Seven – The Revelation
Snakes are not particularly kind creatures, but they are possessive and protective of what they possess, which Isobela has benefited from more times than she can possibly recall. As much as she considers the snakes to be her family, they consider her to be theirs. There are many things that have the ability to bind living creatures, many connections of shelter and food that inevitably lead to love and snakes, who value heat and fresh kill more than most common beasts, are no exception. Isobela has no doubts that her snakes love her.
She merely wishes that they might be less hostile about that love.
Isobela is the only one who can hear the snakes, so the content of the conversation is more appalling than worrisome, especially as she cannot truly spare a moment to track the exact phrases hissed between the fangs of her family. She is preoccupied with cleaning the blood from Sir Emett' skin and confirming that her healing efforts had not gone amiss, her hands fluttering to bespell with the crisp, jabbing contortion of her hands that draws magic from her veins. She is busy and her snakes have all congregated to the hearth, all save Toree, and the intimidation of their presence has kept the men further away from the warm fire than Isobela had originally intended. She would chide her snakes their behavior - but she is busy.
Though some words do reach her ears and leave her brow furrowed in confusion. So often it seems that her snakes simply know more of the world than she. And they are, by far, more aggressive that Isobela could ever hope to be, even Toree who is the youngest and, perhaps because of Isobela's influence, the least inclined to negative actions.
"The cretin underestimate the hatchling." Serpico.
"They dare!" Jetta.
"This one will perform a mighty education to correct that notion! To underestimate the hatchling is to court death!" And Ingar, who had departed from her side after healing the bloody slices along her arm and hand, the sting of his venom closing the wounds far better than Isobela would have the capacity to do.
Her snakes are being outright fanatical and Isobela isnt' sure what can be done. They know not to bite, as they understand that would put her in greater danger, but the hostility certainly isn't easing the tension from her shoulders, is it? She would have to trust that their behavior would remain protective rather than overtly provocative. And then, Jetta's low tones, grudging and odd, slinks over Isobela's concentration.
"The cedar scented one lusts."
Isobela flinches, hands paused as she hears this. She wants to ask Jetta what she meant by lust, but now is not the time, not with Serpico egging the conversation forward in such a way, fanning the flames, though perhaps not intentionally. Sir Emett, who has relaxed into a floating state of near-sleep stirs in the absence of her magic, which recedes back into Isobela's veins the moment her focus is broken. She waves a hand over his body again, satisfied that he will recover well.
"You require rest and water to recover from your ordeal," she says to Sir Emett in a low murmur, aware that the other men are attentive to her speech, even as they cringe from the hissing of her snakes. Hands on swords, scowls on faces. Distrust.
She is treading softly, so softly. She does not want the men to cluster around her again - it had been terrifying and she could only think of Stephen's heavy weight pressing her into the snow, the very real fear of violation locking her knees together. Isobela is grateful to this man, however. Sir Emett, though injured, had dispersed the tension with only a few mutters, most of them oddly insightful for a mundane to make. She does not know what might have happened had Sir Emett not interfered - which is why Isobela latches onto the conversation of her snakes as they continue to mention a cedar-scented man smelling of lust. The very notion frightens her, as does the realization that she had been terribly foolish, inviting all these men into her home, where she is alone and too far from the village and-
"The cedar scented one will be this one's first victim!"
"And this one's second!" There is a snap of fangs, no louder than the crackle of wood on fire, but it is swiftly followed by the slide of boot against dirt as the men shuffle closer to the door, pressed against the far corner of her hovel. "Fear. It is repugnant."
"This one expects nothing less of cretin!"
Oh, Ingar, Isobela sighs deeply, casting a glance over her shoulder to watch the albino snake flare his hood, upper body swaying to and fro, to and fro. A threatening stance, to be sure, and one he is clearly eager to follow through. He is most instinctive and most difficult to soothe.
oOo
The first words Isobela had heard from Ingar had been, in retrospect, quite telling to his acerbic personality.
It had been her eleventh summer and quite hot. Isobela had struggled to carry water from the river in leaking goat skin flask the Crone had bequeathed her, body aching from the bruises of rocks thrown by the villagers the day previous. She was almost certain that her ankle had been twisted - or worse - as it still ached from the cold even years later, as if it had not healed quite right. She had not been looking where she was going, too preoccupied with the task of keeping water within the flask, which was a losing battle; she had tried everything, from nudging her magic against the goat skin, to placing her mouth beneath the leak, but either way she lost more water than she could carry. Her shift dress stuck to the skin of her chest and back, her hair a heavy knot at the back of her head, and the flask dripping a trail of water behind her. Her goal of getting back to her home to place the water in a large clay pot to keep her stores up would be a task that would take all day - if only she were strong enough to carry the pot to the river…
And then, a sibilant voice with a tinge of male arrogance creeping from the trees. "A single strike and this one will be satisfied. The blood of this cretin will be most delicious. Yes, yes. Such hunger."
Isobela had spun on her heel, dropping the flask at her feet. Warm water splashed against her bare toes as the goatskin broke, spilling out across the dirt and browning grass in a flood. Her eyes had widened in alarm, searching for the voice - a familiar cadence, like her Toree, but vicious -
The snake was not much larger than her viper, though the pink tint to the white scales on his underbelly indicate the snake's youth, at least an entire summer younger than her berry-bright companion. Probably no more than a hatchling a few weeks old - and already such aggression. Isobela has not seen a snake of this breed before, which leads her to the immediate belief that it is a magical breed, or perhaps a cast-off from the mundane markets that march around the forest of Sassa every second season. She is not sure if the snake's bloodthirst is inherent in his breed, but she has no intentions of becoming the tiny creature's next meal, even if he could kill her with poison before her magic fought off the infection.
Isobela swallows hard, the dry passage of her throat making her tongue feel too large for her mouth, clumsy beside her teeth. She needs water and shelter from this heat, but more than that, she needs to be assured that this snake will not hurt her or anyone in the village. "There are more than enough mice in the forest," she announces, staring at the snake with unwavering orchid eyes. "You have no need to hunt what would kill you first. Be gone!"
"A speaking cretin!" replies the snake, flared-hooded head rising higher from the forest floor as the snake slinks further into the sun. The white scales are better than simple white; in the sunshine, there is a faint opalescent sheen that instantly confirms Isobela's notion that the sake was magical in some way. As he opens his mouth and brandishes long fangs in her direction, she watches the drip of venom with a keen eye, noting that it was much more clear than Toree's and likely that much more dangerous.
"I am not cretin," she corrects warily, holding her ground as the snake slips forward another foot, staring at her with imperious eyes the very color of bleeding red berries. "I am an augur and- and you are in my territory."
The snake flicks his tongue. "This one scents another cold-blood on the speaking cretin."
"I am not cretin-"
The snake hisses. "The speaking cretin dares to eat cold-bloods! The cretin will pay!"
Isobela takes several steps backward, appalled. "I don't eat snakes! I could never! You're smelling my familiar, Toree!"
This gives the snake pause, his head tilting in obvious consideration. "Familiar for…cretin? Has that one any pride? Disgrace! Shame!"
"I take very good care of Toree," Isobela says defensively, licking her dry lips.
It is usually true, though this summer was proving a bit of challenge between her injuries and the breathtaking heat. Isobela did take care of Toree and she would take care of Toree, but they both needed water and soon. Had Isobela any family, she might have ventured to the river in the night, when the heat hid behind the mountains; another set of hands could carry a torch so that Isobela could see in the darkness, and then she would have no trouble transporting water. But Isobela does not have a family and Toree is depending on Isobela to bring water back to their home. She wants to cry at the impossibility of the task, but she does not think her body has any moisture to spare; even her skin, usually so snowy-soft, is flaking and red from the sun…
"This one does not have a clutch," says the snake. "This one will join yours."
Isobela blinks. She had lost track of the moment, her head spinning as fast as the clouds above. The snake was talking about - about a clutch? A family? She cannot fathom how the snake had gone from such hostility to inviting himself into her home, but she is beyond questioning it at the moment. She would never understand the way the mind of a snake worked.
"That's alright, I suppose."
If it were possible for a snake to roll its eyes, then this snake had just done so, as is evident from his tone as he slithers forward, avoiding the puddle of drying mud beneath the broken goatskin flask. "This one does not need your permission, speaking cretin."
Isobela wrinkles her nose. This snake's sheer arrogance is very alarming, even off putting. But she would not turn him away. One day, she would be a healer and it would be her great task to set things to right - and Isobela did not see why welcoming this snake into her heart with the hopes of taming his prickly personality should be any different. It would be another mouth to feed and another body to water, but Isobela would figure it out, as she always did.
"You will be called Ingar," she tells the snake, reaching down to gather the smooth white scales into her hands, lips twisting with pervasive affection for this ghastly creature that has quite suddenly become hers. "Because you think you're so great. Perhaps the name will remind you of humility."
"This one will not argue such an appropriate naming, for this one is great, indeed!"
oOo
Ingar is most protective.
oOo
"Ingar, you will cease this baiting. They do not understand our ways," Isobela insists, rising from her knees with a sharp wince as her blood rushes back into her feet and toes. She is still cold and has compounded the exhaustion of the previous night's ritual with an outpouring of magic for healing Sir Emett; her body is quick to remind her of this physical compromise as she sways where she stands, gooseflesh rippling over her shoulders, her spine.
She reaches for her threadbare winter cloak and drapes it over her simple shift, feeling decidedly inane for pairing the two together, but it is better than remaining in clothing that should be reserved for her future husband's eyes alone and it isn't as if she can request privacy to change into more appropriate attire. These men had nowhere else to go for the moment and she still had obligations to their comfort, at the very least the extension of common refreshment.
"The cretin understand that the hatchling is fertile and that is enough for this one!"
"Ingar…"
"That one is right," says Jetta. "This one has seen male cretin and they think only of mating. These ones will not allow the speaker to befall such fate."
Isobela is heartened by the dedication her snakes show for her safety, even though the expression of their loyalty is disconcerting - and she smiles, ignoring the incredulous stares Sir Emett' brother as she scratches her nails beneath Jetta's jaws, around Ingar's flared hood, and over the back curve of Serpico's coils. Toree tightens comfortingly around her neck, flicking a tongue against her cheek as Isobela strives for balance on nerve-deadened feet. She looks to her toes - angry, blistering red, which is a good sign that the flow of her lifeblood has not been hampered by the cold.
Drawing her shoulders back, Isobela turns and faces the men. "Please, help yourself to my stores of water and nutrient," she says, gesturing to the few clay pots of nuts over the hearth and the woven basket of old bread, roots, and potatoes on the other side of the hearth. The jar of melted snow she collected the day before has melted into water. "It is not much, but what I have is yours while you collect your energy to continue your journey."
"No meat?" asks one of the men.
Isobela's expression pinches. "I do not partake the flesh of animals," she says cautiously, unbidden fear rising through her body. She did not want to - to disappoint these men for fear that they might appraise themselves of other pleasures that she would not offer. Her fists clench as she surveys their expressions. "There are many hares in the forest, if you are quick with a blade or bow."
"Your generosity is more than enough," says the brother of Sir Emett, shooting a quelling look to the men that seem to defer to him, in spite of his obvious youth. "Is it not, Carlisle?"
"Aye, Sire."
Sire.
Isobela's eyes widen. She had thought that the men were knights - the armor strapped to their backs, the swords on their hips, the solid bulk of their bodies were all abundant clues. But to hear that one was a called Sire - and perhaps Sir Emett was also of an elevated position, too - well, Isobela is rather abruptly aware of how meager her offerings truly are, of how she should be shamed by her home, and by her status as an orphan. She may be the Last Heir of the Solvej Clan, but she is no better than a lowborn peasant.
Her audacity to entertain nobles!
She restrains her expression, merely stepping aside to allow the men to rummage through her offerings, watching them warily with her spine stiff. Toree notices and nudges at her jaw. "Speaker. Your pulse races."
"Have these cretin upset the hatchling?"
"They are cretin - that they exist is enough to upset."
Isobela turns her head in such a way that her hair falls over her face. "They are nobles. It is very important that each of you stay your fangs. I am…I cannot host them indefinitely and they shall leave soon and we shall be safe again."
Toree's triangular head raises to eye level. "Speaker, do you know why these mundane were in the forest?"
"No…"
And indeed - now that it has been pointed out - Isobela is rendered mute by the realization that mundane men where in the forest of Sassa, in a forest fortified by magical barriers designed to confuse mundanes and hide the village from attack. Isobela would know, as the Crone had told her upon her entrance to womanhood, as it was Isobela's responsibility to replenish the magic of the forest with her womanly blood each year now that she was able, as the other augur women in the village did not have the same ties to the land and the protections were weakening. Since Isobela had been in charge of this task, the magic in the forest had been especially strong.
Which means that these mundane men should not have been able to pass through the fogs.
Isobela bites her lips, studying the men silently again. Sir Emett has fallen asleep and his brother is conversing in low tones with the most elder of the group - Carlisle - while the remaining men eat their fill of her modest collection of food. She does not think that they are darkly motivated against the village, as they had not mentioned Sassa, but she couldn't be sure. She understood men less than she understood snakes and she was extremely weary of these men with their weapons and number.
And at least two of these men are higher nobles.
What could they possibly be doing in Sassa?
And then -
"Forgive me," says Sir Emett's brother, giving Carlisle his back as he stares directly into Isobela's eyes, the astonishing grey chromatic of his gaze stilling her heart for just a beat. "Though you have offered your skillful abilities, your hearth, and your accommodations, it occurs to me that I have not properly introduced myself. I am Edvard of the House of Elric, First Knight of House Elric of Nordalta, and Crown Prince. My knights and I are extremely gratified…"
Isobela's breath catches.
Elric. House of Elric. Crown Prince of the House of Elric -
Elric - good King Elric, whose actions led to the massacre of the Clan of Solvej, the death of her family, the misfortune of her life -
Elric.
"We have ventured to the village of Sassa on a mission to ascertain the credentials of a rather peculiar report that has been received by King Perseus Elric," Prince Edvard continues, evidently not noticing that all of the blood has left Isobela's face or willfully ignoring that she has become immobile in the face of such revelations. "I say, have you heard of someone in the village called the Cursed Child? Perhaps the Cursed Child of Sassa? Any information you have on this individual would be most appreciated by the crown…"
By the Gods.
These men - these knights - this Prince was after her.
Toree hisses softly in her ear, but for the first time in her life, Isobela cannot understand what her familiar is saying. The panicked rush of sound is drowning out all save for her heartbeat.
