Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet Read Online Free PDF Page A

go.
    I glance back toward the stretch of woodland, where the white spirit told me to run. I pray to the gods for Arrice and Franc, then am forced to face forward or risk being dragged.
    I know these men will not stop long enough for me to find my feet again.

    The marauders move quickly despite the protest of the horses and their tethered load. The iron cuffs about my wrists dig into the base of my hands when my feet grow too heavy to keep pace, marking dark crescents of blood and blister. I’ve found that if I keep my tears silent and my moans quieter than the steps of the horses, my newfound captors don’t pay attention to me. I can’t always keep Cleric Tuck in view—his horse tends to lead the group, and the marauders are many—but he seems to have learned the trick as well. When I do spy him, I don’t see any new bruises or cuts along his body, minus the marks left by the cuffs. He hasn’t been beaten a second time . . . yet.
    I wonder if the shrine on the outskirts of Carmine was one of the first buildings to face the attack, like the farms and my shop. If its stone walls weren’t sturdy enough to keep the bandits out. I wonder if Cleric Tuck was overpowered in a fight, or if he hid from them as I did. He wouldn’t be this bloodied had he merely surrendered.
    I stumble again, hiss as the cuffs dig into the raw stripes of my wrists, and force my knees up. This is why the bandits only take those strong in body, I realize. Others, like Arrice, would never survive this trek. They wouldn’t be sellable.
    My stomach sinks into my pelvis, and despite my thirst, new tears spring to my eyes. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before, but we’re to be made slaves. If I’m forced into slavery—if my freedom is forfeit—I’ll never be able to search for them . My missing family. My heritage. My self. I’ve searched for four years without finding so much as a clue, but if these bandits keep me in chains, I will never find one.
    Except , I think, the ghost.
    He knows my name. How? Who is he? He is insubstantial—a spirit, a specter, a shade—but perhaps I knew him before he died. I try to picture his face, his odd-colored eyes. Try to remember , but the vacant expanse beneath my skull only grows darker, and all thought disappears when the cuffs dig into my flesh once more.
    I watch the peach-skinned marauders as we travel; they’re easier to behold than the other captives. They fidget constantly. They look over their shoulders and demand silence from us. My shoulders bear two stripes already for trying to reason with my captor. The farmer’s daughter who is tied behind me said the first stripe was for speaking, the second for sounding too much like a real person. She herself bears three stripes across her back and one down the center of her face.
    When we finally stop, I pray that the marauder guiding me will situate his camp near Cleric Tuck, but he settles far away, leaving several campfires between us.
    I don’t sleep the first night, despite my weariness. I hear the cries of women, many of whom I recognize, toward the center of camp. Cries of desperation muffled by grappling hands. Only women. I curl up beside the horse and pray for them not to take me next. I don’t know why, but the earth softens beneath me until I’m lying in a sort of trough: a cradle of soil and rock that keeps me half-hidden from the vile world around me. This is the second time the ground beneath me behaved as if alive, and I know with assurance that it has been no doing of mine.
    We rise early to gain ground on any pursuers, but my village is on the southern edge of the city-state Amaranth, surrounded by pastoral ranges. The marauders have, at minimum, half a day’s head start on any backup sent from the main city. No one follows us.
    The air grows cooler the closer we get to the western coast, and the troop finally stops once sea salt flavors the air. For a moment I hope we’re to be brought aship, which might give me a