Chapter Sixteen Vina #2
“I do not need to cross the water to kill you,” said Tristesse. “If you cannot save me, then I cannot countenance allowing your ugly tale to continue. Let all our tales die together.”
Tristesse raised her bow and arrow. Unlike the wooden bows of the witches, her bow was as white and pearly as polished bone. She raised it high.
“Wodwos,” Simran called into the woods, her voice carrying high as a kestrel on the wing. “Wild-man. You and all your green brothers, your dryads and your greenteeth! I summon you!” Her voice echoed. She yelled again, “I summon you!”
The arrow was unleashed. Vina leapt out of the way. She heard a high whistle, a thud, and Simran’s voice calling her name. “Vina!”
On the ground, weight on an elbow, Vina exhaled a shaky breath.
“Deer of the woods,” she whispered. “I carried your souls here. I saw you in the fae’s feast. Bring the great spirits of the woods with you, the oldest incarnates, the green man and green children, the wodwos, the adders that speak riddles.
Bring them here, and spare the foxes from the hunt.
Foxes are your children. Hunters are interlopers. Please.”
At first there was nothing, as Tristesse drew another arrow, and it sang as it was nocked into place. Vina rose up to her feet, ready to leap again. And then she felt a wind brush her cheek; rustle her hair. She raised her head.
The wild-man was not the only creature in the forest wroth with the unseasonal wild hunt.
Perhaps others of his ilk had heard them, because the brook began to bubble and swell, growing into a full-blown river.
The water was green, rich with leaves and the suggestion of teeth and eyes, spitting in waves that barred the passage of arrows.
And Tristesse stared at Vina over it, eyes furious.
So Tristesse couldn’t cross water after all. Or at least, not this water, made from creatures like her, of ink and myth.
“Your tale is broken,” Vina called out, voice carrying over the rush of the leaf-strewn river. “Go, Lady Tristesse! There will be no wild hunt, no more Tale of the Merciless Maiden. Go, and be free, and say farewell to your kin!”
Tristesse stared back at her, face suddenly as sorrowful as her name. “I told you,” she said in return. “I am not a mortal incarnate. Without my tale, without the hunt, my tale will know I cannot save it. And I am nothing but my tale. I will die. I—”
Her voice cut off abruptly. She released a shuddering breath, hands rising to clutch her own throat.
“It comes,” she forced out, voice thin as frayed silk. “Hold vigil, knight. See what you have done to me.”
Ink bubbled and coiled up her wrists, her hands.
It turned to mist, rising in the air. It seemed to happen both so slowly and suddenly, this ending.
Before Vina’s eyes, Tristesse began to fade and distort, like ink shot through with water.
The Isle shuddered beneath them. The trees, the soil, even the water seemed to exhale. Tristesse closed her eyes.
Tristesse vanished.
Vina fell to her knees, relief and horror shearing her strength. She craned her head, seeking Simran. Simran was walking toward her, shaky on her legs. Behind her were the freed prisoners, all of them trembling with relief.
Simran came next to her. They collapsed onto the bank.
The freed prisoners lay or kneeled around them, dazed.
The water was high and churning, and Tristesse was gone—nothing but black, rolling and fading to nothing on the far riverbank.
Distantly, over the water, Vina could hear the crying and wailing of witches.
“There’s no helping those witches,” Simran said, after a moment. Her voice was firm. “They’ve doomed themselves. It’s not our problem.”
“I am sorry for them, Simran,” Vina said softly, reading the tension in Simran’s shoulders, the tightness of her jaw.
“It could have been me,” Simran said abruptly. “If I hadn’t been an incarnate—if I’d stumbled on witchcraft without a fate, and a friend who’d do anything to care for me—I could have become like them.”
“The friend—that’s your Hari?”
“It is.”
“I had an… experience, when Lady Tristesse was trying to enthrall me,” said Vina. “I can’t be sure if it was real, but I must share it with you.”
She told Simran about the pale assassin, and his offer, and his obsession with Simran alone. Simran listened, tense.
“I suppose at least I have more reason to believe Hari is alive now,” Simran said. “If the assassin wants me, he’ll keep to the bargain he forced on me.”
It was possible the assassin had been lying, but from what little Vina could recall of that hazy, fever-fueled meeting, he’d seemed oddly… sincere.
“The fae woman mentioned your geas,” Simran said after a beat, voice frighteningly neutral. “Care to share?”
“My fae geas compelled me to serve her,” said Vina. “I know. I was a fool. It’s done.”
“You should have known fae can’t be trusted.” Simran leaned forward, pressing her forehead to her knees. “I don’t even have the strength to be angry with you. You really got us into shit, Vina. You were meant to help me.”
Real guilt twisted in Vina’s chest.
“I promise I will do better,” said Vina softly.
After that, as they found their strength, the freed prisoners discussed what to do next.
“We’ll take you to a village bordering the forest,” said Vina, not looking at Simran. She knew Simran would agree, but she was aware they’d lost precious time in their search for the answers that would save Hari.
“Finding the way out won’t be easy,” said Simran.
“Do you have your compass?” Vina asked. “If it points to the darkest depths of the forest, we’ll simply go exactly where it tells us not to.”
“That’s utterly mad,” Simran said flatly, but she did fish out the compass.
Then she cursed. “The damn thing broke at some point when we were running away.” Simran moved as if to fling it away—then braced herself, paused, and put it back into her pack.
Vina could see the tightness in Simran’s jaw and shoulders.
Her path toward the library—and the information that could save Hari—was gone.
“I can lead us out,” said a woman. “I know this part of the woods. My town isn’t far from here.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Vina said, with all the gratitude her weary heart could muster. “If you could lead the way, I’m sure we’ll all be forever thankful.”
It took a week of travel. Another precious week wasted.
Vina hunted to feed them, using the bow Tristesse had left with her, the oddly light armor that whispered instead of clanging, imbued with fae magic.
Simran made traps from her magic, and placed defenses around the places where they slept.
Vaughan, for all that he was young, was helpful and good at starting a campfire. They kept moving.
She and Simran didn’t talk about their kiss.
But they did begin to talk—just talk. Vina told her what the fae had said, about being born from the Isle itself, and Simran smiled, a bitter and wistful thing, and said, “Wouldn’t it be nice, to be born from ink, and not have to worry about the people you’ll leave behind? ” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
She didn’t talk about it again. But Vina didn’t forget.
It was a relief when the light finally changed, and the trees thinned, and they broke from the boundary of the ancient forest onto the margins of a village.
It was a quiet place, with thatched-roof cottages and wary locals in doublets and gowns, warding symbols from cunning folk daubed onto the perimeter walls.
The only significant landmark was a bell tower in the center of the village, marked with protective symbols, daisy-petaled hexafoils and stars alike.
The villagers welcomed the prisoners.
“We’ve seen people taken by the forest before,” the mayor said, her voice steady and knowing. “It’s a blessing to see them free.”
When the goodbyes were done, only the boy Vaughan was left.
“You’re going back into the woods?” he asked.
“We are,” said Simran. She was already fair vibrating, desperate to leave.
But Vaughan’s face was firming with determination.
“I won’t let you travel alone,” said Vaughan.
“It’s not up to you,” Simran said immediately, with typical tact.
“It’s safe in this town,” Vina said. “You should stay here and recover, and live a good life.” She placed a hand firmly on his shoulder, meeting his eyes. “You’ve been brave. But your quest is done.”
The boy hesitated. His gaze flicked to Simran, settling on her even as he spoke to Vina.
“My home isn’t here,” he said. “My home is in the forest. I need to go there.”
“You’ve got good limni ink in you,” said Simran, obviously trying to hide her desperation to get moving. “You don’t need us to protect you as much as they did. I’m sorry, Vaughan, but there’s someone else I need to save, and his life is in far more danger than yours will be.”
“I know you’re looking for a special place, a hidden place,” said Vaughan quickly. “I saw your compass—the broken one.” He looked around, then lowered his voice. “I know you’re looking for the green library.”
Simran tensed. “What do you know about the library?” she demanded.
“I know how to get there,” he said. “I can’t say anything else. It’s not allowed. But if you keep me safe, I’ll make sure you find your way.”
Vina tried to meet Simran’s eyes—could Vaughan be trusted? What did they truly know about him?—but Simran was already nodding.
“It’s a deal,” she said.
They should have stayed in the town to rest before continuing their journey. Vina wanted to. But Simran was on edge, and refused to do so.
“I can handle any witches who catch up,” she said. “I can sense their craft, and I’ll make charms to keep them at bay. I just need a little wood and blood, and both are easy to get hold of.”
Vaughan looked a little alarmed, so Vina said mildly, “You can’t keep bleeding yourself, Simran. Blood’s best kept in the body where it belongs.”
Simran clucked her tongue dismissively.