Chapter One: Moriella of Marshpoint
“Moriella Briarsand!” came a roar from the floor below, as if the devil himself had split open the ground to startle her awake.
In this case, however, the devil was her mother.
“Why am I hearing your gentle snoring upstairs instead of seeing you toiling away in the fields?” continued the exasperated voice.
She knew she had to respond quickly; her full name had been used instead of her preferred nicknames of ‘Ella’ or ‘Ellie’, and it was true, she had neglected her chores in favour of feeling the late summer sunrise on her face as she lay in bed.
“Coming, Mama,” Ella replied, stifling a yawn. She stretched her arms and took a look at her appearance — she had fallen asleep in yesterday’s clothing, following an outing with friends. She was in her late teens, and staying out beyond a time that was comprehensible for a farmer’s daughter had soon become her norm.
She made her way to the basin in her room, relishing the cool water as it refreshed her fully. Her brown plaits were a bit untamed, but it hardly mattered — she wasn't attending a ball, after all. Her appearance was acceptable, in her mind.
Ella bounded down the stairs, taking two at a time. “Morning, morning, off I go!”
In the cozy kitchen, the scent of herbs and dried flowers hung in the air, shelves lined with vials and jars, though everything was somehow meticulously arranged. Her mother, Samera, stood near the stove, one hand on her hip, the other holding a slice of freshly baked bread. Ella braced herself for a lecture but was met with unexpected kindness.
“At least eat something before you start,” Samera said, a tinge of sympathy in her voice. “You’ve become but skin and bones in the last two years.”
Ella couldn’t deny it. Her recent growth spurt had made her tall and lean, almost like the beanstalks that towered over their field. “Can I have some lard on it, please?” she chanced.
Samera sighed, but there was no real frustration behind it. Turning back to the counter, she grabbed a dull blade and spread the lard. “Yes, yes, then go out to meet your Father before he rings the bell.”
The bell — a signal that he needed help in the fields — would reach the neighbour’s farm, where three of his five sons would come to assist. But it always came at a cost. Not only did her father have to pay them, but the boys would spend the entire time teasing Ella for her so-called weakness.
It had not been her fault, her father had frequently reminded her. It was no one’s fault. She was the eldest, introduced to farm life at the early age of four. When her parents had decided to have another child, no one could have predicted the difficulty that would occur with childbirth.
Ella’s younger brother, Puckaelow, though everyone referred to him as Puck, had to be cut out of their mother’s womb, for he was born with the wings that he should not have attained until he came of age. Then suddenly, at the age of three, the wings molted and died, and painfully had to be removed.
He had already become used to flying; his first “steps” as a baby were taking off from the floor and hitting the ceiling with his small fist. Unfortunately, upon the painful removal of his wings, he found his legs did not work.
It left their family devastated, and Ella the only formidable child capable of physically handling the chores of the farm. Puck, on his end, handled the recording of funds and expenses, feeding the chickens, and assisting their mother with the preparation of meals.
Ella never teased him about his predicament, not once; for she feared that when she attained her own wings at twenty, that they too would molt and die.
Those in their small village who knew the tale of their family — which, of course, was everyone — had divided into two categories. Those who treated Ella with sympathy, for taking charge as the oldest should, and had often given words of encouragement that her wings would be strong and formidable, as she was. Then there were those whom she despised, who had a countdown to her twentieth birthday, saying they couldn’t wait to see her hideous wings, if she even got them at all.
She kept away from those in the latter category.
Her mother handed her the larded bread and she took an enormous bite, grateful for the sustenance. Ella reached over and gave her mother a quick hug, which caused her mother’s wings to flutter with glee.
The wings tickled Ella’s nose and she giggled, just as she heard her father’s warning: “I’m about to ring the be-ell!”
With bread clenched between her teeth, she pushed open the wooden side-door that led to their fields.
Puck was already outside, in his wooden chair with wheels fixed to either side. The fields were often too muddy for him to traverse far; yet the drought of the last month left the fields bone dry.
He had a bowl in his lap, scattering feed to the chickens. Puck had already long outlived any healer’s expectations of him; after the wing removal, they gave him a month. Then a year. Then three years, at most.
Now he was fourteen, and somehow still had a good sense of humour despite his troubles.
“Nice to see you’re finally joining us, Ellie,” her younger brother greeted. “Was that your shadow I saw creep by at three o’clock this morning?”
Her cheeks tinged. “You - saw - nothing,” she mumbled through a mouthful of food.
“A coin for my silence?” he bartered.
“I’ll give you two if you hold your tongue for the rest of the week,” Ella obliged. It was her best friend’s birthday tonight, and if all went well with attaining his own wings, the celebrations would likely last through the night.
“You have yourself a deal,” Puck conceded. “And tell Da that I’m nearly done with the chickens.”
She nodded, then set off toward the fields on the other side of the barn. It was a formidable land, considering the lack of help and the lack of rain. Of course, her father also had a crop of selmings, a special vegetable that could be used as a fertilizer for all other crops, promoting their growth.
Selmings had become rare, and his ability to be able to grow them in his soil and sell them at a high price was what kept food on their table.
It was there that she found her father, Erannon, wrestling with the weeds that, to make matters worse, were very much alive, snapping at him with sharp teeth as they grew rapidly around the selmings.
“Puck is done with the chickens,” she said, by way of greeting, and also to ensure she wouldn’t forget relaying the message.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you weren’t a fan of my company anymore,” her father greeted in return, using a gloved hand to push back the hair that had fallen in his eyes. Though the crow’s feet and his wisdom were keys to his true age, Erannon was a man of formidable strength and glistening, beautiful hair, which matched his wings.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” Ella replied. “Of course I adore your company, Da.”
“You wouldn’t rather be working with the three boys from the field over?” her father asked with an eyebrow raised in amusement.
“I’d rather bathe with the pigs than spend a day working with them,” Ella replied bluntly, finishing off her bread. She wiped her hands on her clothing, then grabbed a glove and a small shovel to help with the weeds.
“Moriella Briarsand.” That was the second time her full name was used in one day, though this time it was layered with affection. “I pray the Fae you wed appreciates that sharp tongue of yours.”
“Mother should’ve tried harder with her etiquette classes,” Ella retorted. “And I thought you always admired that I spoke my mind.”
“I admire your strength and your warmth,” Erannon replied. “Your cunning wit is what will get you in trouble.”
Ella shrugged as she pulled out a stubborn weed. It playfully snapped at her gloved finger, and she rolled her eyes before dumping it in a bucket.
As far as she was concerned, she’d be living on these lands for the rest of her days. With Puck unable to assist with most chores, it was expected that whoever Ella wed would inherit the Briarsand farmlands and run it with her.
Of course, Ella had absolutely no desire to be wed. The only men she liked were her father, her brother, and her best friend, Sylvan Waylocks. Not enough to wed him, but enough to tolerate his friendship.
“I know I don’t have to remind you,” her father carried on, breaking her out of her reverie, “your cousin Rosalia returns tomorrow. So we need to work extra hard today; our day tomorrow will be cut short.”
Rosalia, at just twenty-four — a remarkably young age for a Consul — had already taken on the responsibility of leading their village. She’d been away on a trading expedition to Evercross, a full day’s flight from their home. Rosalia had traded some of their selmings and would owe her uncle his portion, though it all had to be settled during an official meeting.
“We’ll have to cut today short as well,” Ella reminded him. “Sylvan’s birth was at twelve minutes past five.”
Her father sighed. “All the more reason for you to show up on time, Ellie.”
To prove a point, she gripped her palm on four weeds at once. She could hear their irritated squeals from under the earth, trying to resist her pull. In the end, she succeeded, their thorny leaves trying to nip at her. She put them in the bucket, beaming.
“You saved yourself ten minutes with that,” her father admitted. “But you’re nearly forty minutes late. Keep going.”
By the time it was three o’clock, the selmings were thriving, the pigs were fed, and the crops of ripe tomatoes and kalapo were gathered.
Ella tried to get her father’s attention, willing him to be satisfied with her work and agree for her to get ready. She was in desperate need of a bath before the ceremony.
But Erannon’s gaze was fixed on the sky. Two fairies, one of whom she recognized as her cousin, Soric, were descending into the middle of their farm, right where they stood.
She could make out Puck from the corner of her eye, forcing his way across the land to not miss the possible action.
“Soric, Thistias, to what do we owe your sudden appearance?” Erranon asked. He was careful to be nonchalant and not jump to any conclusions.
He needn’t have bothered.
“My sister —” Soric began, though Thistias’ wings fluttered in such a way that it rendered Soric to go quiet.
“Lady Rosalia, Consul of Marshpoint Village,” Thistias announced, with far more grandeur than the simple village warranted, “has fallen ill on our travels back. We have been forced to the ground on a difficult road; she is completely nauseated if we try to carry her. We are calling for all healers to tend to her at once, and any soldiers to guard in case of …”
His voice faltered. The name itself invoked fear in many.
“In case of Vampyrs,” Erannon finished off. “It is not yet sundown, and won’t be for awhile yet. You have no reason to fear. Please, you’ll find my wife inside — she will tend to my niece. I mean, Lady Rosalia.”
“And soldiers?” Thistias pressed, just as Puck arrived, his hands raw from spinning the wheels of his chair.
Erannon sighed. “None here. I must tend to my son; I am the only one who can lift him without injury. And Ella is no warrior, nor is she twenty yet.”
Ella kicked at a stray pebble, forcing her eyes downward to avoid any scornful glares.
“I am sure she’s formidable in other ways,” Soric filled in, though Thistias had already flown off to the main house. “We thank you.”
Ella made a mental note to add Soric to the list of men she could tolerate.
“D’you think Rosalia will be alright?” Puck asked with concern.
“I am certain of it,” their father replied. “We have a half dozen healers to tend to her; she’s in good hands. Curious, what caused her to become ill and falter?” He scratched at his nose in thought.
The question remained unanswered.
“Father, I know it is an awful time to ask —” Ella began.
“Off you go; I know it’s Sylvan’s ceremony soon and you smell of soil and piglets.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Puck added.
“I sorely say, his ceremony will not be well attended if Rosalia doesn’t come to,” Erannon mused. “Puck and I will try our best to attend; one more errand to do.”
With that, Ella turned on her heel and ran as fast as her legs could carry her, the house coming into view just as her mother took off into the sky.
