Servant of Earth

1

The winter solstice crept in cold, wet, and heavy with dread.

I looked out at the predawn darkness, tracing my finger over the frosted patterns that coated the exterior of the window. A wintry draft slithered through the gap where the wooden frame had warped with age. As the wind surged outside, a spray of icy rain smacked against the glass.

Another drop of frigid water splatted on my forehead. I yelped, then scowled up at the roof. This leak was new-I'd already been awoken unpleasantly by the one that had formed directly over my mattress during the night-and it was just one more sign of everything wrong in my life. I wouldn't have the money to replace the thatching for a long time, if ever, so I grabbed a bucket and put it under the leak. Soon I wouldn't need to go to the well for my water anymore.

As I straightened, a glow through the window caught my eye. In the distance, a golden faerie light shivered through the darkness. Its path was uneven, made more so by the warped glass. As I watched it move, my chest tightened with worry.

The winter solstice wasn't just the shortest day of the year; it was the day the Fae took yet another thing from humans. A faith that yielded no rewards, prayers that met uncaring ears, a legendary history that had decayed into this disappointing reality . . . We gave the faeries our hopes, and for what? Silence and far-off lights that led nowhere.

And now the Fae-or at least our naïve belief in them-would steal the lives of four young women.

"You don't deserve any of it," I whispered as I watched the drifting orb.

My mother would have chastised me for the blasphemous words. Only the luckiest and most worthy humans are chosen to join the Fae, she'd told me eighteen years ago as she unsnarled the tangles in my hair with a wooden comb. It had been another winter solstice morning-a sacrifice year, like this one-and I'd been just shy of turning seven. Those women are favored above all other mortals, and they live out the rest of their lives in splendor in Mistei, the faeries' kingdom under the ground.

There was longing in her voice whenever she'd told me that story. She hadn't been chosen for the Fae during the solstice ritual when she came of age. Life had pushed a different fate on her, and there I was as the result: a ragged child held in her equally threadbare embrace, my father long gone and rain dripping through the roof onto the packed earth floor of our hut. Still, she'd passed the fables on to me, as if through hearing them maybe I'd one day be granted the blessings life had denied her.

I didn't believe in blessings anymore.

Another drop plinked into the bucket. I made a rude hand gesture at the distant will-o'-the-wisp, then turned my back on it and began my preparations for the day.

The washbasin still held leftover water from the previous night. I splashed it onto my face, gasping at the shock of cold. Then I scrubbed my teeth and changed my nightdress for a loose shirt and trousers. The day would be a busy one-it was not only a sacrifice year but the first time I'd be eligible-but I didn't want to miss my favorite morning ritual.

The one-room hut was dark, but I knew the layout by heart. I stepped around the small table and two mismatched chairs that served as a sitting area, making my way to the scarred wooden table by the hearth. Bundles of herbs hung overhead, along with a few withered onions. Anya had given me some cheese the last time we'd gone for a walk together, so I cut off a piece and shoved it in my mouth before grabbing my cloak and heading outside.

The rain had thankfully stopped, but the mossy ground was slick and rimed with overnight frost. The snows would come soon, but we were still in the first month of winter, with its glittering mornings and spats of icy rain. As I rounded the corner of the hut, the wind grabbed at my messy braid, trying to rip the brown curls loose.

The sky was purpling to the east, the blackness of night slipping away. The wood-and-stone buildings and thatched roofs of Tumbledown stood against the lightening sky like crooked teeth, and smoke began drifting from chimneys as the town woke.

The town wasn't my aim, though. My mornings were dedicated to the bog.

Enterra was curved like an hourglass with a longer and wider lower part, and the bog banded the country like a lady's belt, with Tumbledown its buckle. Just north of my hut, the shrubbed land merged into a vast, glassy wet expanse dotted with low mounds of earth and plant matter. Thick fog sprawled across it, obscuring the far side where the land became faerie territory. Dozens of will-o'-the-wisps drifted through that fog, the floating orbs fading as dawn grew closer.

I watched the lights dim and go out one by one, and a familiar sadness settled alongside my lingering anxiety. On solstice mornings my mother's presence felt especially close. Her faith that she could become one of the Fae's favored ones had never faltered. Supposedly the Fae used to travel across the bog to trade with, seek entertainment from, or rain blessings down on humans-and occasionally abduct those they took a liking to-but now the eerie lights that drifted across the wetlands at night were the only sign they even existed.

Loving the Fae hadn't brought my mother any joy. Yet when she'd died eighteen months back, feverish and agonized, her last words had been for them: "Maybe now they will save me."

They hadn't, of course.

I filled my lungs with icy predawn air, willing my bitterness to wait a few hours. The morning was beautiful, and there were treasures to be found. When pink tinged the eastern sky, the last golden wisp disappeared, and I retrieved my net from a hollow log and wound my way out into the bog.

Most people were too afraid to come here. It was easy to get lost and drown; the ground between pools of water was deceptive, and more often than not what looked like solid earth was actually a pit of mud waiting to suck a traveler down. There were legends, too, of knuckers and other Nasties that lurked in the fens and wet places of the world, eager to rend the flesh of those who misstepped.

I'd spent my entire life at the edge of the bog, though, and I never misstepped-nor had I seen evidence of dragons under the water. It had been my haven for as long as I could remember, a place to be alone and free.

I took familiar twisting paths until a stretch of water blocked any further progress. Then I sat on a tussock of pale winter grass, my feet inches from a patch of clover that hid the edge of a pool, and dipped my net in.

"Fishing" was what my mother had called this odd habit of mine, though I privately thought of it as "collecting." My mother's stories had sparked my interest in the border between humans and the Fae, and the bog's secrets had been so tempting that I'd attached a net to a long wooden pole, determined to see what rested at the bottom.

As it turned out, any number of wonders were hidden in the muck and silt. Smooth skipping stones, carved talismans, even coins tossed in by lovers who braved the treacherous paths to prove their courage and commitment to each other. They wished on coppers, hoping the Fae would bless their union. The Fae didn't care, but I certainly blessed them for it. I'd even found what I thought were faerie artifacts before-pieces of faceted glass or strange twists of bright metal. I'd run my fingers over the objects, thinking about who might have crafted them in the distant past and what their purpose had been. Letting the wonder of my mother's stories slip back into me, if only for a few hours.

Something caught at my net, and I grunted as I jerked it free. The object that came up with the muck was brown and misshapen. "Please don't be something disgusting," I said under my breath as I tipped the blob out onto the grass. Artifacts weren't the only things hidden below; there were occasional bones, too, and in a thick, foul-smelling pool deep in the bog, I'd once found a shriveled hand still covered in leathery skin.

When the bog took, it was greedy.

I wiped away the slimy mud. Not a bone, thankfully. Just a rock. I threw it back in with a plunking splash and fished for more.

I was trying not to think about what awaited later that day, but the memory of that severed hand was making me fret about the solstice sacrifice again. The odds of being selected were minimal, but I wasn't the only one eligible this year-my best friend, Anya, was as well, and she was all I had left in the world. Supposedly the will-o'-the-wisps would lead the chosen women to Mistei, but I'd stopped believing that a long time ago. Probably the first morning I'd fished up a human bone.

I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on my breathing. "This is my place," I said softly. The Fae didn't get to taint everything, and there were still hours left before the ritual.

The rising sun spilled rosy golden light across the landscape, and the fog began to clear. I scooped another stone out of the water and tossed it back. Found a single copper and wiped it dry on my cloak before stuffing it in a pocket. My net didn't pull up anything but thick, slimy mud after that-much of which splattered over my already stained clothes-so I shifted to a different spot and tried again. This time I found a wooden doll the size of my index finger, its face carved with a carefree smile. It had tiny horns that signified it as an Underfae, a type of faerie that was lower in status than the Noble Fae who ruled Mistei.

"Look at you," I whispered, enchanted by the figurine in my palm. This was the sort of treasure I loved most-the kind that made me wonder and imagine. Who had it belonged to, and how had it been lost? It had probably been dropped on accident by an adventurous child from the village, the kind who-like me-had decided to test their mettle on the dangerous paths.

But maybe . . . maybe a Fae child had walked here, instead. Maybe this doll was a thousand years old, a well-preserved remnant of a time when our two species mingled freely and the paths across the bog were clear and well trod.

I tucked the doll into my pocket before I could start speculating about more tragic reasons it might be here. This was already a more productive morning than most, and I considered ending my collecting expedition on a triumphant note. But the low sun sparked off the water and the world felt free and empty in a rare way, so I slid the pole back in. One more try, and then I would pack up and return to the worries and responsibilities awaiting me.

My net met resistance in the thick mud at the bottom of the pond. When I pulled it free, I could tell I'd caught something substantial. I thought it was a rock at first, but when the net emerged from the water, it contained the most beautiful dagger I'd ever seen.

I gasped, pressing a hand to my mouth. The steel blade and wire-wrapped hilt gleamed in the dawn light, and the pommel was capped with a large crimson jewel. Its shine was unnatural: no mud clung to the weapon, and there wasn't a trace of rust on the blade.

My heart pounded as I pulled it from the net. It was heavy, yet the hilt fit my hand perfectly. Had it belonged to some wealthy lady, or even a faerie? The double-edged blade was wickedly sharp, and the scrollwork on the guard looked ancient and arcane. The bloodred stone capping the pommel was the strangest of all. I hadn't seen many jewels in my life, but the few I had seen had been star-bright and faceted. This was a perfectly smooth semicircle, and the dull orb seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

I glanced over my shoulder, suddenly afraid that someone had seen me find it, but I was still alone.

This dagger would fetch a fortune. A real fortune, not just the meager coins I earned selling peat and bog-trinkets at market. It would be a life-changing amount of money.

For a moment I let myself imagine a future where I was rich and free. I could leave Tumbledown and its small-minded judgments, find a new place to live where I wasn't known as the herbwoman's wild daughter. No more leaking roof, no more nights where my belly echoed with hunger. No more despair as I imagined my life unfolding just like this, day after day, until I eventually died impoverished and alone the way my mother had. I could become a trader, passing spices and handicrafts between Enterra and other countries, getting to hold and study artifacts that told stories of other legends and other ways of life. Maybe I'd even visit those places someday: cross the western mountains to icy Grimveld and forested Lindwic, then on to other countries I didn't know the names of yet.

Anya could come with me, too-she wouldn't have to marry just to ensure her future. She could take painting lessons, maybe even illuminate manuscripts the way she'd wanted to since she was a girl. We could be new people, unbeholden to anyone or anything but ourselves.

Dreams were nothing but air, though, and real change took more than just hope. Still, my hands trembled as I wrapped the dagger in the folds of my cloak.

I returned to the shore shortly afterwards, unable to focus on anything else.

My hut rose from the mist at the edge of the bog, looking like a boulder with its squat stone walls and inelegant structure. My parents had built the rough house by hand together when they'd first settled here. It wasn't beautiful, but it had stood for over twenty years. Stacks of peat brick-my meager source of income-leaned against the wall, waiting for the next time I could take a full barrow into town.