Twisting Every Way

Chapter 7

The market was already teeming with activity as the first arrivals set up their wares in the little mud-brick stalls that were used only once a year for the festival. The rest of the year, rain washed dirt into the stalls and weathered holes in the clay bricks. A harsh sun bleached the stalls, cracking and deteriorating the structures. But the weeks before the festival, the villagers dug out the dirt, patched the holes, cleaned the stalls, and lined the floor with fresh grass. Emya breathed in the smell of sweet straw and bitter churned soil. She closed her eyes for a moment, lost in the pleasant sensation. It wouldn't last long as the market gradually filled up with the smells of people, animals, and cooking food.

Excitement was palpable as Emya strolled through the market. No one took any notice of her as old friends reunited and new friends were made.

"Look who it is."

Emya turned to the familiar voice. Setting out a stack of little boxes was Emya's oldest family friend. Adrik, the match maker.

"Hello, Adrik. Have you found a match for me yet?"

Adrik laughed heartily, his long, shaggy gray hair falling into his wrinkled face.

"I don't have any young men for you, but I do have a gift."

He handed her a large matchbox, one that held more matches than her family could ever afford. She opened it, expecting some little trinket or interesting looking rock he'd found along the way. When she saw the contents, she snapped the box shut. It was filled with matches.

"I think you gave me the wrong box," she said, handing the gift back to him.

Confused, he took the box and opened it.

"No," he said, shutting it and holding it out to her. "This is the right one."

Emya didn't take it.

"I can't afford that," she said flatly.

"I know, that's why it's a gift." When she still wouldn't take it, he spoke again in a kinder tone. "I heard what happened to your parents. They were good people."

Emya nodded and took the box from him. The emotions she'd buried deep inside her threatened to overwhelm her. If she started crying now, she wasn't sure she'd ever stop.

"Thanks," she managed, her voice thick.

Leaving him to finish setting up, an excuse to get away, she wandered on through the market. She'd managed to avoid any kind of emotional display since the funeral and she wasn't going to start now. Outpourings of emotion drew attention, which had never been a good thing for Emya. Her parents knew this and taught her to push her feelings aside. Visitors at the festival smiled and waved at her if she got close enough, but her fellow villagers continued to pretend she was invisible. Mostly.

As she rounded the corner to the next row of stalls, she nearly collided with Kamala. Emya sidestepped the woman and attempted to skirt past her without notice, but Kamala turned from the other council members and caught sight of her before she could put the crowd between them.

"Emya!" she called sharply. It was the first time she'd spoken to Emya since she'd started learning magic.

"Yes?" Emya replied.

Kamala wasn't looking at her. Instead, she stared off over Emya's head, her eyes slightly glazed-over. It was how Emya's must have looked when she was listening to one of Kamala's lectures.

"Have you seen Arn?" Kamala asked, still looking over her.

"No."

"If you see him send him to me."

"Alright."

She then turned back to the councilors, who were looking at Kamala with concern. Emya hurried off before any of them decided to change their minds about talking to her.

Kamala hadn't actually ordered her to find Arn, and she knew Arn wouldn't care if Emya never delivered her message. He wasn't a fan of the current crop of councilors—and was fond of saying as much. Kamala was a particular irritant to him.

Distracted with preparing the festival, the villagers no longer scrambled to move out of Emya's way. She dodged between folks too distracted to notice her, ducking as villagers help two visitors maneuver a large crate of goods.

"'Scuse me there, sweetheart," a man said as he pushed past her. She looked up, expecting a visitor, but instead saw Harald, one of her toughest critics. Whatever she did, in his eyes, she did wrong. He must have been pretty busy not to notice her, but as she watched him wander off, he didn't seem to be in a hurry.

They were speaking to her. That was enough progress to report back to the Kings. She stopped and turned around, marching back to the throne room.