Twisting Every Way

Chapter 10

Shaken and startled by their sudden appearance, she feared they would shortly surmise that she'd been conversing with the Shadow. Gabek-Fen still looked suspicious despite her explanation. To avoid further scrutiny, she marched out the doors. As soon as they clattered shut behind her, she ran all the way to the market.

The festival was in full swing. Stalls were filled with traders and the smell of roasting meat saturated the air. Excitement permeated the soul of the village. As she wandered through the market, she summoned magic from deep in her core. She stopped at a stall where two women were selling cloth that had been spun and woven from the little sheep they'd raised.

Emya ran her hand over the stacks of cloth. It was rough but well made. She observed the women. They weren't paying her any mind, too engrossed in unfolding and refolding the cloth.

"Hello?" Emya said, trying to catch their attention to no avail. Even if she'd waved her hands and jumped up and down, she doubted the women would have noticed. Whatever enchantment the Kings had placed on them was too powerful. She waved anyway and snapped in their faces, but they continued their folding, ignorant of her presence. A visitor appeared next to her. He greeted the women. They looked up and greeted him in return, though they continued their needless folding.

With a huff of frustration, Emya moved on through the crowded pathway in search of someone who might be easier to deal with. Arn, she decided. He'd acknowledged her before the festival, but after she was sure the Kings had already woven their enchantment, therefore he must not be under their spell. He would be somewhere in the market making sure everything was running smoothly.

Children ran past, laughing, and shoving each other. One smacked into her, nearly knocking her down. He didn't stop to apologize but instead ran around her to catch up with his friends.

She wandered through the maze of stalls, greeting people who passed her and waving at the vendors. The visitors always smiled and greeted her back, but the villagers ignored her. She reached out with her magic to rip off the spell, but it was like pulling stone set in mortar.

The villagers' behavior grew stranger. Several men and women wandered back and forth from two stalls without picking anything up or talking to the vendors. A pale, gaunt man was arguing over a basket of fruit, claiming it was rotten. The visiting vendor, an olive-skinned man with a bright orange beard, argued helplessly that the beautifully ripe fruit was not rotten. The villager held a piece, from which he had taken a bite, and Emya could see the cream-colored flesh inside was not rotten, yet he insisted it was.

"Excuse me," she said and tapped the pale man on the shoulder. The vendor looked at her pleadingly, but the villager ignored her. Emya concentrated, drawing up magic from deep within her core. It tingled in her fingertips and mouth, ready to go.

"Hey!" she barked. The man still ignored her. She tapped him again. "That's not rotten. Leave this man alone."

The villager turned to gawk at her. He cocked his head and his brow knit together. His piercing blue eyes were wide and wild as though he saw something terrible. Suddenly, he threw the basket at the vendor. His arms flew up to catch it, but the fruit hit him and fell to the floor. Emya started picking it up. The vendor stood, watching the villager leave, passing a piece of fruit irritably from hand to hand. Before the villager was out of range, he hurled the fruit at the man's head. It struck him so hard he stumbled and fell over. None of the passersby stopped to help or even took any notice at all. Instead, they merely walked around the body sprawled out in the path.

"Why did you do that?" Emya asked the vendor. He shrugged and tucked a lock of hair back into place behind his ear unconcernedly before returning the fruit to his stand.

The sound of many voices talking animatedly alerted her to a group moving down the lane. They kicked up dust as they went, coating their bleached-white lamb's wool robes with dark stains. Emya couldn't fathom why the councilors were wearing the ceremonial garments. Painstakingly made and treated with utmost care and due reverence, the robes were only worn on the most solemn occasions and ceremonies. They didn't belong to the councilors, though worn only by them. They were the village's most treasured possessions and they belonged to everyone.

She glanced around nervously. None of the villagers paid them any mind. She'd never cared for the robes the way the rest of the village had. She'd never thought of them as her own as everyone else did. If the Kings had cast a spell to elicit a strong response from her in order to drum up her powers, it wasn't going to work. Still, she had to try. The councilors would be furious when they realized what the enchantment made them do.

Pushing through the crowd, elbows and shoulders bumping and bruising her, she approached the councilors. Kamala, in the lead, chatted animatedly with Hai, whose face was twisted into laughter and cheer and almost unrecognizable. She'd never seen Hai so much as crack a smile. Emya felt something as she approached. It was overwhelming and pungent like a rotting carcass. It wasn't a smell, but it elicited the same feelings of revulsion and recoil as a large, dead animal. The rotten magic washing over her was enough to stir up the power within her and send it coursing through her body.

"Kamala," she called, marching up to the woman. She pushed past Emya without acknowledgment. Falling in step with Kamala, she tried again.

"Kamala!" This time she felt her magic break through the spell on Kamala. Finally, she turned and saw Emya. A huge, silly grin misshaped her features. Kamala threw her arm around Emya and pulled her along in a crushing hug. She smelled unwashed, reeking of sweat, dirt, and old food. Emya had never been this close to Kamala. Normally she kept herself out of arms reach from the volatile old councilor.

"Emya!" she said and giggled. "I've missed you. My old house is so quiet and cold without you to warm my heart."

Emya struggled against her grip. Kamala had always been strong, but this was an unnatural strength. Putrid magic washed over Emya in pulsating waves, beating against her own power. Straining her own magic, she willed it to find a weakness or some way to break the spell.

As though sensing the probing magic, Kamala pushed her away, still laughing and chatting, the enchantment not yet through with her. Emya sighed and watched them gambol through the market until they were out of sight. Then she turned and pushed through the throng before emerging onto the empty village streets. Slowing to a walk, she made her way to the throne room. Something was terribly wrong; the spell had mutated into something horrible and dangerous. The Kings had to lift the spell before the village descended into madness.

She stumbled to a stop at the village square. Six couples danced a clumsy, drunken waltz while several onlookers clapped out a rhythm that did not match the steps. From behind, someone suddenly grabbed her hand and pulled her into the dance.

"No, let me go!" she cried.

She pulled away and twisted her arm, but the grip was strong as Kamala's had been. Whirling her around, he began to waltz and Emya gaped at the familiar face.

"Adrik what are you doing? Let me go!" She planted her feet, forcing him to dance awkwardly in place. She peered into his face pleadingly, but he was blind to her. His eyes glazed-over and his expression blank except for a slight twitch in one eye. She stomped with all her might on his foot and was rewarded with a grunt of pain and slackened grip, enough for her to break away. Without a backward glance, she made a mad dash for the council chamber.