Chapter 10 #2
Another man faced him—tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden beneath a hood. They spoke, their words too faint to hear, but the sound of them carried weight, urgency.
And as the man stepped closer, the faint light caught the edge of his cloak—black leather, dull and worn, the kind the Hunters wore.
The image flickered, fading like smoke in a breeze.
Elara gasped softly and pressed her hand to her chest. The room was still again, the vision gone as quickly as it had come.
Her gaze drifted back to Dar. He hadn’t moved.
“It was a dream, not a vision,” she murmured, trying to convince herself.
Then she noticed his boots—caked with fresh dirt, damp as if from morning dew. The smell of forest clung to him, sharper than before, pine and soil and something else, something metallic that made her heart give a small, uneasy thud.
Had he been in the woods. But why? What business could he have had in the forest, alone, in a village that already watched him too closely?
Her gaze drifted back to him, to his face.
His eyes were open and focused on her.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The silence stretched, taut and heavy between them.
“How long have you been awake?” she finally asked.
“Long enough.”
“To hear me thinking?” she asked, her tone light though her pulse raced.
His mouth curved faintly. “You think too loudly, wife.”
She sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “You were gone all night.”
He didn’t deny it. “Aye.”
“In the woods?”
He paused, as if needing to give his response thought, then said, “Aye.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because sometimes, the forest listens more honestly than people do.”
He rose smoothly to his feet, brushing a hand through his hair. “We should go. You’ll want to speak to this Feena before the day grows long.”
And though he said nothing more, Elara could still smell the pine on him, the churned earth, and underneath it, faint and cold, the scent of secrets.
Elara stepped outside, drawing her cloak tighter against the chill.
The morning had broken pale and cool, mist rising from the stream that wound behind the inn.
The village was already waking, the muffled bleat of sheep somewhere near the edge of the fields, the faint clang of a smith’s hammer echoing down the lane.
Dar stepped out behind her, casting a glance around. The faint traces of earth still clung to his boots, though he said nothing about where he’d gone in the night or if he had spoken to anyone. She did not waste time asking again, sensing he would not offer an explanation.
“Feena’s cottage lies at the far end of the village,” he said, his voice low. “Near the tree line.”
Elara nodded. “Then let’s not waste time.”
They walked side by side through Barloch’s narrow lanes. The cottages here were old but tended, smoke curling from stone chimneys, small gardens fenced in with woven reeds. Children watched them from doorways. A woman paused in hanging her washing, her gaze sharp but not unfriendly.
Elara noticed how the air changed the closer they drew to the forest, cooler, damper, and heavy with the scent of moss and loam. The cottages grew fewer until there was only one, set apart from the rest, its thatch silver with age and its walls half-covered in ivy.
“That must be it,” she said softly.
Dar nodded, scanning the tree line beyond. “Keep alert. Danger lingers in a place this close to the border. I’ll keep watch and shout out if necessary.”
Elara nodded and hurried to the small gate that creaked as she pushed it open, and the soft jingle of wind chimes made from hollowed reeds drifted in the breeze.
Before Elara could knock on the door, it opened.
An old woman stood there, her frame thin but upright, her eyes sharp and startlingly clear—a blue so pale they seemed to catch the light.
Her dull silver hair was braided and coiled at the nape of her neck, her hands steady as they rested on the doorframe.
Her face bore endless wrinkles, some deep, others fine, but, as a whole, told a story of a woman who had seen much and, regardless of age, was eager to see more.
“You’ve come far,” she said, her voice like dry leaves and honey, “and with purpose.”
Elara inclined her head respectfully. “Are you Feena?”
“I am.”
Elara’s heart eased a little. “Dea of Wedderlie said you might help me.”
Feena cast a quick glance past her at Dar before urging, “Come inside. The morning has long ears.”
Elara followed her into the cottage. The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of dried herbs. Bundles of rosemary and betony hung from the beams, and on the table near the hearth lay neat rows of bottles and jars. It was a healer’s home, orderly but lived in.
Feena motioned toward the hearth. “Sit, lass. You’ve come a long way, and I expect you’ve questions heavy enough to fill the room.”
Elara moved closer to the fire. The warmth felt good after so many cold mornings, but something in the stillness of the cottage made her uneasy. It was too quiet, the kind of silence that harbored secrets.
A soft scuff of movement drew her attention. From the small room beyond, a young woman appeared, a bit shorter than Elara, carrying a bowl of dried petals. She was slender and pale, plain-featured, her red hair braided down her back, and her eyes, dull green but gentle, lifted briefly toward Elara.
“This is Adira. She cannot hear or speak,” Feena said, her tone practical, not pitying. “Her mother was a healer before her, a good one, taken by fever three winters ago. I found the lass after, half-starved, and brought her here. Her hands are clever with herbs, and her heart is steady.”
Adira gave a polite nod and crossed to the worktable. She began sorting the petals into neat piles, her movements precise and deliberate, each motion filled with quiet concentration.
Elara’s voice softened. “She seems… peaceful.”
Feena smiled faintly. “Peace is learned, not granted. She’s had to learn more than most. Now, how may I help you?”
Elara folded her hands in her lap to stop the nervous tremble. “I’m searching for the truth of the tale, the healer who has the power over death.”
Feena chuckled softly, the sound like crinkled dry parchment. “Ah, that old ghost of a story. Every healer in Leighfeld grows up with it, told by mothers to daughters, over fires that burned brighter than ours does now.”
“The king believes it. His Hunters scour every village, taking healers who might fit the tale. He means to find her. Do you believe it is nothing more than a tale?”
Feena’s gaze went to the fire. “Belief is a strange thing. Once, the kingdoms were one. Magic and healing were not divided. Then came the Great War that tore Scotara apart, and with it came fear. What could heal could also destroy, and men are quick to name destruction the stronger of the two.” She looked back at Elara.
“So, they called it witchcraft or dark magic, take your pick. They banished what they didn’t understand, and the healers hid what they could not lose. ”
Elara’s voice was quiet. “Are you saying this healer is a witch and gets her power from dark magic?”
Feena’s lips curved faintly. “What truly is a witch? Is it a term given by men who fear knowledgeable women? Or is it a powerful gift not given but earned by women who spread such knowledge and sees that it takes root and flourishes.” She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“And then, my dear lass, there are those rare few born with the gift, the power.”
A long silence stretched between them. Elara’s pulse quickened, the faintest chill creeping up her spine.
Feena’s eyes softened. “She would know when the world began to change around her. When what she touched ceased to fade and what she feared refused to die. She would know when her time came to reveal herself and do what she must.”
Elara looked into the flames, her breath shallow. She wanted to ask more, to demand it, but the words tangled in her throat.
Behind them, Adira moved quietly, sweeping the fallen herbs into her palm, her face peaceful, not having heard a word. She glanced toward them once, curiosity flickering in her eyes before returning to her work.
Elara could not imagine what life must be like for the young woman, trapped inside herself, never able to hear or be heard. It took courage to live such a challenging life, and it gave her the strength to ask, “What is it this powerful healer must do?”
Feena’s tone turned softer. “It is good you ask questions. Questions keep the heart alive. But that is a question we all wonder. What will this healer do if the king finds her? Only she knows that or perhaps she will not know until it comes to pass.”
“Why does she wait when so many healers suffer?” Elara asked.
“Again, only she knows that.”
Elara shook her head. “I must continue to search for her. If you were me, where would you look next?”
Feena smiled, a tired, knowing smile. “You’ll not find what you seek by chasing stories. You’ll find it by listening to what’s already stirring in you. That’s where truth hides, in the things we fear to name.”
Feena’s gaze lingered on Elara for a long while, the firelight soft against the lines of her face.
“You’ve a restless gift,” Feena said at last. “I can see it in your eyes. You fight it when you should be listening to it.”
“My visions,” Elara said, feeling comfortable admitting it to the old woman. “They come without warning. They frighten me.”
“Then call to them,” Feena said, her tone gentle but firm. “Summon them before they summon you. Power grows wild when it’s left untended. If you face it, if you learn its rhythm, it will guide you instead of rule you.”
Elara’s breath caught. “And if others learn of it?”
Feena shook her head slowly. “Tell no one—not yet. The world is not kind to what it fears, and it has feared such visions far too long.”
“I already told Dar,” Elara admitted softly.
Feena’s eyes warmed with a faint, knowing smile. “Aye, I thought you might. He is your destiny, that one, but not before he disappoints you.”
Elara frowned, worried hearing such a warning for a second time. “Disappoints me?”
Feena reached out, resting a light hand over Elara’s.
“He’ll not want to, lass. But the path between truth and loyalty is never straight.
Still, hold fast to the truth that he cares for you more than he realizes or will admit, and he will protect you when you need him most. Remember that when doubt about him finds you.
” A weary sigh escaped her then, and she rose, joints creaking like old wood. “Enough words for one morning.”
She took her cloak from the peg by the door and draped it around her shoulders and fastened the ties at her throat, then reached for another one hanging beside it. She slipped it gently around Adira’s thin frame, fastened the ties and took her hand.
Patting her own chest and smiling gently at the mute lass, she spoke so Elara would understand. “I’m telling her all will be well.”
Feena’s fingers tightened briefly on the girl’s hand before she gestured toward the door. “Come, let’s enjoy the chill of autumn.”
Elara stood, her thoughts still tangled in Feena’s words. She crossed to the door, her hand on the latch, and opened it, only to stumble back, a gasp breaking from her throat.
The morning light spilled over a line of dark figures standing just beyond the cottage’s fence… Hunters, their black leather stark against the mist.
And in the lead stood Dar, clean shaven and garbed in the black leather of a Hunter.