glanced up at her. “Of course. They’re all fine.”

“Thank the gods,” she said, relieved to have this one burden lifted. “Can you get it?”

“Give me a second.” Dean used his strength to jab the ridged metal further into the grooves. “Damn! How’s yer leg?”

“Healed… but it’s a strange story.” Mageia noticed the helpers ahead had managed to lift and shift the broken wagon to the side. Her heart sank, realizing Dean’s rescue would not work in time. “Dean, I will be fine, okay? Just go. I don’t want you to get hurt or caught.”

“I got it,” he growled, but then the metal bent in an awkward way. He sucked his teeth and yanked his hand away, revealing a nasty, bloody cut on his palm. “

”

“Hey, boy!” the rear guard shouted, finally turning his horse to return to his post. “Move from there.”

Mageia gasped. “Dean, you must leave Ardania. I’ll find you. I promise.”

“I can’t leave yuh,” he said, furrowing his brow in frustration.

The rear guard clipped his horse to pick up speed. Dean backed away, leaving his tool lodged in the lock.

“I order you to go!” she shouted.

The look that claimed her best friend’s face would’ve broken her spirit and sent her to the Serene. But she held it together.

“Boy!” the guard yelled, pulling out his baton to strike Dean.

Dean’s bottom lip quivered as he backed away just in time from the guard’s angry swing. “I love yuh, Geia!” He shouted, then sprinted off into the crowd.

The guard swung his baton, this time at her, and slammed it against the bar, forcing her to back away to avoid being hit.

“Try anything stupid, and you’ll end up in the Death Hall before your time in Court,” the guard threatened.

“Oh, defect yourself,” she snarled back and shifted back into her seat.

She stared out into the crowd and swallowed the grief tightening in her chest and clogging her throat.

The wagon shivered back to life and continued towards and under the Hiivale Wall. The hills opened to a beautiful view of stone buildings, row houses, and single mansion estates of the upper class in Hiilaan. Mageia soaked in everything, even the bright, colorful, and sparkly attire of the nobles.

An hour or so later, the massive wall of the Royal Palace came into view. Stretching far from the eastern forest to the Hii River, the Royal Palace sat majestic and strong. The intimidation heightened as they drew closer, with the presence of hundreds of Hiilaan soldiers patrolling the area.

People seeking the Court for various reasons entered the gates in muttering silence. Finally, Mageia’s wagon entered the gates and followed the crowd towards the far side of the East Wing, with six large, decorated pillars and tall doors. Horse- and mule-drawn carriages and wagons sat in rows along a strip of land by the wall, where various vendors hoped to lure people to their stalls.

Her wagon of prisoners drifted into a caravan of prisoners going in the same direction, passing by the hordes of people until they disappeared behind them. The road descended and twisted to the left, and they entered a tunnel beneath the building. Instantly, the precious daylight shifted into dimmed lanterns as the caravan came to a halt. The air hung cold and deathly, with a rotten stench of unclean bodies. Mageia forced her face to appear fierce, hoping it’d hide the nervous jitters in her bones.

Once the guards successfully removed Dean’s tool from the lock, they allowed Mageia and her companions to exit. Chained by wrists and ankles, they were escorted into green double doors. They crossed a dimly lit foyer filled with guards and prisoners from the Runes, the prison known as the Dungeons, and various jailhouses across Ardania. Eyes watched her in awe, fear, and disgust as she scurried through, hoping no one decided to be a fool and pick a fight. As if reading her worries, a fight erupted from the line of prisoners behind her, and they were forced to move faster.

They shoved her into an overcrowded cell of women who quickly scurried away from her, as if her purple eyes would curse them further.

“You’s a witch?” a brave short lady interrogated, with soot caked into her pale skin.

Mageia ignored her, realizing something horrific. If she was a Soother, a gift from the Diviines, the Court might be lenient towards her. However, if she didn’t know what she was, and couldn’t prove she was no threat to others, it could alarm the Court into suspicions of sorcery. And sorcery in Ardania was an immediate fate of execution.

She put her back to them to face the chaotic hallway. She closed her eyes, flooding with tears, and swallowed hard.