Page 213 of A Sanctuary from Shadow
“If it’s not already clear, I’ll just tell you—I’m not from around here. I mean, I was born here, but then I spent 16 years on Earth, where—as far as I know—we didn’t even have basilisks.”
Both Middlings bleared at me.
Liatris clicked her tongue. “You don’t ken who’s speaking to you, Ivy? Larto? This here’s the crown princess, in the flesh. If anyone could freely take up residence on Earth, I’d say it was she.”
The Middlings went slack jawed.
“Gripes, you’d think neither of you had met anyone notable in your lives,” Liatris chided their shock. She faced me, pressing a chubby hand over her bulging cleavage. “Forgive them, majesty. I know I speak for everyone when I say, ‘Welcome to Eden.’”
“Thank you, and—just call me Amy, please.”
Beaming, Liatris bobbed her head. “Well, Amy, I’m Liatris—one of the empaths abouts—and I’m pleased as plum punch to meet you.” She fiddled with her skirt, perhaps wondering if she should offer a hand to shake. “I believe you met my son earlier. Wee fella, always following the warden like a shadow.”
“Oh, yeah! Jet! I met him this morning. He’s a cutie.”
Jet’s mother giggled. “That he is—and sweet as nectar. I’d have had ten others just like him if things had been different.” She paused, almost distraught, but then shook herself. “But you don’t want my tale of woe. Tell us—are you getting on well in Eden?”
“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear your story.” I glanced over at the two Middlings. “And yours. Everyone’s, really.”
To be here in Eden, they’d all fled their lives in evasion of a tragic ending. And their tragedies mattered. Because if theirs didn’t, then mine had no right mattering either.
“And I still need someone to tell me about the basilisk powder.” I turned back to Larto. “I should know these things.”
Once Larto overcame his surprise, he explained that basilisk powder was a sorcery element derived from basilisk fossils (they were extinct now, thank Danu), used to adjust the pH balance in soil to grow certain magical crops. A mundane need for Gentian, I thought. But did he really require a whole mine’s worth? And was that need connected to the diverted river? My gut saidabso-freaking-lutely.
What the hell was Gentian trying to grow?
Then we got down to story hour. Or hours. Because once the Middlings finished telling me how they’d wound up in Eden, others joined us, yearning catharsis.
After about five therapy sessions, I realized I’d never remember all their testimonials without muddling the details. “I wish I had some way to record yinz.” With a record, I’d have evidence that society required radical changes for those pricks running the world in my stead. “It would make one hell of an anthology,” remarked the literature major in me.
That cheered Liatris, who’d begun wilting during the narratives of pain and loss. She was content to listen, but she had yet to express her own misfortune. “I’ll run and fetch Nimue. She’s our resident scrivener and has just what you seek.”
Nimue, a diminutive, mute fae with a strong resemblance to Samara from the movie,The Ring,did indeed have just what I sought. Barely peeking at me through her wavy dark hair with gold, slanted eyes, she handed me a bark-bound book strung together with seaweed. Its numerous pages smelled of velum.
Taking it, I marveled at its heft. “Areeverybody’sstories in here?”
Nimue waggled her head side to side.
Liatris, reclaiming her seat beside mine, touched my shoulder. “I expect she means she took from all who offered. She’s principled, she is. Wouldn’t dare work her magic without a speaker’s say so.”
I flipped to the first page. Stilted, almost runic, script glinted up at me, entitling the makeshift treatise:A Sanctuary from Shadow. “Wow.” I marveled at Nimue’s long, neat penmanship. “Did you write all this down yourself?”
My patients chuckled—all now fully apprised of who I was and why the fae realm still mystified me.
“Scriveners need not write by hand,” Ivy said. “They but will your spoken word onto the pages.”
Well, there was one magical power I wouldn’t mind having. Not that I wanted to be an author, but I enjoyed the thought of watching my words appear in print out of thin air. “Very cool.”
The expanding group hummed at my approval.
Chatter continued around me as I flipped through several pages, skimming the many stories Nimue had recorded. A first name entitled each refugee’s tale.
“You know, it’s kind of funny.” I shook my head as I turned the page on another narrative in which a curse had sought to consume a life. “All these stories, and I haven’t come across one where the person was meant to be captured instead of killed.” I shrugged. “Is that just rare?”
The crowd fell silent.
“What?” I asked.
