Page 56 of The Demon Tide

Vothe stands a little to the side, his muscular arms crossed, as well. A cool breeze eases up off the river toward this Fourth Tier of the mountain city of Voloi, ruffling the silver tips of Vothe’s hair as it gleams in the morning sun. He’s almost too handsome to take in, even watching me with what looks like an edge of frustration. Perturbed, no doubt, over my insistence that I manage this myself without his proffered help.

Because I need to use my own voice and my own coin to become my own true self. No more hiding or sequestering who I truly want to be.

I scan the sun-drenched storefronts as white clouds scud across the vivid blue sky, violet Toi’nir birds wheeling overhead. The bustling city is a wonder, already adorned for the Xishlon holiday. Purple banners imprinted with Vo’s ivory and purple dragon goddess manifestations hang from practically every storefront and snap in the wind. Tables laden with clothing and jewelry, scarves, and hair ornaments in every hue of purple spill onto the street’s edges. Kiosks dotting the streets proffer rows and rows of the holiday’s traditional heart-shaped wreathes of lavender flowers and pressed, purple flower cards. And interspersed amongst the stores are tattoo parlors and hairstylists advertising violet Xishlon designs, beckoning Noi’khin to begin their celebration early.

But every merchant here has turned down my coin, each refusal like a fresh blow.

“I’m looking to buy some clothing,” I say to a Noi woman with a kind face. A little girl clutches her arm and peers up at me innocently. The child is hugging a lilac cloth dragon doll to her chest, both mother and child wearing tunics and pants with the same elaborate, embroidered design—bright violet irises, large as real flowers, sewn onto glistening purple silk, their hair decorated with glittering lavender gems.

The woman glances at my Wyvernguard uniform, then scrutinizes my Mage features, a trace of sympathy in her expression. But then she catches the eyes of other nearby merchants and takes in the warning in their gazes.

“I’m sorry,” she tells me stiffly as she averts her eyes. “I see that you work to defend us...but it’s just not possible to sell to you.”

Stubbornly ignoring the sinking feeling in my gut, I continue to stop in every open-air shoppe on the thoroughfare and am turned down by merchant after merchant. Crowds stream by, and practically every person notices me. Now and then, the initial looks of bafflement morph into expressions of covert solidarity—small smiles, nods of acknowledgment. But more often than not, ire dogs my steps, along with a few slurs viciously deployed—Crow. Roach. Filthy Mage.

I pause, feeling stranded. Overhead, lines of glassy orbs holding luminous purple runes bob cheerily in the breeze—most of the orbs decorated with hand-painted purple roses or violet filigreed hearts—and practically every passerby is already turned out in purple Xishlon finery. There’s a festive mood in the air, smiles plentiful, but they’re snuffed out by confusion and discomfort when people take in my Mage face and I wonder, longingly, what it would feel like to be a true part of the upcoming Lavender Moon festival.

Vothe is quiet beside me, no doubt sensing the frustrated hurt whipping through my lines.

“What does that say?” I ask him, pointing to a sign hanging above a stall selling hair ornaments. The same sign hangs from close to half the stores and stalls—black Noi script on purple, a rendering of Vo’s ivory dragon goddess next to the lettering. I’ve noticed the merchants of those stalls have been the most hostile toward me.

A discordant shudder passes through Vothe’s water and wind power. He turns to me, his expression tensing. “It meansNoilaan for the Noi.”

The blow connects with surprising force. For a moment, I’m back on the Zonor River. People struggling in the water, tossed around by the river’s violent undertow.

Noilaan for the Noi.

I quickly get hold of myself, determination rising to battle back what feels like the leading edge of a storm. A determination not just for me, but for them.

“Trystan,” Vothe says, his hand coming to my arm, “you’re not going to find anyone who’ll sell to you. I would help you if you’d let me.” His words are tinged with frustration, but his gaze and touch are full of a solidarity that’s so warm it catches me off guard and seems to catch him off guard, as well. Tension lights in the air between us and my power leaps toward his. Lightning sparks in his eyes, threads of it dancing on his lips, and my breath hitches as his eyes drop to my mouth. “We should leave,” he says throatily, as if he’s fallen into a daze. “Go somewhere private.”

The crowds streaming around us fade away as surprise shudders through me.

He wants to kiss me.

It’s new, him letting me see his desire so openly. But I sense that it’s fueled by an unsettled current—an undercurrent of turmoil that seems to have taken up residence inside him ever since we came back from the Zonor. He wants to kiss me in the same way he kisses Basyl. Like he kisses two other men I’ve caught him ensconced with. For escape. A diversion.

And in my case, in secret.

And that’s not the Vothe I yearn to kiss, because what I feel for him is beginning to run too deep, futile as it might be.

I want the impossible.

I want a Vothe who declares himself for me openly. In the middle of the city square.

“I’m not leaving until I find someone to sell to me,” I say as I move back from his longed-for touch, frustrated beyond all reason. Feeling like I’m trapped in my own skin, desperate to break free.

I can’t be this false version of myself anymore. It’s vital that I not bethisanymore.

This Gardnerian.

“Mage, come here!”

Surprised by a woman’s jovial, arch tone, I turn and see an elderly, black-clad Zhilon’ile merchant smiling at me, her onyx face covered in swirling crimson tattoos, black horns spiraling up from her head. She’s standing in front of a tattoo and clothing shoppe. Her long white hair is artfully braided, scarlet and black gems woven through it, and her skin is infused with lightning, just like Vothe’s.

“Come here, Mage,” she says again as lightning leaps in her eyes and her lips tilt up. “Trystan Gardner. I want to speak with you.”

Vothendrile

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