Page 14 of The Arrow and the Alder

Nani had been gifted with prophetic dreams—a rare talent for a mortal. The people called it “saints-touched.” It was something bestowed by the mortal goddess, Ava, believed to be a way she communicated with her children. While no mortal was equal to her saints, few were granted access to their wisdom. However, this ability so closely resembled the kith’s power, how one felt about Ava’s “gift” typically reflected one’s feelings about the kith themselves. Hence the reason Nani rarely disclosed her ability to others, including her own family. In fact, Grandpa was the only one who’d known about Nani’sgiftuntil Seph began exhibiting the unique ability tointerpretdreams too.

It was then that Nani shared some of her visions, though rarely, so Seph doubted she would’ve shared this one with Mama. Fate was too dangerous a thing to trifle with, Grandpa Jake had always said, for oftentimes in avoiding a certain fate, one ended up causing it.

Seph eyed her mother. “Nani specifically sawyouhanding this coat to High Lord Massie?” She needed to sift through exactly what was shared, otherwise an accurate interpretation was impossible.

“I don’t know the specifics, Sephie!” Mama said, exasperated.

“Then we can’t know for certain what it means?—”

“I heard your father arguing with Grandpa over it, all right? Your father was reminding Grandpa that this coat was supposed to bring about our salvation—he meant to sell it, I believe—but Grandpa said no. Not yet. That the time wasn’t right, and something else to do with Nani’s vision…I can’t remember everything, but that will have to be enough for you, Josephine, because neither of them are around to clarify further.” Bitterness coated Mama’s last words.

“Mama.” Seph grabbed her mother’s shoulders. She didn’t know what any of this meant, especially through the filter of her mother’s desperation, but Seph was certain of one thing: no form of salvation would come at the hands of that kith high lord. “That could mean any number of things, Mama; you know that as well as I. You can’t just throw caution to the wind because we’re desperate! We havenoidea what High Lord Massie really wants, or?—”

“He wants to help us stop this war, Sephie!”

“It istheirwar! Why will none of you see how the kith areusingus?—”

A throat cleared, and both Mama and Seph glanced over to where Linnea now stood on the threshold. By the expression on her sister’s face, Seph suspected she’d been standing there a while.

Linnea looked between them, then at the coat, and her amber eyes gleamed gold. “Everyone is to meet in the square within the next hour,” Linnea said softly. She wouldn’t quite meet Seph’s gaze. “High Lord Massie has news on the war.”

The rain ceased by the time Seph and her mama and sister reached the town square. Seph hadn’t wanted to go; she hadn’t wanted to see those bone-faced kith again. Furthermore, she didn’t trust any report the high lord might deliver, but curiosity got the best of her. A person could learn a lot of things another never meant to reveal if one knew how to listen properly, and Seph had become a master at hearing the things people didn’t say.

Truth was often found in the spaces between words.

The square was packed with bodies by the time they arrived, everyone crammed together, trying to get as close as possible to the baron’s broad portico. Unlike Seph’s home, the baron’s possessed multiple rooms and multiple chimneys, with thick clouds of smoke rising from each of them.

Greedy bastard.

“Do you see Lord Bracey?” Mama was asking Linnea as they strained to see through the murmuring crowd.

“No…” Linnea frowned. She said more, but Seph didn’t hear; she was busy searching the crowd for all the familiar faces. Like Henrik and Bailey, who’d worked the mill. Their oldest son had been a good friend of Levi’s, but like Levi, he’d left two years ago to fight on the front lines. Soon after, his parents had gone near the Rift to bargain with a kith for his safety; in exchange, and by someslightoversight of verbiage, the son had deserted the front lines—safe, but nowhere to be found—Bailey had lost her ability to speak, and Henrik his mind. They’d made it back to Harran, miraculously, but the mill was all shadows and cobwebs now.

Never trust a kith.

Behind them, she spotted the Sandenfords, who’d sacrificed all three of their sons to the war, including Elias, their middle son––the one Seph might’ve married someday. All the Sandenfords had received for their loss was his severed finger. Mrs. Sandenford had aged a lifetime since that day. Her weary eyes caught Seph’s, and she graced her with a small nod. It used to be a smile, but there was nothing to smile about. Not anymore.

Seph continued looking through the ragamuffin crowd, counting those she knew, when her gaze snagged on one she didn’t. A man. Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a long, heavy woolen coat. He stood near the fringe, a part of the crowd yet separate, as if he didn’t want to draw special attention to himself. Yet Seph’s attention was drawn all the more. She strained to make out his features and determine his age, but his hood was low, and a dark, bushy beard concealed half of his face, spilling over his chest.

As if sensing her stare, he turned a fraction, his eyes finding hers.

Seph froze. Those eyes.Grayeyes, almost like the stag in the woods.

Seph’s heart beat faster, and a strange humming reverberated just behind her brow, as if a bumblebee had been set loose inside of her skull. Mama nudged her ribs, breaking Seph’s momentary stupor. She blinked, glancing ahead as the baron stepped through the doors and onto the portico, followed by his son and three of Harran’s most prominent elders.

The crowd’s murmuring rolled to a close.

Seph’s gaze flickered back to where she’d seen the stranger, but he was gone now, and the odd buzzing silenced.

“Citizens of Harran.” The baron’s high tenor grated painfully through the quiet square, drawing Seph’s attention forward once more.

Oh, sacred saints in heaven, she despised the sound of that voice, almost as much as she despised the sight of his face. The smugness. The greasy, combed-back hair and plastered smile. He wore a simple black surcoat and plain black pants in a pathetic attempt at parity, but there was no hiding the gold and jewels encircling his wily fingers. Payment from the kith for a job well done.

The weasel.

His son was no different. Lord Bracey stood a little behind his father, similarly dressed and decorated and fighting desperately to stifle a yawn.

“As many of you are well aware,” the baron continued, “Ava herself has honored Harran this day with a distinguished visitor.” He paused for emphasis and scanned the crowd. His gaze slid over Linnea, Mama, then Seph, where it caught for the briefest moment.

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