Page 152 of The Black Witch

* * *

We make our way back to the North Tower, Jarod effortlessly carrying several tapestries. Aislinn, Wynter and I lug paintings.

“So, Black Witch, collecting freaks, are we?” Ariel asks as we walk in, her words slurred. She’s lying on her bed, slumped down against the wall behind her, her eyes hooded, her lips stained black.

By now I recognize this state of hers. She’s been eating those berries.

“You’re the biggest freak of us all, you know,” she goes on, attempting a look of hatred. “And you better keep the wild dog away from my chickens.”

“He’sLupine,” I clarify, irritated by her continual insistence on using racist language when talking to anyone but Wynter. But then I remember—it wasn’t too long ago that I harbored quite a few prejudices of my own.

Jarod sets the four tapestries down on the floor and glances at Ariel.

“I mean it, wolf-boy,” she snarls. “Touch my chickens, and I’ll singe your mangy hide.”

“Jarod’s not interested in your chickens, Ariel,” I tell her as I prop paintings up against the walls.

“Ithas a name?”

“It’s best to just ignore her when she gets like this,” I tell Jarod.

Jarod nods, seeming to understand.

Ariel sinks down against the wall, apathy finally settling in, her eyes going blank.

Aislinn and Jarod stand over the tapestries, discussing the best way to hang them. Aislinn fishes the hooks she’s collected from the gallery out of her tunic pockets and holds them up for Jarod’s perusal.

I sit down on my bed next to Wynter. “What are the berries that Ariel chews on?” I ask her, my voice low. I’ve been meaning to research them, but have had so little free time.

Wynter glances over at Ariel, who’s now passed out on her bed. She sighs deeply. “They are nilantyr, a very powerful sedative,” she says.

I inhale sharply, hearing this. “Ancient One, Wynter. It’s illegal to possess. How on Erthia did she get it?”

Wynter shakes her head sadly. “I do not know. All I know is that when she was thrown in the Valgard asylum, they had a hard time controlling her. So they fed her the nilantyr to keep her calm.”

I look to Ariel, sober understanding washing over me. “And she’ll get the craving sickness if she stops taking it. They turned her into a craven.”

Wynter nods.

“She told you all this? About being forced to take nilantyr?”

“Oh, no. She never speaks of it. When I touch her, I am shown these memories.” Wynter hesitates before continuing. “When she takes the nilantyr, the memories disappear. It all goes blank and empty. It is a cold peace, but peace nonetheless.”

“It must be hard for you to see all this.”

“It is very painful,” she agrees, pulling her wings more tightly around herself.

I think of how often Ariel lies wrapped in Wynter’s arms. All of those times, Ariel’s memories were flooding into Wynter, and yet I’ve never seen Wynter pull away.

“You’re a good friend to her,” I say, moved.

“I love her,” Wynter says softly. “She has become a sister to me. I want her to be at peace. But I fear that the nilantyr is a dark path. It is like a parasite, slowly breaking her. It has brought her to a point where she cannot fly, although she could when she was younger, and it robs her of her fire. She could once summon a large flame, but every day it grows smaller and smaller. And the drug, it has an odor that seeps through her skin. Even when she does not take it for a time, it lingers.”

I think of the Icarals in Valgard, of their foul smell.

Were they fed this drug? Thrown in a cage when they were small children? Were they truly demons, or slowly driven mad from the cruelty inflicted on them?

“Can you fly?” I ask Wynter. I’ve never seen her use her wings for anything other than a flimsy shawl. I wonder if she’s partaken of this nilantyr, as well—though I doubt it as she doesn’t have Ariel’s rancid smell.

---