Five
THIA SPRINTED FOR THE FOREST, REGRETTING EVERY SPORT SHE didn’t join, every gym class she’d skipped to study harder for whatever academic milestone she’d felt obligated to at the time.
Her short, round legs were painfully slow as she cut through tall grass, heat from magical fire blazing at her back.
She slowed only when she reached the n?gens, still frozen from Callista’s spell.
Some were stuck wrestling each other for witch parts, gray-pink snouts smeared black and red, and—to Thia’s horrified curiosity—green.
This close, she could see the beady red eyes Callista mentioned; they seemed to follow her with hungry reverence as she picked her way around the circle.
Reaching the forest sweat-soaked yet shivering, Thia cast a fearful glance back up at the hill. The witch and sorceress were now tiny specks atop the slope, their battle a splash of light that arched across the sky in the distance.
In contrast, the forest was pitch-black.
The trees were like none Thia had ever seen, the trunks too thick for her arms to encircle, branches forming a dense canopy that completely blocked out the sky.
She allowed herself ten seconds to breathe, which turned into a ten-second mental chorus of cursing as mist crept around her ankles and cool air settled over her.
She didn’t even want to know what lived in here, if n?gens and witches were anything to go by.
Why couldn’t she have fallen through a portal to a land of rainbows and unicorns?
But if this wasn’t a dream, or a state of delusion, and she really was stuck here, the Mage King was her only hope. So there was no choice, not really. Clenching her fists, she took one last breath, stepped forward, and let the canopy of leaves devour her.
The scent of cool pine washed over her, mingling with something sour and earthy. A bog perhaps. She traipsed carefully, feeling her way blindly from tree to tree, her slippers painfully thin over the damp, uneven ground. It wasn’t long until her feet were soaked.
The forest was alive with sound; the leaves above her rustled, and a strange groaning creaked periodically. She told herself it was just the wind, but with her heart in her throat, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing in the darkness. Her teeth chattered against the cold, her sweatshirt and pajama shorts laughably inadequate against a climate much cooler than Kansas’s. She wrapped her arms around herself and pressed on.
This really was the stupidest thing she’d ever done.
Even if she wasn’t attacked, she had no idea how large the forest was, or if she was even heading north.
She would probably get lost and die of dehydration before she managed to escape the trees to see that pillar of light Callista mentioned.
She should have waited at the edge to see if the sorceress won the battle.
The rational part of her mind reminded her that the n?gens probably would have eaten her then, or that if Callista had lost, Xercae would have made short work of her next.
She clung to that part and made a game of clenching her jaw as her teeth chattered, terrified the sound would summon every beast in this hideous forest.
A twig snapped. She told herself it was just her foot on the forest floor.
Another.
It had come from behind her.
She spun, for all the good it did when she could see nothing. She squinted, straining to no avail.
The forest was quiet.
Then another twig snapped.
She ran.
She made it less than ten steps before her foot struck something hard, and she went sprawling. She scrambled to her knees and crawled, palms stinging from fresh cuts.
A sob escaped her lips. She hiccupped, then clamped a hand over her mouth. As quietly as possible, she curled up in an alcove of roots and pulled her knees to her chest.
A rustle sounded beside her. Breath—not her own—hovered near her ear, and a warm hand slid up her arm.
She screamed.
The hand clamped onto her shoulder. Her body reacted, and she flailed, but it held fast. Her fist connected with skin, and she drove her nails into flesh.
There was a sharp gasp, then something hard struck her on the back of the head. And the world went dark.
Voices. Laughter. The crackle of fire. Sounds trickled into Thia’s ears as she came to. She opened her eyes, but the world remained black, some scratchy material covering her face.
Her body was moving up and down, draped over something hard. She forced herself to stay still as she let her mind put the pieces together: she was blindfolded, and someone was carrying her, likely over their shoulder by the feel of a hand on her back and the hard wedge under her stomach.
She continued to breathe evenly, so her attacker wouldn’t know she was awake. Her bones ached with fatigue, her muscles feeling both taut and limp. An adrenaline crash, she suspected. After running for her life. Even if she forced them to drop her, she’d never get away in this state.
Her captor was speaking. It was a male voice, surprisingly high considering the broad feel of him, but steady. “—at the edge,” he was saying. “Just short of n?gen territory. She attacked me.”
Another deep voice answered, nearly lost in the crackle of a fire and the gentle murmuring of what could have been a dozen others. “Poor thing. Must’ve been terrified. Look at her, covered in blood like that.”
“Not hers.”
“Are you sure?” She felt someone sniff beside her ear, the force of their breath moving the baby hairs at her temple. Then heat flared, the snap of sparks close to her face. A torch maybe? “You’re right. Witch, by the reek of it.”
“You think she killed it?” Her captor’s voice was skeptical, but he paused. “Cathor did say Asha Würmheart is dead.”
The other man was silent for a moment. “I doubt it. Perhaps the n?gens caught her alongside the witch. It’s possible she escaped during the feeding frenzy.”
Her captor shifted his grip on her back. “We won’t know until she wakes.”
“In the meantime, Sorscha has given use of her cabin. Take the girl there.”
Sounds faded to silence, except for the gentle pad of her captor’s footsteps and the creak of door before she was deposited gently onto a bed. Coarse fingers scraped her cheek as her blindfold was carefully removed.
She waited a moment, uncertain. If they’d wanted to harm her, they could have done it already. And they certainly wouldn’t have needed to bring her somewhere comfortable.
She blinked slowly, pretending to wake. Candlelight greeted her, along with rough walls of wood and straw. There was little furniture, save for a table, chair, and the bed she was in. A doorway led to another room across from hers.
“You’re awake.” Her captor—if he was that she was no longer certain—was of medium height, with a boyish face that was at odds with his strong build.
A tangle of blond, straw-like hair stood straight up on his head, and his white skin was freckled, his eyes a soft hazel.
There was also a large red line across one of his cheeks, as if something had clawed him.
Or someone. She attacked me.
Thia had done that. And he’d struck her in the head.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice kind. He was clad in a billowing beige shirt and pair of brown trousers that reminded her distantly of a renaissance faire, a small knife hanging from his belt.
Thia struggled to sit up, to push past him and make for the exit, wincing as her tattered palm dug into the scratchy wool blanket beneath her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and her other hand shot out to brace against the earthy wall.
“Easy there.” The boy put his arm around her. “You should stay down.” He helped her back onto the pillows. “My name’s Dessfar,” he said, when she didn’t respond. “But everyone calls me Dess. You can, too, if you want.”
She squinted up at him, taking in the ill-groomed boyishness of his ridiculous hair. “Where am I?” The world swam again. She lay back down.
“Haven,” he said. “What’s your name?”
She didn’t answer. She heard him scoot his chair closer to the bed.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But don’t be scared.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You kidnapped me.”
He seemed genuinely offended. “I rescued you.”
“You hit me.”
He frowned. “What? No, I d—Oh. Your head? You did that to yourself.”
She must have appeared skeptical, because he laughed. It was a boisterous sound, infectious. Against her better judgement, her lips twitched into a smile.
“You rammed your head into the tree while you were flailing about.” He had the good grace to look sheepish. “I am sorry for scaring you.”
The embarrassed dip of his chin was earnest. Thia allowed her mind to cut through her fear, calming her with facts. She was in a bed. She wasn’t restrained. The boy—Dess—was taking care of her.
Maybe she really had been rescued. “I’m Thia,” she said, after a moment.
The door opened, and a woman entered, carrying a pail of water and stack of fabric.
She was short, with strong shoulders and long black hair streaked with gray at her temples.
Her eyes were small and wide-set, her cheeks round and bronze, and there was such warmth in her gaze that Thia found herself immediately relaxing.
“Hello, Thia,” the woman said. “I’m Sorscha.”
“You’re the one whose bed I’m in,” Thia realized. “Sorry about the blood.”
Sorscha smiled. “Not to worry. I’ve had many worse off than you in this house.”
Dess raised his brows as Thia’s words gave away the facade of unconsciousness she’d maintained while he’d carried her. She gave him a nonchalant shrug, and he grinned, as though pleased by her ruse.
Sorscha dipped a cloth into the pail and gently dabbed it against Thia’s face. Too surprised to protest, Thia let her.
“Witch blood is particularly hard to clean,” the woman told her. “You’ll need a proper bath. But I think we should try to get the taste out of your mouth first, don’t you?”
Thia eyed her wounded hands as Sorscha brushed the cloth over her chin.
The cuts weren’t especially deep, though the left could benefit from stitches, and there was enough dirt and grime mingling in the dried blood to have her worrying about infection.
Considering the nature of their clothes, she doubted they would have antibiotics.
“Give me those hands,” Sorscha commanded, reaching.
Thia let the woman take them, noting the careful way she pressed gently downward on the ruined flesh to avoid tearing the cut further or smearing the dirt in deeper. When she finished, she moved to grab a thinner piece of a material, which Thia suspected was this place’s best attempt at gauze.
“Wait.”
Sorscha paused, rounded brows raised in question.
“Do you have any alcohol? I need to sterilize the cuts.”
Her brow furrowed. “Sterilize?”
“Clean. Keep them from getting infected. This one especially.” She pointed to the deepest slice on her left palm. “And if you have anything for stitches….”
“Oh!” Sorscha’s lips parted in surprise. “You’re a healer.”
Thia huffed a laugh. “Um…” She was a hospital intern with a backpack full of textbooks. “I don’t have magic,” she told Sorscha, thinking of Callista and the witches.
Sorscha smiled. “Few do.” She clicked her fingers. “Dess-díeran, get the girl what she requires.”
Dess, whose gaze had been darting curiously between them, nodded and stood, the tips of his chaotic yellow hair nearly reaching the wooden ceiling. “Yes, ma,” he said, and she lovingly shooed him out the door with a wave of her hands.
“Your son?” Thia asked, though they looked nothing alike. Sorscha was dark and golden, her eyes capped by a smooth monolid, whereas Dess, much like herself, was as pasty as the inside of an apple.
She shook her head, the warmth in her face dimming slightly. “In a way. His parents are dead. I’ve done what I can for him.”
Thia’s heart twinged with a familiar ache. “I’m sorry,” she said. “So are mine.”
Sorscha pursed her lips sympathetically. “How?”
“Car crash,” she said. “I was just a baby.”
Sorscha’s response was not the kindly one Thia anticipated. “Car? What does this mean?”
“Oh.” She sighed. “Like a carriage,” she tried, and Sorscha seemed to understand. “It was an accident.”
“You poor child.” The woman rested a light hand on her ankle where it lay under the blanket. “I’m so sorry.”
Thia was spared having to answer when the door creaked, and Dess reappeared, carrying red wine, a bowl, needle, and thread. “Supper’s up,” he commented, handing the items to Sorscha.
She looked at Thia. “Are you hungry?”
Thia’s stomach growled in response. The older woman smiled at Dess. “Tell them to set some aside, and we will be there shortly.” Dess dipped his head in acquiescence and left.
Sorscha poured wine into the bowl and held it out to Thia.
She submerged her hands in one after the other, biting her lip against the sting.
She had only ever stitched suture pads under supervision, and she’d been able to use both of her hands.
She fumbled, dizziness blurring her vision as she tried to thread the needle, and Sorscha took it from her.
“Let me.” She smiled. “How different is skin to cloth?”
Thia didn’t know, but she assumed the woman’s familiarity with a needle and thread would be as good, if not better than her own largely theoretical knowledge.
Sure enough, the work went quickly, and the stitching was even.
Sorscha wrapped her hand in a bandage and declared the job done.
“Now,” the woman said, beckoning her up. “Come with me.”