The Forbidden Compass Trilogy: Book One- Caged

Chapter 2

Irelle

You wouldn’t know she was cursed by looking at her.

Irelle wakes early, eager to get just a few more things to trade for today. It is a trading day, when the villagers trade amongst themselves for goods every Saturday. The inland traders come every month with goods to trade and for goods to bring back with them. Irelle has a few new clothes that she has woven, a nearly finished work set in her loom in its corner. The cloth is made from bleached, dried, and softened seaweed. It is durable and lightweight, making it ideal for the villagers, and it is soft and beautiful, making it popular with rich inlanders. Irelle likes to add ground seaglass to make it shimmer. She spins the thread herself, dying it many colors. Then she weaves it skillfully into masterpieces of interchanging colors and shells.

Irelle slips into a pair of light blue leggings. She grabs a white erba, a piece of cloth that is wrapped around like a dress and pinned so that an opening allows the leggings to be seen and free movement. It has shells sewn in intricate patterns and at the hem. She pulls on a top dyed blue with short sleeves and ties on a green sash, knotting it around a buckle made of coral. She braids her blonde hair with pieces of blue cloth studded with shells and clamps on a shell-studded coral armband.

She checks to see what she has left of her dye powders, organized in small clay jars on one of her many shelves. She is almost out of orange; she will have to trade for some later. She eats some sea grapes and cold smoked fish before grabbing her woven bag and pulling on her sandals.

She walks out of the village, the sun rising from the cliffs that surround them; people waking up and getting ready for the day. She stands about a head shorter than everybody else and her sun-bleached blonde hair, compared to the other villagers dark heads, is just another thing that makes her stand out. The villagers only tolerate her because of her weaving. Around her, villagers lay out their wares; pottery, fish, baskets, and other goods. Children play in the sand or help with the work, getting under others’ feet more than actually helping. Irelle follows the worn-down path to the sea shore, then when the village is out of sight, turns onto a barely visible path. She could follow this path with her eyes closed, her feet know it so well. She follows it to a small, hidden cove, shells and drying seaweed littering the shore. She walks up and down the sand, picking up beautiful and undamaged shells. She breathes in the fresh ocean air, her feet sinking into the warm sand.

When she has collected anything of value left on the shore, Irelle removes her sandals and leggings before diving into the water. A tingling sensation, like pins and needles, fills her legs as they meld together into a dark gray, silver-dappled tail. A spiked silver fin rises out of her back and sharp, smaller fins rise on her forearms. Gills open on her sides and cold, salty water rushes in. She dives deep into the water where mussels cling to rocks. She collects a few, along with some seaweed leaves. Her bag is full, but she swims in the ocean for a while, making small whirlpools and figures with her voice.

When she breaks through the surface, with a thought, her tail melts back into legs and her fins lay back down, the pins and needles returning. She pulls on her leggings and sandals then sits on the warm sand, singing to pull the water from her clothes and hair. She sits by the ocean, the sun climbing higher into the sky, the waves crashing rhythmically onto the shore, rising like roaring lions and receding like tame kittens.

She sings, weaving her voice to form a flower blooming from from the water, twisting for the sun, before a wave crashes over it and washes it away. She sings a bird formed of water that flies around her and through the waves. Then she makes a horse rearing and running with the waves, its mane crested white with foam. Seeing the height of the sun, she stops singing, the horse dissolving into a wave that crashes to the shore. She stands, grabbing her bag, and heads back over the hidden path to the village, leaving her hidden cove behind.

When she enters the village she knows immediately something is wrong. There are no people wandering the streets, no children laughing or playing with new dancing ribbons, no wares being called. Overturned baskets, ripped door-curtains, and a little bit of blood on one of the huts show signs of a struggle. Irelle knows she should turn back and run back to the safety of the sea, but she can’t hide again, can’t leave someone else to die. An image of a blue tail disappearing in a cloud of blood swims in her vision. She walks cautiously towards the village center. As she nears, she hears a voice, an angry voice. She hides behind one of the huts, watching in horror at the scene in the center of the village.

The villagers are huddled together, some weeping silently in terror, others staring bravely ahead. Huge, heavily armed men guard them, their eyes ice blue and cold, devoid of all emotion except hunger. Except one, a younger man with long black hair, a scar on his cheek, and a sword strapped to his back. His eyes are smoky gray with flecks of orange, dragon’s eyes. His eyes say he is terrified, restrained, and guilty. Unlike the others, he is watching the village, not the villagers. He seems to be scanning for any sign of movement.

The largest of the men, most likely their leader, is talking to a middle-aged man that Irelle recognizes as Saro. Anger flares inside her; he must have followed her to her cove and reported her. That greedy weasel! She silently curses him and herself for not being more careful.

She looks up, her gaze locking with the boy with the dragon eyes’, who is looking in her direction. His eyes change from gray to fiery orange, his pupils narrowing into slits. Irelle gasps, the bag in her hand falling from her grasp, hitting the ground, the shells and other things tumbling to the ground. The clanking they make against the street stones sounds like thunderclaps to her ears. The boy’s head whips up, his eyes back to gray. He walks toward her, everyone watching. The air seems to still as breaths are held, the only sound his footsteps as they steadily near.

She backs away as he nears, humming under her breath, water running over her like a second skin. His boots crunch the shells to dust as he walks, the cracking sound shattering the still air. She turns to run, but he grabs her forearm, yanking her to a stop. She watches as the water on her skin dissolves into steam at his touch, his hand as hot as a branding iron. Desperate to escape the heat slowly climbing up her skin, she flares her fins, the sharp edge cutting his hand. He lets go, gasping in pain and clutching his hand as blood pools from the wound. A hand-shaped burn turns red where he grabbed her like a brand.

While he and the others are stunned, she opens her mouth and sings a low note, letting it vibrate around the large space. Water floods in from the sea, swirling around the captors’ legs and leaving the villagers dry. The water’s captives struggle to move. Irelle lets her voice climb steadily higher until the water reaches the tallest man’s waist. Then her voice leaps to a screeching high note and the water surges up, taking its captives with it. She falls back down to a low note and the water follows. As her song dies away, the water returns to the sea. All of the men are on the ground, several coughing up water and others banged unconscious against the street stones.

She turns to run as she sees the boy who had grabbed her, completely dry and steaming, start towards her. She runs as far as the village edge, where the canoes are docked, so close to the sea she thinks she can reach forward and touch it. Just one more step. She is about to dive in when he grabs her, careful to keep her arms pinned to her sides. She struggles in his grasp, but his grip is unrelenting. She can’t reach him with her back fin, he’s holding her too far away. She opens her mouth to sing in one last, desperate attempt, but he clamps his hand over her mouth. She watches the waves pound onto the shore, so close but yet so out of reach. He steers her back to the village, and she follows. Maybe I can still save the villagers, even if I’m not free.

They arrive at the village center, where the men have recaptured most of the villagers who had tried to run. The villagers watch her with wary eyes and questioning looks. I never would have been able to stay here. Her hunters look on hungrily. The leader smiles wickedly at her. “You gave us quite a bit of trouble. Almost thought we wouldn’t be able to catch you.” He looks her up and down and Irelle glares back. “You’re younger than I expected.” He nods at her captor. “Nice job, Omega. Bring her back to the cage.” He lowers his voice threateningly, “And make sure it’s locked.” Omega stiffens behind her. She wonders what that means.

Omega urges her to the West, where they must be camped. How long have they been here, watching? Behind them, she hears one of the men ask, “What do we do with the villagers?”

She feels the leader’s gaze on her as he orders, “Kill them.” She thrashes against her captor, trying to scream through his hand, her throat turning raw but no sound coming out. She hears Saro pleading behind her as Omega practically drags her to their camp, the villagers’ screams ringing in her ears. He opens the door to a big, iron cage and lifts her inside, almost gently. She tries to kick him, but he shuts the door and locks it too quickly. She huddles on the floor and cries.

Irelle sits up to the wagon moving. A wheel hits a bump, and she rolls into the wall. She leaps back hissing as the metal wall burns her. She sits in the center of the cage, cursing at the pain. It feels like when she had accidently played in sea nettle as a little girl. She had had rashes on her arms for days. Where she had touched the metal a rash much like sea nettle shows red. She runs water over the rash, cooling it down a little. She sits that way until the pain wears off.

She explores her cell. Three of the walls are built of that solid metal, the fourth, which houses the door, is made of a lattice of the same metal, allowing her to see out and others to see in. The roof is made of the same lattice. The floor is wooden, a small, burnt hole revealing that underneath is the same metal. A small, closet-like space holds the privy, a small hole in the floor with a lid. The air reeks of smoke. It’s about as large as her old hut. She imagines it as her old home, the bed appearing in one corner, her table and chair against the one window that had been covered with a brightly colored curtain, just like the door. She imagines a small clay oven, her loom, and her spindle in their places. The heavy, dark walls transform into shell-studded sand brick. Shelves cover the walls, full of clay jars of dyes, food, spun thread, and finished projects. She had been working on a door curtain that had been an image of the sun rising from the ocean, cowrie shells sewn around the water’s swirls.

She thinks about how everything will wither away until they’re forgotten. She knows she will never forget. She promises that if she ever escapes she will return to the village of Liora. She imagines walking through the village, things frozen in time. Everything silent and dead, rotten food, moth-eaten clothes, homes crumbling and worn away. She imagines entering her hut, her bed termite-rooten, her beautiful clothes moth-eaten, the walls hardly standing and the thatched roof blown away by untended days of wind. Her food will have gone bad, the dyes hard in their jars. Her loom will have nothing left but a few threads and shells, broken pieces littering the floor.

She imagines the village center, the massacred people’s bones piled in the center, picked clean by vultures. The imagined image causes the anger that had been drowned by sorrow to boil over. She screams, collecting water from the air, spinning it into a sphere and throwing it at the door. It hits the metal with a hiss and dissolves back into the air, the impact jolting the wagon, causing her to stumble. She curses, breath coming out in pants. She hears someone mutter, under his breath, “I didn’t know mer swore so much.” She looks out the door, where the boy with the dragon eyes is watching her.

Irelle glares at him. “What did you think we were like?”

He shrugs; she notices he winces a little. “I don’t know; I’ve never met one.”

Irelle glares at him before turning away, voicing her anger with humming, making small water versions of her captors, before destroying them. She hears him whisper behind her, “And they’re violent too.” She smiles secretly; they are scared of her. Let them be.

They travel for days, Irelle sleeping fitfully, the rolling wagon causing her to stumble. She tries her best not the touch the metal; she only makes contact once more when they hit an unnaturally large dent in the road. She doesn’t see anymore people, though she hears the men laughing one night, and a couple of screams. She doesn’t want to imagine what was making that horrible sound. The boy, Omega, who is her guard, had looked just as sickened as she had felt that night. He never leaves the cage unguarded, she doesn’t even know if he sleeps. One night after they stop when she can’t go to sleep she decides to brave asking some questions. She wants answers, no matter how much she hates them.

She sits down as close as she dares to the door, watching Omega sharpening his sword, the asks, “Who are you?”

He stops sharpening and looks up, clearly startled. “What?”

She asks again, “Who are you, this group?”

He looks relieved that the question isn’t directed at his personally; his eyes says he is. What is he hiding? He answers, “We’re called the Hunters.” He returns to his sword.

“What do you do?” She asks, hoping he’ll slip and reveal the truth.

“We hunt outlaws and beasts like you and bring them to the king and his lords to punish. That’s at least what I’ve been told.” The sound of stone against metal continues. Irritation fills her at being called a “beast.” She swallows it down and continues.

“Is that where we’re headed next?” He shakes his head. “Where are we headed?” She prods.

He sighs, putting down his sword, which is strangely smoke-stained. “We’re headed toward some lord’s castle, one of the only ones that hasn’t been robbed besides the king’s.” He must have seen that she wants to ask another question, because he continues. “There’s this thief who has robbed nearly every lord’s castle. Alpha says he’ll head to this one next. There are rumors that he might not be human, but nobody’s seen him well enough to tell.”

She looks at the burnt wood in the floor, revealing the metal beneath. “What happened in here?”

He looks in, “Probably the dragon, he was always burning.”

“Well, that explains the smell.” She mutters. Omega looks at her questioningly. “It stinks like smoke.” She supplies. “What happened to him?” She asks.

“He got out. I don’t know how, but I do know he has sharp claws.” He gingerly rubs his shoulders, which Irelle notices are bulky under his shirt.

“What are you?”

“I already answered that.”

“I mean you; you burned my arm. I don’t know any human who can do that.” Irelle interrupts, showing him the hand-shaped burn on her arm. His eyes flash with guilt. “And you have dragon eyes.” Every time she sees his eyes, a memory she prefers to keep buried rises up. A blue tail thrashing in a cloud of blood, and a dark, winged figure swooping down, fiery eyes glowing.

He looks at her. “I don’t know what I am.” His eyes change like they had in the village, and Irelle backs away, hating her fear. “Do you know?” He turns back to his sword, and the sound surrounds her as she goes to sleep, his eyes reappearing in her nightmares.

They travel through forests, the trees blocking out the sun. They pass a creek once; Irelle hears it and sings quietly, trying to pull it in. It never comes. The cage seems to snuff out any sound she makes. She contents herself with the water that gets in through the air, drinking it, cleaning with it, and making images with it. The food they give her is just their scraps and hard, flavorless bread. She eats in only because she knows she needs to keep up her strength if she is ever going to escape this stinking cage.

Memories plague her day and night. She remembers her mother, teaching her to weave, and her father, teaching her how to use her voice to change water and how to change from legs to tail. Her mother had been completely human and an amazing weaver. She had died from heatstroke a few years before, during an especially hot and dry summer. Irelle has gotten on well without her, but she still misses her painfully. Her father had been mer. He had never lived with them, and Irelle has only seen him with legs a few times. They used to meet in the cove. They had kept a glass bottle tied to a stick of coral to leave messages to each other. One day, the messages had stopped. Irelle used to still leave messages, checking hopefully everyday. She eventually gave up, but she still wonders what had happened to him. And if he knows her mother is dead.

Another memory that she has kept hidden for so long keeps resurfacing. Of happy days in the sea. Of hiding while a dragon attacks from above. Of a blue tail thrashing in a cloud of blood. Of swimming away in fear.

They had been traveling for a while when she sees the spires of a castle through the trees. The lord’s castle. They stop in the forest, the castle barely visible. She watches as the leader, she has heard him called Alpha, hands Omega a key and gives him orders. Omega stops at her cage, sticking the key in the lock and turning it. She notices he flinches when his hand brushes the metal. The other Hunters have touched it several times, and it seems harmless to them. He reaches for her. “Come here; I don’t bite.” He says. She glares but walks towards him anyway. When she comes close enough, he picks her up out of the cage as if she weighs no more than a salmon, setting her on the ground, and holding her against his chest. She tries to struggle out of his grasp, but he is stronger than her and she is over a head shorter than him.

“Don’t try anything, just listen and do what you’re told. Be glad you have me and not the others; I promise they wouldn’t be as nice.” He whispers in her ear.

She notices he stays far away from her forearms. Just to watch him flinch, she whispers back, “You know mer have back fins, right?”

He tenses for a moment then relaxes again. “Well, then, I’ll just have to be more careful.”

They follow the others farther into the trees, away from the castle, until she can only see the tower spires when she tries.

They stop in an open area, and all the Hunters but Omega hide. “What are they doing? I thought you were catching a thief.” She whispers.

“We are. Apparently, this thief can’t resist a damsel in distress. I guess he saved a girl from a rapist, stole a sizable amount of Lord Cirvon’s gold, and made it out alive. You’re kind of a damsel, and I’d say you might be in distress.”

“So I’m the bait?”

“Yes.” If she could see his eyes she might be able to tell for sure if he is nervous, though his rabidly beating heart says he is.

“Sounds stupid.”

“I’m not the one making the plans.” His voice lowers in warning. “Don’t sing or I’ll have to gag you.”

“Fine, but won’t a pretty voice draw him in?” She asks with mocked innocence.

“Alpha wanted to collar you with a collar made of the same metal as your cage. It’s a metal that’s poisonous to every race but human and vjorc, wolf men. It renders them powerless. I convinced him you wouldn’t need it. I have it if you do.” And how are you going to get it on me, hothead? It’s poisonous to you too. She wants to snap, but the thought of that metal on her throat, silencing her voice, is enough to make her quiet. He seems to notice the change. “Good.”

They stand there, waiting, ready to catch the thief who can’t be caught.