Chapter 20 #2
‘Thank the Flame. Finally, she sees reason.’ Blayze brushes his hair back out of his eyes.
‘Let’s find somewhere to tether the horses.
Get the blasted tents up, light a fire. I’ll crack open a bottle of flamead – that’ll warm us up quicker than all your blazing starfruit.
’ Blayze rubs his hands together, starts to turn in the direction of his horse, then changes his mind and faces me again.
The rough burn of his voice lowers to a whisper.
‘Loverboy’s right, you know. Something has got into you lately – you’re a woman possessed.
Personally, I like it.’ He winks again. ‘But you need to be careful, Sparkles. That’s twice now you’ve found yourself in harm’s way. ’
His words aren’t teasing anymore. They’re more like a prayer.
*
SHE SURFACES AGAIN. Faceless. Nameless. A gaping void where her features ought to be.
Wreathed in flame, making inhuman grunting sounds, trying to speak through a mouth she no longer possesses.
But what is she trying to say? I want to ask her.
Help her, if I can. But the flames engulf me before I can utter a word.
Searing flesh from bone. I wake with a gasp.
I never know when the Faceless Woman will next appear, only that her visits leave me in a cold sweat, the scent of smoke lingering in my nose. A high-pitched laugh ringing my ears.
My heart is racing as I sit up. That sinking sense of being watched, which I first noticed ahead of convening the Council of Four, is stronger than ever.
Instinctively, I reach for the tent flap.
Peer outside. The moons are waning crescents, faint slivers overhead, but the stars are bright, silvering the world beneath them.
An icy breeze rips through the tent as I peer into the darkness.
I draw my furs closer. The hillside is quiet.
The patter of rain has finally stopped, but only recently, judging by the ghostly arcs of moonbows ringing the sky. The air is still thick with moisture.
I’ve had recurring nightmares before. Dreams of being smothered by the frantic thrash of the night-birds’ wings, eyes pecked out by their pitiless beaks, talons tearing my face, blood running down my cheeks.
The ferrous stench of torn flesh mingling with the must of feathers.
And as a child, there were moonscycles I dreamt nightly of being handed a baby, only for it to turn to cinders in my arms. I never spoke of those dreams to anyone.
I knew what they meant. But I’m less sure what these dreams are trying to tell me; the prickle creeping my spine suggests it’s nothing good.
I run my tongue over my teeth. For once, I don’t mind the lingering taste of ash.
It masks the bitter aftertaste of flamead.
Blayze made me knock back a large measure of the filthy stuff before turning in for the night, and my stomach is still tender.
Or perhaps it’s cramps, and my moonsblood will arrive early.
Something rustles on the hillside. I stiffen, use my moonsight to peer harder into the night.
I glance at the tents flanking mine. Is one of the others awake?
But no, the sound’s not coming from the tents.
It’s coming from a small copse in the distance.
Frostfangs, then? My heart speeds. There’s a flicker of movement, and I see them.
A hunched, cloaked figure with its back to me, a pack at their feet. A lantern flickers in their hand.
The sight transports me to Meissa, to the night I saw that mysterious vanishing figure through the palace window. How many times since then have phantom eyes bored into my back? Is this why the Faceless Woman stalked my dreams tonight? A warning?
Hairs rise on the nape of my neck. My brandsong purrs in agreement. Someone is following us.
I yank on my boots, grab my cloak and crawl out of my tent, swallowing a groan when I place weight on my sprained ankle.
‘Are you sure about this? Maybe you should wake Astrophel and—’
‘I don’t need him. Not when I’ve got you to protect me, Orthriel. Come on, I don’t want them to get away.’
Hobbling or not, I will confront this figure of shadow here and now. They’ve plagued me long enough.
Orthriel’s sigh gusts my mind. Something’s wrong with them – has been, ever since their return.
They’ve been cagey about their trip to Galtair, their movements after delivering the Kingswrit.
Orthriel still hasn’t materialised to me, and even if they did, cielsylphs don’t have auras – or rather, theirs don’t change hue according to their emotions, not in any way I can read; they’re faint, silvery things.
Perhaps their experience and spectrum of emotions is different from ours, or perhaps they’ve simply devised a means of obscuring their colours.
Either way, I sense a strange heaviness in Orthriel.
If they were human, I’d label it sadness. But now’s not the time to press.
I don’t feel the cold at first. It’s not till I’m halfway to the trees I realise I’m only wearing a nightdress under my cloak, that my hair is uncovered, unbound – spilling down my back.
And I’m unarmed. My breath comes in faster heaves, fogging the air as I try to step lightly so the mud doesn’t squelch underfoot, and to protect my injury.
I debate going back to my tent for my throwing star, but I don’t want this mysterious cloaked figure disappearing on me again.
Not before I can question them, discover why they’re following us. What they want.
My palms itch as I draw closer to the trees. Perhaps I’m not unarmed. But can I even summon starshine? I’ve never tried to siphon it. Both in the ballroom and when facing the hoarclaw, it sprung unbidden – a defence mechanism – and snuffed out in seconds.
‘Try now. Test how much control you have over it. You’re sure you felt no ill effects when you summoned it last time?’ My Guardian’s voice turns suddenly fierce.
‘Just a little tired, that’s all.’ I don’t mention the splitting pain in my head, the icy blast in my chest, the taste of death swirling my mouth.
If Orthriel registers my mental asides, they don’t mention them either.
I take a steadying breath, grateful my Guardian has returned, even if they are keeping something from me.
Maybe we’re all entitled to our secrets.
I pause, sheltering behind a briar thicket.
The cloaked figure is still staring up at the trees.
I set my intention and close my eyes, focus on my hands.
At first, I feel nothing. Only the cold air licking my skin.
But then a faint tingle tickles the heart of my palm.
Am I doing it? Or is this pins and needles from the cold?
I concentrate harder, willing the glow to appear. Manifesting it into existence.
I crack open my eyes. Just a sliver, but enough to see the tiny spark dancing on my right palm.
A spark. It snuffs out as I open my eyes wider.
The bitter taste of ash swirls my mouth, needle-sharp pains lance my skull, icy fingers pluck at my breastbone.
When I try to call forth the light again, there’s nothing.
And my courage gutters too.
Whatever impulse emboldened me to confront the mysterious figure, now standing only a few feet away, withers.
Orthriel is right, I should wake the others.
My hands tremble. I’m about to turn back when the cloaked figure moves deeper into the trees.
I’ll lose them if I return to camp. Rocks lie scattered on the hillside.
I bend to pick one up, but as I straighten, a briar splinters underfoot.
Stars and Spheres! The shrouded figure turns at the sound, and I hurl the rock at them without thinking.
The figure ducks, dodging my missile.
It’s not the shadowy figure at the window, or the mutilated creature of my nightmares. Only Blayze. Relief unfurls inside me as the wavering candlelight from his lantern glints off his metal torc and the whites of his widened eyes.
‘I save your neck, and you repay me by trying to bludgeon me to death? You’ll need to improve your aim, Sparkles. I’m a large enough target, surely?’
‘I-I’m sorry. I thought…’ My breath hitches and I stare down at his mud-smeared boots. Stars, I wish that mud would swallow me.
I don’t want to explain about the figure at the window, the phantom eyes trailing me, my dreams. Figments of an overactive imagination. I’ll sound like a fool. A bigger fool than he thinks me already. And for some reason I can’t fathom, what he thinks about me matters. More than it should.
‘I thought you were an intruder. A guard from Galtair.’
His scarred brow lifts. ‘Didn’t I tell you to stay out of trouble?’ His gaze drifts to my hair. I don’t watch for his reaction this time, don’t wait for his disgust to show. I roll back my shoulders. Lift my hood.
‘What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?’ I demand.
‘Not that it’s any of your business.’ He shrugs, sitting on the ground. ‘But I came to coax Fifi down from these trees. I don’t like the idea of her roosting here overnight.’ He glances away. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Delphine’s not well. I told Mar to take my bedroll, try and make her more comfortable.’
‘Astrophel packed a spare. I can ask him if—’
His smile turns bitter. ‘Don’t worry, Sparkles.
I’m used to roughing it.’ Blayze lets out a weighted sigh as he lies back, using his pack as a pillow to survey the star-speckled sky.
Their pearly light rakes the column of his gilded throat.
Living above ground suits the Clanschief.
His skin glimmers gold, burnished, as if lit from within.
Less sallow than when he first arrived in Estelia.