Wicked is the Curse.

27| Storytelling

Chapter 27| Storytelling.

"What have you done?"

The question rang in her head.

The crowd around her jostled her, moving around her like a tide around a withered, beaten stone. Brice had begun work quickly, her Wield a sharp burst of heat in her desperation. Two men ran to get something to carry Sloane on. They had tried hauling her into their arms, but one man had retched at rotted smell; her lower legs were like slabs of meat that had been left out in the summer sun for weeks, her skin sliding off like the top flimsy layer in a cup of heated milk.

Aether soldiers shouted for the onlookers to leave. Their accusing stares slid over her, but she ignored them.

"I didn't mean to do that," She said, her voice small.

No one paid her any attention.

The crowd was pulled back and Brice lay a hand over Sloane's heart, murmuring something softly under her breath. The pain etched into Sloane's face eased, but the tension in her jaw had not slackened. The Pretender brushed past her, kneeling beside Sloane. She brushed a hand over Sloane's forehead, her face a mask of concern.

Perhaps she was concerned, but the sight of her was enough to pierce through Aire's guilt. A hand brushed down the back of her arm and Aire jolted, turning swiftly to face Ferdia. The storyteller raised his hands, his expression gentle. "Perhaps it is better that you do not linger here."

She eyed him. "Where do I go? To your cells?"

Ferdia shook his head, his gaze flickering to the Pretender. "No order has come yet. Until then, let's get you sorted."

At her continuing look of suspicion, Ferdia gave a gentle sigh. "I know that neither of us know each other very well. You have no reason to trust me and I give you full permission to spill my guts onto the floor if I have nefarious, deadly intentions."

Her lips quirked. Strange man.

But he was right in one way. It was not wise to linger here. Soon, the peoples' attention would return to her, their hands rising to point an accusing finger.

She sighed, following him. The storyteller ambled as he walked, his attention drifting to every new thing – the curve of a window, a wilted flower. Another person passing him. He walked, he looked as if every detail was his to observe and that he saw something new as he passed along this street even if he had walked it a hundred times before.

As they turned a left corner and a row of houses loomed beyond, triangular rooves with little black-glass balconies overhanging the streets, Aire paused. "My room isn't this way."

It was nowhere near her rooms. The black glass street here was studded with flecks of gleaming gold glass. It was beautiful, yet ostentatious. If this had existed in Irial, criminals would have broken up the street in the dead of night and sold of the chunks by dawn.

"Hmmph," Ferdia paused, amused. "You've a good sense of direction, Aire. The path confuses people."

"I feel like it's important to remember where you are in a place like this," Aire evaded. The houses seemed to semi-circle around a gleam of light in the ground. Momentarily entranced, Aire wandered closer. The light was not light at all, but glass. Glimmering silver glass. It cast light like it was night-time, leaving great gleaming silver streaks along the walls.

"This city was built to hide." Ferdia's gaze drifted, rising to the thin plume of smoke eking out from the stone, high above. "They built chimneys here in the stone. Imagine that!"