beingadicktosadpeople - Tumblr blog

beingadicktosadpeople · 7 years ago

Text

Meeting

In the midday heat, everything slowed to a stop.

The shops closed, the streets cleared out, everyone went home. Even the stray cats slunk away into the shade for a reprieve from the heat. The sun was too bright and life seemed to melt under its burning gaze.

Jovan should turn in for an afternoon nap. There was nothing else for him to do at this time of day, no customers to attend to. The streets were quiet, save the constant screeching of bugs hidden in the trees and on the sides of buildings.

It was peaceful.

It was also boring. Jovan told himself again to get up from the counter of his open shop front and go to the back room. It was cool and dark back there, with a wide bed and soft sheets perfect for a nap. Everyone else with any sense was a sleep at this time of day, and he had no business being awake.

Even so, he lingered at the front of his shop with his head pillowed on his arms, watching the empty street before him. A light breeze picked up and rustled the lines of bells and bundles of herbs hanging over his head. It did little to cool him, instead leaving him in the stifling heat with his dark curled hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

He sighed and picked an olive out of the half empty bowl beside his elbow. It was salty and sharp, just the way he remembered them in the kitchen of his childhood home. His younger sister had run by a sealed bucket of olives that morning when she came by for her weekly fortune. As usual, she asked things about the family business, about her own future, and then questions about romance and the like that their older sister would not condone.

“Jono, stop putting these romantic notions into Caris’ head!” Usha would say at their family dinners while Jovan gorged himself on free food. Of course, Jovan wasn’t the one putting these ideas into her head. He was hardly a romantic himself, and could barely hold onto a bed partner for more than a few months. In fact, he had a habit of setting his own partners up with one another, after he’d had a taste of course. No, his sister was young and interested in love.

Their brother Devdas had been much the same at her age, and he had enjoyed a happy fate for it. As the youngest, she had no obligation to take over the business the way Usha did, and instead turned her attention to marriage and producing offspring. Jovan saw no harm in entertaining Caris’ romantic notions and told her the fortunes dutifully.

This morning, he told her to go to the flower stand a few blocks over, the one with the thieving parrot who tricked customers into paying double the prices for flowers when the shop owner was away. The shop owner’s twin nephews were around, and maybe one of them would be a good match. They were poor, true enough, but that hardly mattered. Money and names went through the hands of women, so all a husband had to do was provide the right ingredients for heirs and perhaps tend to the house. If the husband was found to be sterile, he could be kept of love and the woman could take on a second husband, or he could be discarded entirely. If Caris played her cards right, she might even reel in both of the twins. No one would begrudge her that, and the shop owner might be pleased to see his nephews with such a well off woman.

Jovan supposed he was lucky it was not his fate to be married off at the convenience of his eldest sister the way their brother had. At only a few years older than Jovan, Devdas had been married a decade ago at 18 and had fathered a fair flock of dark skinned children. His wife was wealthy and agreeable, and Usha was pleased with the match. It tied together merchants and increased the family wealth for both Jovan’s family, the Apravai family, and the Pura family now tied to them. Had he not shown a talent for magic, Jovan would likely be living a dull wealthy life like his brother. Being a witch, Jovan would not be wed. Witches did not tend to marry at all, save in the rare cases of those too lovestruck to see beyond their own hearts. Witches could not often hold onto a single person for long in a world they drifted in and out of like dazed spirits. Jono instead followed his grandfather’s footsteps and took over his shop once the old man moved back into the main house. It had its slow moments, but he never worried about money. His name alone gave him some measure of popularity, and he received payments often enough in the form of jewelry well beyond the cost of his services. His own talents did the rest of the work.

Like his grandfather, Jovan worked primarily in fortunes and charms and curses, though he had a small talent for healing and herbalism. Things were peaceful, and his talents went into asinine predictions. He told pretty faced girls that they would be doomed to die unmarried if they did not follow his advice. He told cold hearted boys secrets to winning the favor of local matriarchs so as to improve their own lots. Sometimes he'd place a curse on the horse of a lover’s rival, only to have his skill dismissed as trickery. Those who scorned him met with their own difficult fates, just as their rivals did.

It was exactly that sort of thing, his grandfather had told him, that would come back to bite him someday.

His grandfather called him lazy and prideful. Jovan couldn’t disagree. In his youth, not so long after he’d gotten the first set of charms tattooed into his skin at the tender age of eight, he’d directed all of his ill will at a mean spirited boy that lived near his grandfather’s shop. The boy had lost all of the fingers on his right hand, save his thumb, in a metal doorway. Years later, Jovan found he couldn’t say he regretted it. The boy never bothered him again, and from then on Jovan was the young witch to go to if someone wanted action above words.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think he grandfather was right about fate offering revenge for his actions, but he found that fate did as it pleased regardless of what he did. It was pointless to try to change its mind. Jovan sighed. His eyes blurred in the heat and he thought to close his eyes and nap at the counter with the company of his olives.

Or rather, the company of his olives and an odd raven brave enough to land on the countertop beside him. It picked intently at a stolen olive, tearing apart the fruit with its beak and a single long toe. When the bird felt his eyes on it, it flapped backward, taking the olive with it. The raven’s long dark claws scratched against the worn and stained wood, and it hopped from side to side under Jovan’s gaze.

He watched it for a moment. There were plenty of black birds in the city, ravenous things big enough to fight off the cats and hungry children. They were brave too, and clever. He’d seen them stealing strips of flatbread straight from the hands of unsuspecting shoppers. This one, though as large as the others, did not seem so aggressive. It watched him with its bead-like eyes, quiet and cautious, and did not fight him for the bowl of olives.

“Hm…” He hummed at the bird and extended a finger toward its beak. It blinked at him, then nipped carefully at his fingertip. Jovan shifted closer, head still resting on his arm, and ran the back of his finger down the bird’s front. It gave a curious squawk, but only ruffled its black feathers under his touch. It was a bold thing to let him touch it.

Impressed with the creature’s bravery, Jovan let it be with its stolen fruit. When the raven picked the last of the meat from the olive, Jovan plucked another from the bowl and placed it on the counter. The bird gave an appreciative squawk and started on that one as well.

They shared quiet company like this through the hottest hours of the day. The bird was polite, only stirring him from his daydreaming when it had run out of flesh to pick off of an olive pit, and Jovan would lazily offer another.

He found himself wondering at the stubborn women in white he spotted peeking into storefronts just down the street. They were priestesses, or something like it, from a neighboring country. Jovan didn’t concern himself much with their story, not when he couldn’t do anything about them. These women were an invading force all on their own, even without the use of weapons or magic. They thrived on shame and guilt, converting the locals to their ways by convincing them that regional customs were barbaric and outdated.

All invaders were the same, Jovan thought. They went for the legs and toppled nations. That these were priestesses and not soldiers made no difference. They were helping the people, they claimed, helping unenlightened become modernized and sophisticated. Jovan hadn’t seen them give anything but grief. Instead, they took the culture and stomped it under their booted feet. If they had their way, all of the witches in the city would be locked up in the cells under the chapel where they could do no harm to the public. Jovan wasn’t sure what harm they expected of him, not when carried no staff or halberd the way witches from across the sea did. The little knife hanging from his belt was no more suited for fighting than the Golden Sisters’ heavy robes were suited for this heat. The only blood the blade had ever spilled was his own, as was used in old sorts of magic.

The Sisters had convinced more than a few witches to move into their dungeon. They used threats of demons and damnation to do so, though Jovan wondered how much those words influenced the witches. Those he’d seen go into the chapel tended to have abilities that could never put food on the table. They were the sorts of witches who would strike fear in a man’s heart with their thoughts or set alight buildings with no more than a flick of their hands. Jovan could command a bit of fire himself, but he’d been lucky enough to have useful gifts as well. Those who were not so fortunate had little choice but to go up into the tower in hopes of finding a bed and a meal.

It wasn’t as though the priestesses had and legal authority in the city, but they certainly acted as though they did. From time to time they’d stop by Jovan’s shop and suggest he put on a proper shirt and come with them to one of their cult meetings. Jovan wondered why a shirt would be necessary, especially in this heat. He could see them sweating through their robes, revealing more and more flesh as the white fabric grew transparent. For all their claims of chastity, these women seemed to be clueless about the properties of their own clothing. A shortly cropped vest and loose pants that tucked tight around his calves kept him plenty cool in the summer. Like most of the locals, he didn’t even bother with shoes until winter came around. This seemed to drive the priestesses mad, and they made all sorts of claims about the barbarity of the locals.

“Ah,” he grunted, waking from his thoughts as the women drew closer. Jovan looked to the raven and offered his forearm. The bird tipped its head to the side and cawed at him. “They don’t like us much, my friend. Too dark. Too wild.” The raven seemed to understand this much and hopped up onto his arm. It shifted about, wings extended until it could find purchase against the layers of bangles and beads extending halfway up Jovan’s arm, then crowed again. Jovan hummed quietly and lifted himself from his stool. He ducked his head under the hanging herbs and lead his companion into the back room. The cool air welcomed them both as they retreated into darkness. Metal and glass lamps sprang to life as they entered, illuminating baskets of gems and jewelry among piles of books and herbs, lines of dark bottles and bones, on every surface. Wooden masks painted with red and black and white paint hung from the walls alongside old scrolls with paintings of flowers and animals.

At first glance, the room was a mess. At second, there seemed to be an order to the madness. Everything was in its place, though there was far too much occupying the shelves and tables. The raven was settled on the windowsill as Jovan opened the shutters to let light in. A tiding of magpies jostled about the ground just outside, and he threw them a bit of bread he had no plan on eating. They picked at each other as they fought over it, filling the air with angry cackles and the sound of wings beating against one another. The raven watched them squabble with a tipped head and cawed at Jovan. The man shrugged and placed a piece of the bread on the sill beside it. It picked at the offering and seemed to forget about him entirely.

He was a little reluctant to leave the window open when the magpies were so drawn to the shiny baubles inside, but the Sisters were likely to cause a ruckus if he didn’t return to the front of the shop. They were all the nosy type that wouldn’t be deterred by his absence and were far worse than curious birds.

“Behave,” Jovan commanded the magpies, who paid him no mind and continued their bickering over bread. The raven made a pleased noise and tore a heavy strip from its own meal. He closed the door to the back room and made his way to back the counter.

The priestesses clothed in near sheer white were waiting for him at the front of the shop. Each was adorned with a golden sun pendant hanging on a long chain so that it rested between their breasts or high on their bellies. They puffed themselves up and adjusted their robes when they saw him coming and turned their lips into stern frowns. There were more than Jovan had remembered. They seemed to multiply with each passing day. Where once there had been no more than a dozen pale faced women, now locals joined their ranks and mimicked their severe expressions. Those local women in this flock hung further back, perhaps for fear of Jovan’s reputation.

“Still tempting good citizens with your dark magic, I see,” sniffed the oldest of the bunch, a slender, angry looking woman with permanent lines along between her brows and along the corners of her lips. She was one of the foreign women, with now burnt skin and light hair drawn tight under her headscarf. Her eyes were blue and icy cold in their censure. Sweat dripped down her face, following along the lines on her face. She looked like she was drowning in the heat.

“Yes,” said Jovan, and took his seat. There were still a few olives left in the bowl and he popped one between his lips.

“A wealthy woman was struck by a carriage last night. Her young lover is set to take all of her inheritance,” she continued. Her fingers steeped together in front of her hips.

“Is that so?” Jovan dutifully responded, not so much a question as an acknowledgment. He was busily doing his best not to look at the outline of her breasts through her robe. It was terribly distracting, despite his general repulsion to her and her flock.

“She was one of our own, a good woman.” The priestess attempted to skewer him with her eyes while her fellows shuffled with irritation. Jovan expected they had already determined his guilt and wanted some sort of confession from him. That they hadn’t dragged him out in the street already was evidence enough that they were stabbing in the dark. No one had yet harmed any of the priestesses, but he had little doubt they’d be merciless if they knew who caused the death of one of their precious converts. “Her lover is said to have used witchcraft to seduce her.”

“Hm,” he rumbled and spit the olive pit into the street at their feet. That didn’t narrow it down much. All sorts of men and women called on magic to win the hearts of their desired mates, for loving and monetary reasons alike. These women had been around long enough that they should understand as much, but they seemed willfully ignorant of such things.

The Sister curled her lip, then caught herself and folded her expression back into one of bland judgment. “Those who use witchcraft to harm others will be crushed under the weight of their own ill judgment,” she recited, the same lecture Jovan heard every time her kind came by his shop.

“Hm,” he repeated and bit into another olive.

Either contented with her daily condemnation or unwilling to lose face at Jovan’s lack of appropriate reaction, the priestess drew up the bottom of her robes from the ground and gave him a curt nod.

“Keep that in mind,” she said by way of farewell and huffed away with her followers. They swept down the street as a flight of ivory doves, robes and scarves fluttering like feathers.

The local women let their eyes linger on Jovan as they left. He thought he recognized a couple of them. Those who lived in the market part of the city were close knit, exchanging goods and services rather than coin. He suspected they must be shopkeepers’ daughters, or perhaps sisters. The women who ran the shops were too hard headed and clever to go along with the white robed priestesses, but those young or powerless could fall victim to the cunning foreign cult.

He could see fear in their eyes. They knew him. They knew who he was and what he did. He expected as much; all the locals in the market district knew him, and some in wealthier homes recognized him well as Usha’s fortune teller. Jovan spit the pit at their back. Even the most well-meaning of the lot were kin to the rest of the invaders. They’d given up on their traditions and beliefs, had crumbled under harsh eyes and sharp words. He had seen this coming the second he saw the white priestesses hanging about outside his grandfather’s shop, but that did not take away the burn of betrayal he felt every time the women stopped by. The priestesses might consider themselves lucky. He had no plans to place any curses on them. They’d done nothing more than criticize him so far, and that hardly did him any harm. They didn’t yet warrant retaliation, but Jovan doubted that would last much longer. The women in white were getting more and more aggressive with each passing year.

He frowned and turned from the store front. They’d be back tomorrow, and he could reconsider doing something about them then.

His part-time bedroom and full-time workshop was a mess when he opened the door. The magpies had taken over the tiny room, flapping about and picking at jewels far too heavy for their slight frames. Jovan rubbed a disbelieving hand over his face and watched in silent horror with his teeth digging into his finger. One bird managed to find an earring light enough to steal away and took flight, crashing into another magpie and they tumbled to the ground in a mess of wings.

Jono sighed and searched the room for a sign of the raven, but it was gone. Only a cluster of shiny black feathers on the bed indicated it had ever been there. Some days later, the raven returned.

It settled on the counter beside a bowl of figs and picked at their leathery skin. Jono took mercy on the creature and split one open with his thumb. The raven crowed in delight and picked at the red flesh with the sharp curve of its beak. Jovan watched it absently, rocking a dark mottled piece of turquoise under his fingertip.

He’d spent the better part of the morning with his fingers curled around the ornate hilt of his knife, working on the wishes of a desperate business woman. Her son had run off and married a young woman who worked in the darker parts of the cities selling goods on the black market. Apparently, such goods were terribly dangerous and had led to the woman’s son falling into addiction and ultimately a series of seizures that left him all but useless. With that, his lover spurned him and he was left in his mother’s care. Like all good mothers, this woman wanted revenge for these crimes.

He was used to such requests. The people here could be vindictive in the face of constant heat and the pressures of foreign nations constantly banging at the doors. Every injustice was subject to a greater retaliation--and Jono did not distinguish between the just and unjust requests for revenge. If his clients paid, he would do as they asked regardless.

The sort of revenge this woman wanted took a toll on Jovan’s body, and he was left feeling drained in more ways than one. His magical energies were drained, and he’d lost a fair bit of blood. Not only had he cut a familiar line across his palm with the blade, but he’d also done his fingers as well.

The blade was usually used to slice open the tips of his fingers, each dyed with such a dark red ink that wounds never showed. Even slices across his palm, as were sometimes necessary with grander curses, were hidden behind ornate designs of flowers and suns and eyes spread from fingertip to wrist, and sometimes up to his elbow. Most local men and women wore such designs on their skin as marks of fortune or status, but the witches had found ways to adopt these into their own charmed tattoos. The patterns Jovan wore most often were meant to extend his sight into the years. Sometimes he wore patterns to extend his reach. They were redone every couple of weeks, and the ink would tell his customers what he was best suited to at the time.

Today he wore the patterns of suns and flowers with vines extending from them around his arm and curling just short of his elbows. The vengeful types would come to him today, along with those seeking blessings. To keep the two straight, he gave gifts with his left hand, and curses with his right. His right hand was battered and scarred beneath the stains of ink, while his left seemed almost clean by comparison. That was the way things were.

He’d healed up the wounds as soon as the curse was done, and the skin under the ink was smooth. The woman left, tears in her eyes and clutching the gem used in her palm. When it cracked, she would know that the deed had been done. In exchange, she pressed a piece of turquoise the size of a walnut into his palm and slid a ruby gemmed silver ring onto his last finger.

Now well paid, Jovan was left alone in his shop. It was as though nothing had happened, save the way he paled when he stood for too long.

This made the company of the raven all the more pleasant. He could sit in his daze without having to converse, but all the same was not lonely. The raven made contented noises from time to time, and was happy to perch beside him and pull seeds from the fig.

It was a curious thing, Jovan found, as it studied the layers of bangles extending up his arm. Hints of ink, both temporary and permanent, peeked out between beads and metal. Jovan turned his palm upwards toward the raven and it tilted its head, apparently studying the patterns on his hand. It ruffled its feathers and shifted its gaze back up to Jovan’s face. It seemed to be asking about the markings, so Jovan explained.

“This is the sun,” he said, letting the turquoise drop from his other hand and tracing the circle in the center of his palm. “And this is the moon.” His finger followed the patterning around smaller circle. “The petals of the world are here, and its arms are vines extending out, holding it all together. Between the petals are runes. They enhance my magic.” As he spoke, Jovan drew his fingertip along each aspect of the design and let it linger on a small, square shape cut in half, and then one half was cut through again diagonally. This particular rune was meant to protect his mind from the strain of his magic. It was one of the many precautions he took to keep himself sane, just as all other witches did. It would not save him completely, and in time he’d end up the confused old man his grandfather had become. This too was the way things were.

At the sound of an inquisitive coo, Jovan frowned and looked the bird in its dark eyes. There was something about it, something he couldn't recognize. It didn't have the aura of a simple beast, nothing like the magpies he fed on the window out of the back room, and nothing like the wild cats that picked their way through the garbage on the streets. It seemed too aware of what he was saying, of what was going on around it. He’d seen the raven indicate gratitude and intellectual interest, beyond that of a mindless beast.

He couldn't claim what this meant, not when he could hardly understand the aura when he saw it in humans as well. A spirit bird, perhaps, or one possessed. Such things were not unheard of around here, where the dead were called to regularly by some of the city’s witches. From time to time, a spirit would linger and attach itself to something without a full consciousness of its own. So long as the spirit was not vengeful, it would fade away on its own. It didn't matter much to him so long as it did no harm. The raven became a quick and comfortable companion. It returned most days and sampled whatever snacks Jovan was enjoying that day. It always flew in just after his early morning appointments and would stay with him until he either turned in to nap in the day’s heat or another customer took his attention.

Jovan made a point of filling his bowl with something different every day. So far, the bird seemed to find almost everything agreeable. The olives preserved with slices of spicy peppers inside seemed to be the only the raven refused to eat, and after that Jovan kept his snacks mild.

Not knowing what the raven knew about the area, Jovan told it all sorts of stories. He told it about the witches around the city, the ones that told fortunes and the ones that brought back spirits. He told it about the Golden Sisters, how they’d arrived one day when he was young and had been growing in number and power since. He told it about his concern that the priestesses might become more dangerous if they continue on like this.

But he also told it that as a witch, it was his job to watch and wait and to advise when the time came. Witches didn’t kill, he told it. Not people, and not animals. Witches had to buy all their meat pre-slaughtered, or abstain from it entirely. If a witch were to take a life, he or she would feel the entirety of the life taken, and depending on how long or vivid that life was, would go mad from the strain. Even the sort of magic he preformed, running on his own blood and sometimes indirectly causing the deaths of his victims through accidents, took its toll on him. He didn’t tell the raven all of this, of course. Witches had their secrets, and on the off chance that the raven was an evil spirit, he did not wish to find himself at the mercy of it.

The raven seemed particularly interested in talk of the priestesses. It cocked its head and watched him intently as he told the raven about the maze of dungeons beneath the city that the cult now occupied. Once upon a time, those dungeons had been used for heretics of a forgotten regime, and it was only fitting that the cultists called it home. He told the raven about the witches desperate enough to turn to the priestesses for help. In exchange for shelter, the witches joined the cult.

Or rather, so everyone assumed. He’d yet to see any of the witches return from the dungeons. He wondered if they really were allowed to join, seeing as so far he’d only seen female priestesses, and many of the desperate witches were male. Jovan had been lucky to have a wealthy family and fortune-telling abilities. Anything else and he might end up in those dungeons himself.

The witches of the city had not yet agreed on what to do about the Sisters, and most were in favor of waiting until something happened. Jovan was one of those sorts, but a fair few insisted that by the time something happened, it would be too late. Jovan told the raven that he understood that, but this was an aging empire and if they upset the priestesses and their nation, the natives would not be able to fight off a true invasion. And anyway, it wasn’t as though the cultists had done much harm to him personally. Those who converted did so willingly enough. Jovan might not do so himself, but he saw no reason to fight over it.

Talking about the state of his city wore on him, and in time he’d trail off and sigh, looking out with unclear eyes at the streets and houses and shops before him. The raven would grow restless then. It would stretch its wings and hop about the counter, seemingly looking for some sort of solution to nation’s dilemma on its own.

After one such one sided conversation, Jovan spotted familiar white robes down the way. He sighed and lifted himself from his seat. For a moment, the world spun around him and he braced himself against the counter with his forearm. He’d overdone it that morning, he knew it. It was too late to do anything about now though. A little rest and some spiced meat and he’d be well enough to do it again tomorrow. He always was.

“Come, my friend,” he rumbled at the raven and held out his arm. For all their companionship, he’d yet to determine what the bird was. He’d not thought about it particularly hard, and found that it really didn’t matter. If it was a demon all this time, then it would kill him whether or not he knew. If it was not, then his fate might be different.

The raven hopped up onto his arm and found purchase between the layers of bracelets. Its wings unfolded to keep it perched safely there as Jovan led them into the back room once more and this time did not crack the window for it. He would release the bird as soon as the cultists were gone, but he would not allow the magpies back into his bedroom. It had taken him far too long to clean up the mess the birds left last time, and even now he sometimes found a loose gemstone under his feet.

He settled the bird on the broad window sill once more and left it with a cracker. With any luck, the priestesses would be gone before the raven grew bored and sought out entertainment elsewhere.

This time when he returned to the front of the shop, he was greeted by a dark skinned woman in the white robes, and several others behind her. She was a native who, as a girl, had run around the streets with Jovan and the other children. This had been long before the incident with the bully, but he still recognized her. He thought he recalled hearing she’d taken on a husband, and then another when she was given no children. Local gossip said that the problem lay with her, though such talk was too scandalous to be heard anywhere but behind closed doors.

Jovan supposed it made sense that the cult had caught her. A woman like her would be desperate to find some sort of meaning in her life, especially in the face of having no heirs to her name. A smart woman might adopt, find a lost child and raise it as her own, but this woman was likely too proud or heartbroken to do such a thing. It was a shame, Jovan thought, but not so very surprising.

“Jono,” the woman said, using Jovan’s childhood nickname. Most of the locals used that name for him as well, remembering when he’d been young and quiet and curious. Back then his face had been sweet and open, and his neighbors expected him to turn out like his brother. They’d all been surprised when Jovan grew until an aloof and grumpy man with a stern set to his face that could wilt flowers. There hadn’t been a reason for the change. It was just how he was.

“Jono,” she said again, and this time offered her hand across the counter. Jovan stared at it. “I hear you have been practicing dark magic. You’ll end up as mad as your grandfather if you keep that up.”

Unlike the pale foreign Sisters, this woman--Ayati was her name, Jovan remembered it now--knew enough about the local culture to get to him. He would go mad, there was no doubt about it. He could stop his magic now and he might be saved, but he would not. Ayati should know better. All of the witches in the area were the same. To them, the cost was worth the power it gave.

“I know,” he mumbled and scooped the discarded turquoise off of the counter. He frowned at the stone in his palm. “Probably sooner.”

Ayati let her fingers meet his and she traced them over the designs painted on his skin. She sighed and let her thumb press against a run hidden in the vines wrapping around his wrist. “You can stop this. All of you can. Listen to us and we will save you.” Her free hand swept back toward the women lingering behind her. “We have so much to offer this nation.”

For a moment, he thought he might hear her out. He was supposed to be neutral, after all. None of this affected him. No one had dragged him away to the dungeons. There had been no war on witches, no violence in the streets, no murders or forced abductions. This wasn’t his problem, not yet.

He frowned and curled his fingers around the turquoise. He wanted to believe that this wasn’t his problem, and yet here was Ayati at his shop. He’d been harassed by the priestesses plenty in recent months; they seemed to grow more and more aggressive as their numbers swelled. They wanted to convert him, take him away like the other witches. It was the same for all of them. Now though, now they were sending converts after him. In his eyes, this woman, this girl he’d called a friend as a child, was dead. Was that the goal? To tell him that their culture and history was losing this battle? Jovan swallowed the hot coal in his throat.

“What do the foreigners have to offer that we do not already have?” he hissed. “Our medicine is better. We have machines they cannot understand. We have magic they cannot comprehend.” His vision swam with increased pressure against the rune.

His lip curled and his voice dropped into the rough street dialect only the locals spoke, “Your friends will drag us with them into the ages of despair and fear.” She caught his arm and dug her fingers into his pulse. Her lips set in a firm line and her eyes narrowed. The wind lifted and Jovan caught a scent of her perfume. She smelled of cypress wood.

“You were supposed to be the voice of reason among these blood soaked demons,” she said, low and dark in the common tongue. She dragged his arm close, and let her nails grind against the fragile bones of his wrist. “I see you are madder than I thought.”

Jovan’s temper got the better of him then and he slammed his free fist into the counter. The jars resting on the far edge of the shop shook with the force. A chorus of startled gasps and murmurs sounded from the street, where the rest of the priestesses huddled together and watched him with wide eyes.

“Was that a threat?” he demanded, “You’ve betrayed your people. Why? Why are you doing this?” His words were unintelligible to the pale faced women behind Ayati. They seemed to cringe back at the angry baritone of his voice. Jovan couldn’t blame them. He wanted them scared. “There is no place for someone like me among your friends. You’ll have me put behind bars like the rest!”

Instead of responding, Ayati snatched her hand away and clutched the golden sun hanging between her breasts. She turned curtly on her heel, back straight and steps long and confident. The women rushed to meet her and stared back and Jovan with accusing eyes. They couldn’t do anything to him so long as he’d not laid a hand on Ayati, but Jovan could see the cold calculation in their eyes. How far could they push him until he snapped and raised a fist to one of them? Jovan knew he’d be digging his own grave if he ever did.

It took considerable effort, but Jovan stamped down his temper and turned from the front of the shop. The cultists were done for the day and wouldn’t risk drawing him back in his rage now.

With his back to the open shop front, Jovan rubbed an ink stained hand over his face. He did not know Ayati particularly well, but it still cut him deeply to see her with the Golden Sisters. Before, they had largely been a problem for the city’s most impoverished citizens. Jovan almost thought they did some good in the Tarai, offering comfort and blessing to those who could not attend Israan’s temples in the Talavair district.

Now they were not satisfied with the poor. Witches were a deeply ingrained part of Nysanai culture, and the priestesses seemed to take offense to this. He did not know enough of them to understand fully, but Usha had told him once that the traders from the south did not bring witches onto their ships. At the time, Jovan thought this to be extremely foolish. Certain witches could predict weather and control the elements. They were essential to Nysanai traders, yet southerners seemed to think them bad luck. If he thought about it, Jovan couldn’t recall ever having met a witch from south of Nysanais. He did not think that meant anything good for the fate of witches in Israan if the Golden Sisters got their way.

With a deep breath, Jovan pushed his hand against the door to the back room. It creaked open, and inside there was the sound of a chair toppling over and books falling from a shelf. Certain the raven had gotten into trouble while he was away, Jovan sighed and flung the door fully open.

Instead of a raven, he was given an eyeful of pale bare skin and a mess of mousy hair.

He blinked, taking in the sight of a fair skinned man bent over and attempting to pull a pair of Jovan’s loose sirwal over his thighs. The man had tripped over the tight ankle of the pants and fell against a nearby table, sending its contents falling to the ground. Bowls of stones and flowers spilled across the ground, along with piles of books and scrolls.

Unlike the dark skinned and dark haired people native to these parts, this man had skin reddened by the coastal sun, and hair lighter than that of any local, even in his private areas. Darker spots ran across the man’s shoulders and cheeks, a constellation of freckles decorating his skin. The man had no tattoos or piercings so far as Jovan could see. Jovan’s own people tended to use tattoos as stories, rites of passage, accessories. Earrings were a fashion must, and anyone with anything to spare had at least one at all times. Only children had unmarred skin, and this made Jovan wondered just how old the man could be.

Under Jovan’s inquiring eyes, the man had the sense to look a little sheepish as he finally managed to drag the pants up over his ass. He looked like he wanted to say something, but his voice came out in a rough cough that gave no words. With the front of the pants bunched in his first to hold them up (as apparently, he did not know how to lace them so that they’d stay up), the man held up a placating hand and tipped his head forward submissively.

Jovan’s lips took a downward turn and he let his eyes trail down the man’s body. He looked more like the foreign priestesses than any of the locals but held none of the cold judgment those women did. From what Jovan could see in the man’s character, drawn from the aura about him so intangible that he could never put it to words, this was not an invader the way those women were. Foreign, certainly, but not a conqueror.

“Ah,” Jovan said, his eyes catching on a black feather near his feet. His rage melted away instantly at the absurdity of the situation. He bent to pluck it from the ground and spun it absently between his thumb and forefinger. He pressed it against his nose and lips and let his gaze return to the foreign man. If he wondered what had been so odd about the raven before, Jovan supposed the mystery was solved now.

When he straightened again, he pointed toward a low dresser at the far side of the room. Its top was cluttered with a corked wine bottle and a pile of yellow-paged books. “If you want a shirt.”

Then he backed away from the door and closed it firmly behind him, the pale man on the other side.

#jovan stack #writing #oc #short story #jovan #magic #fantasy #original writing #i wrote this for part of nanowrimo months ago wups

4 notes · View notes