Page 112 of The Demon Tide

“You need to bring it to me, Mika Zir!” she flirts back with a cheeky grin as she hands a vial of deep-brown roots to another young Noi woman garbed in a dress made of overlapping metallic hearts. The two women burst into laughter as I stare at the vial, stunned.

It’s Sanjire root. Vials and vials of the pregnancy-preventing root, illegal in Gardneria, but completely out in the open here.

“They sell Sanjire root,” I murmur to Bleddyn in amazement. My thoughts careen to Lukas, remembering how he secured the root for us, a stab of fierce longing for him cutting through me.

“It’s surprising to see it on display,” Bleddyn admits. “Shocked me at first too. The Urisk don’t allow it either.” Her green lips twist with derision. “We’re supposed to have as many babies as, well—” she gives me a jaded look “—as the Mages. Not a lot of power in the Western Realm for us women.” She spits out a laugh. “Well, unless you’re Amaz.”

I nod in morbid solidarity as we exchange another look, the two of us seeming a trace surprised to be finding common ground as Westerners.

My attention shifts to two bedazzled Noi women striding toward us in the increasing traffic. One of the young women has spiked graphite-hued hair tipped in metallic violet. The other’s looping brown braids are festooned with deep-purple clematis blossoms, her dress a riot of lilac glitter. Their skirts are scandalously short by Gardnerian standards, but no one looks at them with anything but friendly glances.

They fall into each other, laughing, as if in the midst of some private joke, and the spike-haired woman pulls the flowery woman into an embrace, kissing her deeply.

A tingling surprise sweeps through me, and I can barely keep from gaping at them.

They break the kiss, beaming at each other, as a hunched elderly flower merchant leans out from her small shoppe, a broad smile on her face as she hands them a glowing violet iris on a long spring-green stalk.

I’m swept up in an envy so strong I’m surprised by the bitter taste of it.

What would it be like to have been raised in a culture that’s so free? What would it have been like for Trystan to have grown up in a land that accepted him instead of forcing him into hiding? What would it have been like for me to have freedom without the threat of wandfasting hanging over me like an ever-present shadow, with so little choice of work and study and clothing? With free access to Sanjire root?

I don’t want to resent the Easterners for their vast freedom, but for a moment, I do, wondering, how could any of them possibly understand where I’ve come from. Or where Bleddyn’s come from, her situation in the West unimaginably worse than mine. There’s such mind-bending power for women and everyone else here and it’s worth fighting for.

Not just for them, but for all of us fleeing here, as well.

My gaze snags on a sign hanging from a shoppe selling syrup-drenched lavender heart waffles, the same sign affixed to many of the other shoppes and outdoor restaurants. All of the signs possess the same flowing black Noi lettering stamped on purple parchment along with a depiction of the Noi people’s ivory dragon goddess, Vo. I make a mental note to ask Bleddyn about the signs as the street narrows and we near a toy shoppe that does not display one.

The store’s proprietor, an old Noi woman, wears a bright violet tunic embroidered with whimsical purple frogs, lilac moon-decorated lace wrapped around her white hair. She smiles broadly at us as she readies an outdoor table covered with her playful wares. A white dragon goddess pendant hangs around her neck, and ivory bird earrings grace her ears, her braided hair a cottony white and decorated with purple silken flowers.

The hand-painted figurines she’s setting out catch my eye and I stop, overtaken by a surreal sense of déjà vu. I pick up a Vu Trin sorceress figurine, blue runes marked on her black uniform, curved swords at her sides, silver stars strapped across her chest. Her black hair is fashioned into artful coils, her expression heroic and determined.

These toys...they’re so similar to the ones Gardnerian children play with. But completely altered in their allegiance. Instead of wicked, sneering Vu Trin with menacing poses, the sorceresses are uniformly valiant. As are the Wyvern-shifter figurines, the attractive shifters partway shifted, with horned heads and gleaming black wings. Sapphire dragons are also set out for play, their expressions strong and benevolent.

And there’s an Icaral.

I pick up the figurine, my emotions tightening as my thoughts fly to Yvan and the golden thread of Wyvernfire embedded in my lines. Like Yvan in his glamoured form, the Icaral is a brown-haired Kelt, eyes a glowing gold, black feathered wings fanning out majestically.

My throat cinching, I set the figurine down.

Gardnerians and Alfsigr Elves are placed beside the Icaral figurine, their mouths twisted into sneers, violence in their eyes, their hands curled into claw-like fists around wands and bows and runic swords. The Gardnerians’ skin is painted a sickly green, the pale Alfsigr abnormally stretched out and ghoul-like.

The Evil Ones.All of us uniformly, irretrievably evil.

And there, lining the shelf behind the narrow table, is the most evil toy of all.

The Black Witch.

I reach out and take one in hand, fascinated even as my stomach heaves.

My face.Only distorted, even more so than in the wanted postings, into an evil and snarling visage. A dark wand in my upraised hand.

Feeling dazed, I run my fingers along the monstrous figurine’s wooden base as the unfamiliar Eastern Realm tree it’s fashioned from unfolds in my mind.Purple leaves. A dark, rough trunk. Wine-colored flowers.Such beauty underpinning something so terrifying. My gaze slides to the small wooden mallet tied to each Black Witch figurine with pale cotton string.

“Ny’laea,”Bleddyn says, her tone cautionary. I look up and meet her dire look as her eyes pointedly flick from the figurine to me.

“Would you like one, toiya?” the old woman asks.

I look to her, my heart thumping. “I... I’ve no money,” I stammer, moving to set it down.

---