Chapter 20 #3
She shakes her head. I’m not sure if she’s saying she doesn’t know … or if she’s telling me she won’t answer. Not with her children in the house.
Does she think the gods can hear us? Can they?
There are various levels of commitment to the gods on Stormside nowadays. It’s hard to worship something we know almost nothing about, but some of the most reverent believe the gods see all.
I think they have better things to do than listen in on a conversation in the middle of a distant, mist-addled town.
Still, I move on. “The creatures in the mists … can they be found in other forests?” I remember Xara’s warnings about the dangers of different woods. Several more sit between here and the Land of the Gods.
She dips her head. “There are more there, surely, but yes. Deadly creatures can be found almost anywhere. Most of the ancient ones have been slumbering, or keep to territories like the mists, but others … wander.”
Wander. I swallow, a chill blooming in my bones.
“What kinds of creatures?”
Her eyes meet mine. They are devoid of any humor, or anything but pure seriousness—and fear. “The kind that make even immortals wish for death. The kind that grind your bones with their teeth and suck the soul from your body.”
I shift my weight in the chair. “How do you know so much about them?”
“Their venom is valuable. They can poison … but also cure. I trade with hunters who risk life and limb to hunt them down.” Hunters.
Xara mentioned them, back in Westwere. She stands and strides toward shelves that slump in the middle.
Her long, smooth fingers brush a dozen spines before she stops.
The book she takes out has a leather cover creased with age.
Its parchment is yellowed. She flips toward the middle, then hands it, wide open, to me.
I take it carefully, the same way I would handle a sword in Stellan’s forge. Like I’m dealing with something rare and valuable.
It’s a book of beasts. The illustrations are meticulously made in various hues, the ink slightly glittering. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Can I … can I stay and read this?” It’s too much to ask. She’s given me so much already. I prepare to be sent back into the rain.
But she just motions with her chin toward the hearth. A comfortable-looking chair sits in front of it. It has a cushion with a star stitched onto it. “Go ahead.”
I gingerly take the book over. I sit. And … this feels like an indulgence, like the biggest luxury, to sit by the fire with a book.
I start at the beginning. I read quickly, to get through as much as possible, flipping through the pages, studying each image. Every description.
And I realize I don’t know anything about Starside. Not at all. Because the greatest weapons here are not swords—
They are beasts.
And some have magic.
Few can use it. Most have it buried in their bones, or scales, or claws, ready to be extracted and smelted into swords or made into medicines. Those are the ones that are most hunted.
The others are the most feared. There are creatures that can turn into balls of flame, flying through forests, burning down entire woods in just minutes.
There are massive scorpions that can trigger earthquakes with flicks of their horned tails.
There are skeletal cats that can walk through objects, fading into shadows.
There are creatures like the immortal said, older than the seeds of this world, that can pry into minds and swallow souls.
Phoenix.
The word has my breath catching, remembering the last time Stellan called me one.
It turns out there are several types.
There are storm phoenixes that form only during the worst downpours, crafted from lightning and thunder and wind.
There are ice phoenixes that melt into puddles, only to rise again.
There are—
My eyelids suddenly feel heavy as iron. The words begin to blur. The sleep serum. It muddles my thoughts. Makes the letters melt together.
As my eyes slowly blink closed, I think that I have been traveling through Starside for weeks. I thought I saw the worst of it.
But this book has made it clear that I haven’t yet seen this world’s teeth.
A knock has me jolting awake, gasping.
“It’s just the rain,” a gentle voice says. “Not to worry.”
I’m still in the immortal’s house. The book is open in my lap. A thickly woven blanket has been draped over my shoulders.
I sit up, blinking, feeling both rested and drained. Morning light is starting to filter in through the window. I slept here all night. The immortal is still working.
I’m not on the floor … which means I didn’t have my nightmares. No. I slept deeply and calmly, for the first time in years.
Slowly, I get up. I fold the blanket and leave it on the chair. With a pang of sadness, I return the book too.
The immortal gives me a long look, before she ducks below her desk. Glass gently clinks together. “The lord here is strict. I can’t spare much, but here.” She emerges with a handful of vials. “For all you find and collect on your journey.”
My throat tightens, knowing this woman doesn’t expect I’ll live much longer … but she’s giving me something so precious all the same.
“I really am sorry about the coin,” she says, as she walks me out of her house.
Rain whispers down the slanted cobblestones; it patters against aluminum rooftops. The rest of the village hasn’t woken up yet. Only the faintest light peeks through clouds so dense, they look like another wall of mist.
I wrap my arms around myself as I make my way down the quiet road. I miss the hearth already, and the comfortable seat, and the book. Something tells me I’ll never be that comfortable again. Certainly not during the Questral.
For a moment … for a moment, I could pretend like I belonged in a home like that. Like I had a home at all that was still standing.
Just before I take the turn to the inn, I pause. The hairs on the back of my neck go stiff. I look over my shoulder—but the road is empty.
It’s just that book, putting me on edge with all its talk of dangerous creatures, some of which slink through the holes in cobblestone walls and follow travelers. But it’s daytime. I have nothing to be afraid of.
Still, that strange feeling has me veering off the path, indulging my instincts. I go down a different alley instead, the rain masking my steps.
But not masking a voice.
“She just left. She should be here any second …”
A frustrated growl. “I’ve been waiting all fucking night. Cut her head off the moment she returns and be done with it. That sword …”
I step back, my veins like ice.
I shouldn’t have left my room. I should have remained there, quiet and unseen until the next morning. I know that now.
And I never should have mocked the knight. Regardless of how good it felt to do so.
I can’t return to the inn. I can’t go to Raker, though with his silence and general apathy toward me, I’m not sure he would even interfere.
One hand still on the damp stone wall of a closed shop, I turn toward the woman’s house … then stop myself.
They knew where I was before. They could easily follow me back. And the idea of bringing those knights to the immortal’s home … remembering how she looked up at the second floor, where her children slept …
Remembering how I woke up with that blanket draped over my shoulders. That simple act of care …
No. I won’t bring danger to her, so my only choice is to hide out somewhere else and hope they get tired of waiting for me. Hope Raker comes out of the inn sometime in the next hour, and I can reach him before the warriors reach me.
Using the rain as cover, I duck and turn down another road. The village is small. There aren’t many places to hide. I try different door handles just in case, but all of them are locked. I look for sheds, hovels, anything—but there’s nothing.
I turn another corner. There’s the slightest scraping behind me. A boot against wet stone. I whirl around.
And there he is. The immortal warrior.
He grins.
I run.
My legs feel slightly boneless, as if they haven’t fully woken up. The elixir. It must still be coursing through my veins. The immortal doesn’t deal with humans often, I assume. Did she give me too much?
A wave of sleep washes over me like nausea. I grit my teeth against it.
Because I can hear them now. All three of them. All running after me.
“Raker!” I scream, beyond pride, beyond shame. The rain begins to pour heavier, as if colluding with those warriors. “Raker!”
The immortals behind me laugh. I get the feeling they aren’t even chasing me with their full speed. That they are, in fact, playing, dragging out the hunt, as if it’s a sport.
“Her fear … her desperation …” one says, his voice like velvet. “I smell it even through the rain. Look at her scream for help. Look at her realize no one is coming.” The others laugh.
A pit forms in my stomach, knowing these immortals can sense my every shade of terror. And it pleases them.
My boots kick up water and dirt. I risk a look back—and they’re right at my feet. Mouths pulled into grins.
At the edge of the village, I keep going, hoping they’ll give up. But as my feet hit the mud, I hear them right on my trail.
They’re immortal. Faster. Better in every way. The fact that they haven’t caught me already is also likely evidence of the number of drained goblets that were on their table.
“There’s nowhere to run, stupid human,” one of them trills.
He’s right. Up ahead is just a firm wall of gray. The mists. The Bone Woods. The fog is unmoving even under the downpour, sitting like an ominous cloud.
I run toward it, hoping its proximity will give them pause. And every inch closer I get, I feel it. An otherworldly coldness gripping my bones. Sliding through my veins. Freezing my blood, little by little. Clawing at my soul.
One of the warriors behind me curses, slows down, but the others don’t.
And when I reach the mist, I turn sharply to run along its edge.
This close, I hear it like a whisper, like a beckoning. I feel its chill against my cheek, like a stroking skeletal finger. I feel its cut, like skirting a sword’s blade.
“You can’t outrun us,” one of the warriors says, his armor clamoring as he sprints. His voice is too close. Right behind me. Almost at my ear. I look back and see him reaching for my sword. His hand is almost at the hilt.
His other hand is holding his weapon. It’s nearly at my neck. I veer to the other side—only to gasp. The other warrior is there, sword outstretched.
The one from before is now in front.
They have me surrounded. Boxed in.
I turn toward the village, but there’s no one coming to help. Raker didn’t hear my cries, or he did and he didn’t care. I’m alone.
“Look at that. Trapped like a rabbit in a snare. Nowhere to run,” one of the warriors says, before swinging his blade back. I know that position well. I held it for hours. I know it’s setting up for a brutal, killing stroke. He wants to be the one to claim my sword.
But he’s wrong. There is somewhere to run.
Rain melts down my face as I turn—and throw myself through the wall of mist.