Hilda Dáíre

Chapter One: Hilda

The ice was sharp against the hull of the small fishing boat. Every minute or so it would grind into the wood and send a rhythmic rasp through the cargo hold where Hilda lay, her eyes wide open. She hated the water. Every time the ice leaned up against the side, she winced, imagining the hull cracking, sending waves of icy black water right at her.

It was night and the smell of fish had never seemed more disgusting than it did at that moment. It had taken three months of waiting, a nerve wracking day of being transported in a small crate meant for a creature much smaller than her and then finally this. Two weeks in a dinghy fishing boat, feeling the rock of every wave in her stomach. Hilda had hoped it might seem shorter or at least less nauseating as the days wore on, but after nearly two weeks of it, there had been no difference in the rumble of her stomach.

But in the end, it didn't matter. By the time the boat had docked, she would be far, far away from Fjerda and her parents. She would never see the stupid country or her stupid parents again, and she was glad of it.

Hilda's hands gripped the sides of the dampened crates she was tucked between, her fingernails flaking away the peeling layer of bluish paint. The salty tang of the sea filled her mouth as the water embedded into the crate covered her hands. More ice thudded against the hull. The feeling it gave her was awful. Hilda wasn't even sure where she was. For all she knew, the fishermen in which she had paid most of her life's savings could have betrayed her and turned around. She could be brought right back to her home country. She could be burned to the stake without a second thought.

I am Grisha.

The thought had been stuck in her head for years, always inescapably present. The situation wasn't funny in the slightest. In Fjerda, being Grisha only led to death. They were put on trials as an excuse to have been given fair thought. No one was ever found innocent. They were hung or burned or tortured until their hearts gave out. No one ever survived the process. Not unless they managed to escape Fjerda or by some means, hold back their powers until their dying day. Which, if they did contain their abilities, would come quickly, as Grisha who doesn't use their power slowly falls away, succumbing to an early death. Hilda didn't want that to happen to her.

I am Grisha.

The thought was what had kept her alive for years, since the blood in her body seemed to pump with the cursed magic she had learned to hate. Everyone had seemed to know she might be different, from the very moment she was born. Hilda wasn't a natural lady, as Fjerdan women are forced to be, but she didn't have the talents of a warrior either. She was just no good at any of it. And in Fjerda, if you didn't have a talent, a place to prove yourself worthy, you were no use to Djel.

That was the worst curse anyone could be handed.

The boat lurched. Hilda lurched forward with it, her hands falling forward onto the splintered wooden floor, covered in a nasty layer of fish remains and the salt crust from sea water dripping from the wet crates. She squeezed her eyes shut, muttering a prayer to Djel. If he could hear her, he could help. But Hilda knew he might as well curse her again, knowing her soul was filled with Grisha power.

So was the truth of being Grisha.

Her prayer had barely finished when the fishing boat came to a swerving stop. Hilda lifted her head up, her eyes fluttering open. She pushed down the waves of nausea that threatened to take over and instead directed her attention to listening. The fisherman, kindly and understanding as he might have been, could have sold her out. In that case, they would be docking Djerholm harbor, where in a matter of minutes, she would be brought forth to the druskelle. That would mean the end to her.

Hilda stilled her breath, concentrating on making herself as silent as possible. She could hear noises from above. Bangs of crates being moved from the deck, the muffled talking of the fisherman. The talking turned to yelling like the flip of a switch, still indecipherable against the banging of moving crates and the now present noises of the dock.

There was a thud as something collapsed above.

Voices muttered. Then the hatch was thrown open, banging into the deck.

Hilda stiffened, her heart racing faster than she even thought it could go. Backing away against the salt encrusted wall, dripping with grime, she took a shaky breath. Twisting her hands, she drew her hood up over her head, hiding her face in shadow.

Footsteps were drawing closer. If they - when they - reached her little hold, tucked away in the far end of the boat, she would be doomed.

In Hilda's mind, she recited the prayer. For Djel's sake, she didn't want to die. She didn't want to be ripped apart, burned and brutalized for something she had no control over.

"I have so much more to give," Hilda whispered, the fish soaked stench consuming her.

"Yes, you do." A voice crept from the dark. A candle was lit. The footsteps had slowed. Two pairs of them now stood in front of her.

"But you'll never be able to give it if you don't come with us."