KRYSSA
572A.F.
Time stood still in the small, unnamed village a mile from our home. Our mother had laughingly named it Desperation, saying that anyone who lived there certainly had to be, and little had changed since my parents had fled there from Fallor. Even now I would wager that it is still the same: a pathetic huddle of houses centered around a single general goods store, cowering beneath the fringes of the Siriun Forest, as if trying to shrink away from the giant northern evergreens which rose for miles up into the sky.
Less than fifty people lived within the village, and it was not long before several heard the rumors that I cleaned for the Crone and came to seek out my services. I began a routine of cleaning for one of them per day: sweeping floors, washing walls, and scrubbing fireplaces, performing backbreaking labor for only a few copper coins. The money offset what we lost on the harvests, so I did not complain, though it exhausted me.
The women of the village tolerated me; though they did not know me, I was Adelie's daughter, and most remembered her with a mixture of jealousy and fondness. It is the curse of beautiful women to outshine those around them, and, for all her charms, my mother had been very beautiful. Thankfully, I did not resemble her, and my boyish clothing made me appear both younger than I was and unappealing in their eyes, and so I was dealt with more fairly than I otherwise might have been.
On Moonsday, I cleaned the house of Goodwife Therese, who watched me like a hawk, certain I would steal her precious things if left unattended, though they were little more than painted glass and useless to me. She paid me an extra copper to weed her gardens, a chore I quickly learned she detested, and, when I was finished, she would dole out the coins with her thin lips pursed, her eyes alight in her florid face as she watched me leave with them, thinking she had gotten the best of me.
On Airsday, I went to the house of Emmis Lonisdaughter. She was married to Tellis, who owned the general goods store, and her status as wife of the wealthiest man in the village gave her airs. She gossiped in condescending tones about her opinions of the other village women as I scrubbed her floors and fireplace, and I clenched my jaw until it ached, my head throbbing from holding back the words I wished to speak against her spitefulness. But she paid more than any of the other houses I cleaned- proof, she said, that hers was the most generous house in the village- and so I held my tongue.
Watersday was a joy, for that was the day I cleaned the home of Widow Ellisa. She was elderly, unable to attend to much of the heavy cleaning herself anymore, but her eyes and wit were as sharp as a girl of twenty. Her home always smelled of baking things, and she forced food upon me along with my pay- a loaf of bread, an apple pie, a pot of stew- to take back to the farm to feed us "unfortunate children."
Earthsday saw me at the house of Goodman Malik, who acted as carpenter and man-of-all-work for the village; a renowned bachelor, he had been the first to seek me out when it had become known that my services were for hire. His house was filthy, covered with years of accumulated sawdust and grime, and I worked harder there than on any other day. But Malik left me alone while I cleaned, and it was there, for a few hours at least, where I finally learned a little of peace.
Firesday I worked at the house of Allis and Demson Stroud. Allis viewed me with open hostility at first, and would bark her demands of the day at me with a glower upon her unpretty face. Though I never asked, I assumed she was jealous of my mother, and she seemed to delight in finding the most humiliating tasks for me to perform, as if daring me to protest so she could put me in my place. But I did them without complaint, and her enjoyment melted into resentment, until at last she left me alone, content enough with the knowledge that I was forced to work for her for pennies.
It was in her home that I met Vitric.
He was the middle child in a brood of sisters, about a year older than I, and openly friendly despite his mother's obvious disapproval. His hair was fair and curly, his eyes the shifting colors of the distant sea, of which I had only ever seen pictures, and he watched me as I worked with a lopsided smile. He followed me wherever I went, telling me stories I pretended not to listen to, and asking me questions I refused to answer. I had never had a friend outside of my brothers and sisters, and was afraid to make one, worried he might find out my secret.
For that is what I had come to think of Father as: something shameful, to be hidden behind false smiles and empty words, trapping my fear of him within my skin where no one could see it. The people of Desperation thought Malachi to be a tragic hero, admiring him for raising six children on his own after the death of his wife. No one knew of his madness or his addiction, save the Crone. What they thought of the bruises that so often appeared on my skin, I did not know, for they were never spoken of in my presence. Most likely they were written off as a well-deserved punishment; children are more harshly treated in those outlying villages than in the larger towns and cities, for life is severe and ruthless, and we must be strong enough to face it.
It was only Vitric who ever seemed curious.
He found me outside one day, laboring to pull weeds from Allis' garden in the wet, sticky heat of midsummer. My sleeves were rolled up, my shirt unbuttoned as low as I dared, and still the sweat rolled down my neck and back, making my clothes cling to me uncomfortably.
I could feel his gaze upon me like a weight, and scowled at him from beneath my lashes. His presence made me nervous for some reason, and I resented it, wishing he would leave me to my gods-forsaken chore in peace.
"Why are your arms covered in bruises?" he asked abruptly, kneeling beside me so that I was forced to look at him. His eyes were blue that day, clear as the skies above us, and held no trace of judgment or malice as he examined the dark marks on my forearms.
He was close enough that I could smell the sandalwood oil that lingered on his skin, recognizing the scent from the jar by the tub I cleaned upon every visit. Something in me stirred, and I glared at him in response. "They're nothing. I fell."
"Onto a pair of hands?" His fingers were gentle as he touched my bruises; still, I flinched, and he frowned. "It looks as if you were helped to fall."
I jerked away from his touch and the strange feelings he created in me, remaining silent and sullen as I returned to weeding. Let him think what he would; I did not want his pity.
Starsday is the day we worship Diona, our creator, and it was still my own. That day I cherished, for it was my only full day with my siblings. Though I spent most of it catching up on the work that was neglected while I was in the village, I was able to spend the late afternoons with my brothers and sisters upon our porch or in front of our fireplace, telling them exaggerated stories of the villagers I worked for, and listening to their tales of what had happened on the farm while I was gone. Strangely, I could not bring myself to tell them of Vitric, though I repeated the stories he told me, my heart fluttering oddly when I saw the joy it brought to their faces.
On Sunsday, I at last cleaned for the Crone.
Her home was filthy, though not quite as bad as Malik's, and filled with strange books and instruments and bottles that I feared to touch. More than once I would lift something- such as a doll made of feathers and blackened wax, or a jar labeled bloodroot- only to have it snatched quickly out of my hands. Once, I moved a book, written in pictures instead of words, and felt as if my soul had been jerked within my chest. I dropped it immediately, but it left me nauseous and shaking. The Crone had screamed at me for touching it, and sent me back to the farm without finishing my work.
It was the only house that I left without pay, for I worked simply to alleviate the debt I believed our father had placed us in. The Crone watched my every move, her eyes gleaming in the sunken hollows of her face; I think now that she let me try to work off the debt out of her own guilt, rather than any true desire to be repaid.
Late fall arrived, and with it a chill, biting breeze that stripped the leaves from the branches of trees, leaving them stark and naked against the cold sky. The air smelled of early snows and sleeping earth, and I worried near constantly for the upcoming winter. I struggled to clean faster and harder each day, for when the snows came, Father would again be trapped inside the house, and I would not be able to return to the village till the thaw.
I was in the Crone's bedroom, scrubbing grime from the thick stone walls, when I heard a frantic knock upon the front door. The Crone answered, her raspy voice catching my ear as she allowed the visitor inside. "I've been expecting you."
"Please, you must give me more." The brush I held tumbled from my nerveless hands at the sound of my father's voice, broken and hoarse. "The memories. I can't take them."
I cautiously stepped to the door and peered out into the great room, watching as the Crone led my father to a chair. He was pale and trembling, his face twisted in desperate pain.
"Will you honor our arrangement, Malachi?" She took a key from her pocket, using it to unlock a small wardrobe. Row upon row of dark glass vials sat nestled within. The sight of them chilled me to the bone.
Father was staring at them as well, his face alight with naked greed, and so failed to see me standing only a few feet away, shrouded in the shadows of the doorway. "Yes." His voice held no emotion but need. "Upon their sixteenth birthday, I will give the twins to you."
I gasped, a small hiss of indrawn breath. Father did not hear me, for all of his focus was upon the vial the Crone removed from the wardrobe and handed to him- but the Crone did, and met my gaze calmly as he drank the potion.
My mind reeled with shock, and my heart, which I had thought immune to his cruelty, broke anew. This man, who had once treasured his children as blessings from the Gods, had bartered my brother and sister as slaves to fuel his addiction.
The sight of the two of them suddenly sickened me, and I retreated back into the bedroom, pressing my forehead against the cool, warped glass of the windows until my nausea passed. I prayed to the Gods I so often neglected that they would remind Father that he had loved us once, and would break the hold his addiction and the Crone had over him.
Failing that, I prayed that they would kill him.
In the great room, I heard Malachi regain his familiar, belligerent self, and finally take his leave of the Crone. Not trusting myself to speak around the rage that hammered at my temples, I picked up my things and headed home early. The Crone said nothing as I left, and I could scarcely bring myself to look at her, truth and hate and pain warring in my chest until I thought they would strangle me.
I am certain that Brannyn at least suspected something was wrong when I arrived home, his amber eyes taking in my pale face and shaking hands in a single, questioning glance. But he did not ask, and so I was not forced to lie to him. It was a horrific burden, this secret, but I was determined to bear it alone.
I returned to the Crone's the following Sunsday, and I think that my appearance then was the only time I ever saw her truly surprised. The knowledge hung between us like a weight as we stared at each other, and came to a wordless understanding: I would spend as much time as it took working for her to buy back my brother and sister. Her shoulders slumped in resignation, and she stood aside to let me into her home.
I did not know if I could ever truly buy back Kylee and Alyxen's freedom, but I had a little more than six years until Father gave them to the Crone like unwanted kittens, and so I had no choice.
I had to try.
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[Author's Note: "The Arrangement" by Alon J. Rand of Dragonwing Graphics]