Page 3 of A Legacy of Poison and Lies

She’d spent her evenings during the last few months trying to fill in many of the gaps in her knowledge, the history of humans and Fae, of a time they were at peace, the times they were not. What she had been taught to be an uprising around the time of her birth was another effort on the part of the humans to keep Fae numbers under control, led by King Arnir. She’d read how the humans loved the lesser Fae for a time, but simply for the spectacle of them, treating them as pets, as attractions, asthingsto be tamed.

Pain fluttered like moths’ wings across her back, and Zylah focused on her cabin, on the moment, anything to keep her from curling into a ball.

The fire needed building, but the embers were still smouldering at least. The threadbare lounger she used for a bed stretched out before it, beside it the worn wooden table and its two benches, one overflowing with books Sasha had given her.

All were written by humans, and all had a sickening perspective: Fae were an abomination, not of this world and not welcome in it.

She leaned against the workbench sucking in deep breaths as her eyes roved over the covers and spines. The Fae were monsters to humans. That was what she had been raised to believe in Dalstead.

And with everything she’d done, she couldn’t think of a worthwhile reason to prove them wrong.

Zylah reached for her pestle from the counter behind her, focusing on her task to silence her thoughts. It could barely be called a kitchen, but it held everything she needed to get by. Everything she needed to make her poultices.

She’d found an empty house the day after she’d left the Kerthen forest. The interior had been thick with dust, and Zylah had torn up the bedsheets and used the pestle and mortar from the kitchen to make her first few poultices using the knowledge she’d learnt from years of working in her father’s apothecary, of the things she’d taught herself, and even a little from her time at the botanical gardens in Virian. She’d intended to make her coin as a travelling apothecary of sorts, always moving, selling in markets. Never stopping for too long. But things hadn’t worked out that way.

The truth was, she was too sick to travel through the winter, and if she couldn’t heal herself with plants and natural medicine, she wasn’t sure she’d see the spring. She could feel her body trying to heal itself, trying to push out whatever toxin had seeped into her. But without using her magic, plants and anything she made were her only chance of recovery until she could find a skilled healer she could trust.

Kopi quietlyhooedoutside, as if he’d heard her thoughts. It wasn’t his warning cry, just a gentle reassurance that he was with her. Zylah brushed her fingers over her necklace again, reaching for the knife she kept tucked in her boot.

She had brought this upon herself. Raif, too. Upon Mala and Asha, two of the Fae who had been working for the uprising back in Virian. Her father. They’d be alive had it not been for her.

Murderer.

She hadn’t been the one to end their lives, but she’d as good as handed them over to their fate.

On the wall opposite, a tattered poster was pinned to the wood. Zylah hurled her dagger, and it hit its mark; right between the eyes of the face painted onto the parchment.

This was her punishment. Their lives for hers. She pushed to her feet, running her fingers over the poster where it had split, smoothing the parchment until the pieces met. The likeness was always unsettling; the artist had captured her face perfectly.Calling all Bounty Hunters. Fugitive Fae wanted for the murder of Prince Jesper. Highly dangerous. Use caution. Bonus rewarded if the subject is brought to the king alive.

The king was dead, and the prince was very much alive. And Raif… Zylah unfastened her necklace and hung it on the hilt of the dagger, the blue stone glittering in the firelight. She should have just kept running. Should never have got involved with the Fae uprising, should have ignored that stupid desire to be a part of something. Her selfishness had caused all of this.

Raif was gone because of her, and Zylah deserved whatever fate she was to be delivered.

Chapter Two

Aweeklater,Zylahdragged her feet to another market. She’d woken in a sweat, to the sound of someone calling her name. It had been the same every night for weeks, and she’d put it down to whatever sickness had settled within her.

On the first night, she’d thought it was Raif. For so long in the Kerthen forest, all that had held her together were her memories of him. But memories were fickle things, a friend had told her once. After a while, all Zylah had been able to think of was how she hadn’t told Raif she’d loved him. How he’d asked her to stay and she’d run.

Her stomach growled; the mushroom broth she’d had for breakfast had done little to quell her hunger, but at least there was enough for later. She’d spent the last week foraging and drying out what she could for the colder months, dividing up her finds between what she could use to make poultices and what she could feed herself with. There wasn’t much for either, and Zylah knew it was going to be a long winter.

The knot in her spine, the vanquicite lump, ached if she stayed in any one position for too long, sending bursts of pain through her body and waking her in the night with fever dreams. She needed to find someone to remove it, and soon.

“Come, sister. Let the loving hand of Pallia feed you and clothe you, do not fare the winter alone.” A priestess.

Zylah looked up to meet her brown eyes and wondered how she hadn’t heard the woman’s heartbeat. Kopi flew down to her shoulder as the priestess took a step closer, her robe so light it made a swishing sound as she moved.

Zylah frowned, even in her layers the cold bit into her cheeks.

The priestess was unperturbed, eyes roving over Zylah like she was a shining jewel in the market for purchase. “An owl. You truly are favoured by the gods. Come, let us care for you.”

Nothing about the woman struck Zylah as caring.

“I must make it to the market.” Zylah smiled as sweetly as she could. “My father relies on the coin to pay off his debts. But thank you for the kind offer.” The lie was easy—Zylah had always had a knack for it.

The priestess offered a tight smile, her acolytes joining her from the depths of the market. “There are whispers of a witch in Varda, of healing poultices being left on doorsteps. What goods do you sell?”

“Witches don’t exist.” Zylah held the priestess’s gaze as she reached into her cloak, tucked a hand into her apron and pulled out a vial. “Tea and spices. Father’s a trader.”

---