Page 99 of Artemysia
The world just fell away.
I should not have allowed myself to enjoy it as much as I did.
No sign of Riev in the morning, either. Breakfast, like dinner last night, is wheeled in on a large cart. As if they aren’t sure what we eat—and perhaps noticing we didn’t touch the raw vegetables last night—there is a wider variety of dishes prepared for us. Fluffy eggs with herbs I’ve never smelled before, steaming porridge with strange berries, delicate frosted pastries, and even a honeyed ham hock.
A Syf messenger stops in to deliver a scroll detailing my assignment, like a formal, hand-written contract. She hands me the document and a fountain pen delicately, as if afraid of me.
“Wait. I need to know if—”
I’m met with the back of her turquoise wings and the pattering of her soft boots as she rushes out before I can finish.
I unravel the rest of the scroll and study the details. I will leave in nine days, traveling with Riev as a marquis and marchioness of a faraway outer estate of North Kingdom. The old marquis has just passed away, and his recluse heir of a son rarely leaves the house, so no one will have met him or his wife. They were invited, but will be intercepted by the Syf and replaced by us.
I sign my name and leave the contract on the table by the door.
Ivy fills a large green glass plate and insists she’s always wanted breakfast in bed, so she invites us into her bedroom. She obviously spent the night in Throg’s room, and pulls back the still-made covers before sinking into the oversized bed. “What do we do while you’re away?”
I settle into the velvet armchair beside the bed, placing my filled plate on the nightstand next to her. “Same as I’ll be doing. Find out as much as you can. Ask questions, search their library, and learn all you can about Syf. That’s your assignment. Those are my orders.”
“Library? Research?” Ivy grimaces. “What if I can’t read? Like how Riev can’t write?” She spoons a mouthful of herbed eggs and chomps sullenly.
“Nice try. You can and you will,” I insist. “You read the outpost pantry list just fine.”
“Yuck.” She grimaces.
“Did you just ‘yuck’ my command?”
“No, these eggs, Captain. Taste them. They’re sugary. And crunchy. Is this what Syf normally eat? What kinda eggs are these?” She holds her spoon under my nose, asking me to take a look.
I lean in, inspecting her breakfast. The scrambled eggs seem fine, except there are greenish eggshells in them. I lift my shoulders and frown, but make a mental note to skip them on my own plate.
“Throg, if I’m not back as scheduled, the two of you have to escape. Return to South Kingdom and report all you know. Don’t come after me.”
“But Captain,” he argues, spitting out the eggs into a cloth napkin.
Ivy nods, mouth full. “I can sneak out of this room. Easy.” She eyes the windows. “We’re high up, but I can climb down the stone bricks in my sleep. Like a spider.”
A knock sounds at the bedroom door, and a feminine voice calls out, “I heard that!”
The door swings open. Eira, the small Syf guard, strolls in wearing a basil-green tunic, cloak, leggings, and boots. A sword and daggers are belted at her hips.
“There will be no sneaking out. I’ve been assigned to you, for the safety of all. And yes, we eat peafowl eggs, shells and all. Crunchy and nutritious, and nothing goes to waste.” She drags a hand through hershort pixie cut hair, black like her tail.
“Peafowl eggs?” Ivy exaggerates a gag, balancing her plate on an outstretched palm, and catches my eye. “Fancy bird, like you,” she whispers to me, grinning recklessly.
I huff a noncommittal response.
Ivy shifts on the bed to sit taller and looks Eira over. “They must not think we are much of a threat if they sent the frailest, most innocent-looking Syf ever to guard us.”
Eira squares her petite shoulders. “I’m tiny, but strong. I’ve heard you are able to take down many rabid Syf. But the rabid Syf are weakened versions of us. They are out of their minds and are not as skilled or coordinated as regular Syf. So if you’d like to practice, I’m happy to fight you, but I will win.” Her wings unfurl from slits in her cloak like long petals blooming behind each shoulder. On her, they are pale green with pink specks in the morning sunlight. They flutter excitedly out of the slits in the cloak made just for wings.
Eira unsheathes a dagger from her holster and swiftly flings it at Ivy.
It spins between them, and I expect Ivy to dodge.
Without spilling her plate in her other hand, Ivy seizes the dagger out of the air by the handle.
“What would you have done if it’d hit me?” Ivy asks, her grin stretching from cheek to cheek, incredulous but impressed.
