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Cyreina sat waiting in the lounge and counted the contents of her coin purse for the
seventh time. The boiling smell of powerful incense made her light-headed and added to the
silent scolding she was giving herself. You barely earn enough as is, and here you are, wasting
even more seis on another card reading.
Part of her reasoned that this occasional treat was all that kept her sane; she could
continue eating a broth of wilted cabbage and tomatoes past their prime until another assignment.
She never knew how long her purchasers would work her nor what it was she’d be doing, so any
time to herself was treasured.
And just how are you going to buy out your bondage contract spending seis like this?
Her inner thoughts demanded.
Master Domiris is never going to let me go free. His cut of my assignment earnings has
gone up again, and he keeps assuring me that he’ll find me clients willing to pay more – but it’s
been a year now. Better assignments aren’t coming—he's just peddling me to local merchants
and nobles. She answered back in silence.
The curtain that served as a door rustled, and she jumped, startled from her argument with
herself. Instinctively, she curled inward and clutched her satchel tightly to her bust. Once the
door had opened and the rusting chime sang, she eased. I do wish Madame Sefani would fix the
rust on the brass casing. Its smell is awful, even with the incense, and it barely rings.
“Come in, dear, come in.” The voice was airy as ever, but Cy knew that was a front.
She’d heard the Madame’s real voice once when she’d begun coughing from the smoke and
remembered her crusted lungs hurling out a curse or two.
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Cy stood and shuffled across the waiting room, groping for the curtain door – “a lovely,
rare silk, dear”, as Sefani had breathed once.
“Oh, it is good to see you, my dear!” Her chair creaked on the plush carpet, and Cy felt
her hands cupped. In spite of the smell of blush flower and oil bird feathers, her wrinkled hands
always had a strong scent of perfume. Cy never could figure out what that scent was; raw pepper
forced to kiss a rose, perhaps. It always lingered on her own hands every time Sefani took them.
Sefani led her to the table and helped her sit. “Oh, you’re cut across that cute little nose, dear!
That crude Domiris has worked you ragged!”
“He just sells me to people temporarily,” Cy murmured, uncomfortable. "So, really, they
run me ragged, not him.”
“Poor dear. Were you put to work in the sun again? You’re so pale, I worry next time I
see you, you’ll look like one of those lobster Nuburans!”
Nuburans were typically bipedal people displaying the animal characteristics of their
clan. Cy tried to imagine a lobster and quickly gave up on the idea. She’d had to shell the
smaller, non-talking versions of them a few jobs ago, and the thought of their pinches and hard
shells still made her queasy; she never had figured out the unspoken rules between a Nuburan
and a typical animal, but eating meat felt a bit dirty when she could afford it. Last time she’d met
one of the Nuburan ilk, he’d been a shorter rat gentleman with a charming brogue, and he’d
sweet-talked her into buying a moon charm; she knew he was a rat because he had declared
himself, “Gideon Gyrehand, merchant and rat bastard.”
Cy laughed politely. “I’m not really that pale, am I?” She knew black, white, and gray –
those she could just make out sometimes, and pale was closest to white, she understood.
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Madame Sefani sucked in a bit of air as though offended that someone disagree with her
beautifully crafted observation. “My dear, you are whiter than a snow fox!”
The younger woman paused before asking, “Is there...anything else unusual about my
appearance?”
Sefani paused as well, a rare sound in her home. “Oh,I’m sorry, child. I still cannot tell
your origin or,” she almost mumbled the word, “race. If I knew, I’d gladly tell you. All I know is
that it is unusual to see such pale skin with black hair. I had thought perhaps you were an albino
Meij’in; rare, but not unheard of. You always keep your ears bandaged up, so I cannot say for
sure. Beyond that, I simply do not know.”
“Master Domiris will not let me unwrap them,” Cy muttered, defensive.
There was another pregnant pause.
“Let’s take a look at your cards, shall we?” the proclaimed Seer offered.
“Oh. Yes, thank you.” Cy fished out the majority of her coin and laid it on the table.
“And thank you, dear.” Once the coins clinked into her jar, Sefani extended much
beloved deck and pressed it to her palm. From what she had told Cy before, the deck was very
rare and harkened back to the infamous witch queen of ancient lore; Sefani couldn't name her
legacy beyond the name Serentia and being a witch queen of something or other. “Shuffle like
normal.”
Cy took the deck in her left hand and cut it three times before shuffling. They felt well-
worn, the corners scuffed yet heavy. The etched drawings felt like little more to her than a mess
of circles jabbed into each card. She tried to take her time, not wanting to repeat the mistake
5. 4 | P a g e
she’d made on her first reading of dropping them near Sefani’s candles; it’d been the only other
time the Madame had cursed.
Once she felt content with the order, she cut it once more into three piles and sat back.
The Seer made her typical noises of slowly slapping the cards down, giving each one a
coo of wonder. On the last one, Cy noticed Sefani had fallen silent.
“It’s the death card again, isn’t it?” Cy asked..
“Three times in a row now you’ve drawn that card in your near future spot,” Sefani
admitted,, “I’ve never seen anyone draw this card so consistently. Of course, it doesn’t mean a
literal death, my dear!” she added quickly.
“What does it mean then?”
“Well…it seems to indicate being around a good bit of change in the near future.
Struggles, strife, but joy as well. Odd that you keep drawing the Moon. The Moon always refers
to Fate stepping in your favor.”
Cy wrinkled her nose. “Death is just part of this life, madame: hiding your brand is death,
stepping outside the city limits is death, angering one crooked guard or wearing clothes too nice
for your caste is death!”.
“Yes, of course, dear…I am just telling you what the cards say. I had somewhat of a
different idea of your work, I’ll admit. You come in with coin, decent dress and typically in good
health. Is that not the standard?”
Cy exhaled and bowed her head lower. “Forgive my outburst. It was rude. A slave simply
means you belong to someone. Master Domiris is...a broker, of sorts. He looks for openings,
strikes a deal, I do the work and get a small cut so the law isn't being broken enough to stir up the
6. 5 | P a g e
magistrates. He knows we cannot run, so he gives us our own time between assignments and that
little bit of coin, you know? I wouldn't see you so often if not. Still, I shouldn't have snapped like
that.”
“All is forgiven.” The Seer stifled a small giggle. “Oh…and stranger still, the cards see
you meeting a very handsome gentleman soon.”
Cy resisted the urge to snap again. “I see. A new master, perhaps?” How would I know if
he were handsome? Why would it matter? What even is handsome?
“They do not specify, my dear. All they say is that he’ll be very mysterious and quite
taken with you.”
Despite herself, Cy felt a bit intrigued. “Thank you, Madame Sefani. It’s always fun to
speak with you.” Fun felt like such an odd word on her tongue.
“Here,” the Seer pressed a card into her hand as she stood. “I feel as though this is best
kept with you. It is the Death card.”
“But, your deck-,” Cy fumbled with the card.
“Oh, it's not really all that rare and it's falling apart anyways. I picked up three new ones
this morning.” Madame Sefani laughed, “Old folks just love to ramble on about expenses, dear!
Besides, a little nagging voice is telling me that it should be with you – for good luck, perhaps.
You know, Serentia is displayed on this card. You have her pale skin. Oh, but I do ramble like an
old woman, don’t I? Please, just take it and hope it has a bit of luck, no?”
Resigned, the young slave thanked her and tucked it into a book resting in her satchel
alongside her coin purse.
7. 6 | P a g e
The Seer noticed. “I did not know you could read, dear. Oh! I sound so rude, do forgive
me!”
“It’s quite alright.” Cy spared her a smile. “The alchemists make a special ink that rises to
the heat of touch. It costs a bit, but they’ll do the tracing if you flatter them enough. Or bake
them pastries, I’ve learned.”
“Was it difficult to pick up?”
“At first. Denmir helped a great deal, though. He’s a terrific blacksmith but a better
mentor and source of commentary.” She paused. “If you do not mind the cursing, of course”
“I’ve heard it all, dear.” Sefani laughed and took her hand. . “Especially from husbands
wondering about wayward wives.”
Cy almost laughed. The Seer did enough for both of them.
“Oh, and do be careful, dear,” she added as they walked to the door together,
“I’m heading right to my night job, Seer. Grave-digging isn’t exactly thrilling work, but
I’ll have old Joaquim watching over me.”
“Please do mind yourself. It worries me, you out there at night by yourself.” Her mystic tone
dropped. The Seer bid her farewell.
Cy felt the card in between the frayed pages of her guilty pleasure, A Guide to Mystical
Beasts & Spirits. She pondered its presence, weighing coincidence against probability before she
started toward the large graveyard tucked away from the discerning eyes of the nobility.
Grimora had a way of making a small person feel even smaller. Its homes stood with
open columns carved of beautiful onyx and sapphire supporting the stacked homes and a central
8. 7 | P a g e
pathway with winding waterways dribbling down the thousands of steps in its center. Denmir
had, in between teaching her to forge blades and gears, described it in details not unlike a poet
could conjure; given his gruff, deadpan tone, Cy had always been spellbound.
The lower ring of the capital was fenced in by wide stretches of plains and farms and the
very edges a forest that continued to lose more ground each year to construction. It was also the
home of the piers bordering the Sea of Petals, where slaves were auctioned openly and the
poorest of Grimora lived.
The second ring was framed by walls high enough to hide the desperate from the artisans,
smiths and professors. To be of low caste meant to be in the eyes of disdain always – something
even the guards knew. The hawk-eyed patrol kept mark of each insignia belonging to slavers.
Anyone trying to leave Grimora, mingle with the upper-class without assignment or who looked
the wrong way met with the seven punishments. She used to think that the seven punishments
were a dungeon of horrors. It ended up being three beatings from the guard and four more from
Dom when she'd stepped too far off the city limits.
A sprawling market famous for its size and selection took up much of it, and Cy had
spent many sweltering days there, working for the masters of countless trades and crafts; it was
the best of any work she had ever done, and she longed to be assigned to a blacksmith or the rare
machinist. The air of the market always danced with the spice of alchemy and the fading,
familiar scent of parchment scratched with secrets.
The last, upper ring was crested with the Citadel of Itsalak. It floated upon a vast plot of
land, suspended in the sky by the King’s personal minstrels or spellcasters, as Denmir had called
them. The floating wonder cast a tremendous shadow upon their grounded settlement, something
that was considered a luxury in the hotter months. Denmir told her that any ambassador or guest
9. 8 | P a g e
was ferried upwards by enchanted boat or platform, depending on their importance. There, under
the colossus, only the most noble of patrons lived. They spent money that would buy her contract
out several million times over and, from what she understood, the upper circle was breath-taking.
Cy exhaled and felt along the wall for her walking stick; still there. Good, she thought; it
had taken forever to whittle this one after the last was stolen. Gods know what value a thief
could get from a cracked old walking-stick. Part of her wished the Seer didn’t insist on her
leaving it out but part of her also sympathized with how hard cleaning the mud it tracked in was;
not even considering the little bits from every other dirty place she dragged it to work.
She propped it carefully and pressed forward, counting the cobblestones as always. Seven
hundred and thirty-eight paces, six of them with cracks that were easy to trip on and two with no
railing. From the upper circle wafted scents of fragrant oils and candles from the temples. Dom
had her work in one such temple last year. The chanting, the candles and the lamentations of
believers still lingered.
Her sore feet walked the familiar route and waited to feel the tell-tale loose dirt beneath.
The fragrance of the oil birds and their nests of Myrris bloom drifted over a dogged humidity.
They cooed and rustled above in the thick foliage – she sighed through her nose and moved aside
to avoid their feathers. Once stuck to her hair, they'd stay until the next allotted bathing.
Denmir, the only master to hire and pay her honestly, had described their plumage like oil
in water, hence their name. He’d then bashed his hammer to the anvil and scared them off and
said, “Pretentious winged-cuttlefish, the lot.”
He was the only master that’d made her laugh as well. All she knew of the world, of
color, of touch, scent and sound had been by his word. He'd spent many weeks finding a
10. 9 | P a g e
language she could understand, a language of sight long taken from her. When the work orders
were fulfilled, Denmir had taken up his hammer once more and struck the anvil with a passionate
curse, “Embers, red and hot!”
“Embers!” She'd cried back, delighted at their faint glow in her murky world. There she
had learned red, crimson, orange and even blue – all other colors had been more difficult. Cy
learned what each metal felt like through the smith: the texture, smell, weight, feel and,
unfortunately, even the taste. She knew the touch of each fabric when he wove together fine
crests for nobles of silks, velvets, cotton and fine gems. Her favorite, secret moments had been
listening to him talk about Grimora - “A beautiful, terrible beast, little kitten,” He'd rumbled.
“Like the statues of the woman I let you feel but with a row of teeth beneath it, ready to snap you
in half. Out there, though...beyond the walls, who knows, eh? That sea is like embers just about
to die on the stone with winding blacks and whites from the trees. Gods only know what else is
out there.”
Her mind wandered, full of anxious thoughts of her next assignment and the Death card
Sefani had pushed into her hand. Logic said it was all just coincidence, but the elevated beat in
her heart told her to be afraid.
Her walking stick hit a bit of raised, cracked stone and stopped. “Wait…” She poked at it
a few more times, brow knotted. Even if there were a million cracked pieces of marble in the
lower ring, she had never felt this one before, she was sure of it.
A cold chill of horror froze her in place. “I went the wrong damned way.” She groaned at
the realization that she’d taken a left at the bakery that used too much salt and not the right she’d
meant to. “Serves me right for daydreaming, I suppose.”
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Cy had no idea whether to laugh or curse. Instead of either, she inhaled through her nose and
started back, retracing what she could remember. From the smell of salt, sweat and rotting wood,
she guessed she had wandered down next to the pier.
That’s not far. Just a quick loop back up the steps and five miles left of those men that
shout while they dice fish. She carefully felt her way back and prayed that the mood of Joaquim,
the surly old undertaker Dom had rented her out to, was good tonight. Maybe he’ll be too drunk
to wake and won’t notice I’m late. Cy prayed for a bit of good luck but almost immediately
amended her request for any luck except her normal hand.
