Chapter 9
NINE
“HERE. PUT THESE ON.” SORSCHA’S VOICE WAS A LOW WHISPER.
IT was still dim inside the hut; Thia could only see the contours of the older woman’s face by the light of the candle she held, though the window was tinted with a gray that promised dawn.
Sorscha handed her a stack of clothes, her expression kind, if a little grim.
Thia took them, and the older woman departed, leaving her to dress.
She unfolded the garments, shaking them out one by one: a pair of brown breeches, a dark green tunic, a wrap she assumed doubled as this world’s version of a bra when one didn’t have the support of a dress, a leather vest-type thing she vaguely thought was called a jerkin, and a pair of tall black leather boots.
The material was rough under her fingers, a sturdy sort that would do well against the elements and wear of travel.
Her pajama shorts and hoodie lay folded on the chair near the window—courtesy of Sorscha again, she assumed.
She eyed them for a moment, feeling like she was abandoning something of herself, but decided she didn’t want to carry them across this strange continent.
Leaving them there, she exchanged the borrowed nightdress for the new items, amazed at Sorscha’s ability to guess her size.
The skill of a seamstress, she supposed.
Only the breeches were a bit tight around the hips and thighs—but then, Thia had never met a pair of pants that weren’t.
Sorscha returned shortly after. “Are you prepared?”
“As much as I’ll ever be.”
The woman gave her a solemn nod. “Take this.” She carried a large leather sack with straps much like a backpack, and handed it to Thia. “Supplies for your journey. Some food, though you’ll likely have to hunt and forage before long. Healer’s supplies. A bedroll. A cloak, if the weather changes.”
It was heavy. Thia nearly dropped it and was in awe of the older woman’s strength. Thinking of the long journey ahead, she grimaced. “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry,” Sorscha said with amusement. “I gave Dess the heavier items.” But then the mirth faded.
“I’ll ask,” Thia blurted, before she could stop herself.
Sorscha raised her brows.
“About Oskaren. I’m going to ask about Dess’s memories. When I ask the king to send me home—I’ll ask about her heart.”
Sorscha smiled. It didn’t meet her eyes, and Thia knew the woman held no hope. “Thank you, Thia.” She paused. “Take care of Dessfar. That boy is trouble walking. He’ll need your head.” If he’s to survive this, Thia tried not to hear. She wondered what danger awaited them.
“I will,” she promised. To the best she was able. Which might not be very good at all.
With a brief touch of her hand to Thia’s face, Sorscha turned, leading the way out of the hut.
They met the others at the edge of the clearing.
Dess greeted her with a nod as she approached.
He indeed had nearly twice the gear she did, and she wondered what else was in his pack.
He was also covered in weapons, a bow and quiver slung outside the leather sack, a sword and three different knives hanging from his belt.
Thran looked away pointedly, his haggard face distinctly miserable. Pagdan’s was unreadable, if a bit bleak.
Haven’s leader extended a hand, a small dagger in his palm. “Storm Crow,” he said by way of greeting. “Take this. You’ll need it.”
Thia blinked, her fingers sliding around the cool handle. Pagdan released the blade, and Thia took it fully in her palm, gripping the hilt as tightly as she could, like at any moment it was going to leap out of her hand and stab her of its own accord. Never mind that it was sheathed.
Trying to ignore the attention on her, she attached it to her belt.
“The fortune of Fair Havens go with you,” Pagdan said, clasping forearms with Dess.
“And you,” Dess echoed, solemn for once.
Sorscha pulled him into a hug. “Be safe, my child.”
Dess paused a moment, then threw his thick arms around her. “I will.” The words were nearly lost in her shirt. Then Sorscha broke away, blinking rapidly.
“May you have Fair Havens’ blessings as well, love,” she said to Thia.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning it. “For everything.”
Pagdan nodded to Thran, who hovered just outside the circle of farewells. “May you regain your honor,” he said, neither kind nor cold.
Thran inclined his head, expression blanched.
With no further goodbyes to be said, Dess stepped forward into the leafy canopy. Thia took a gulping breath, and they were off.
It was dark within the trees, as it had been the first time Thia entered Black Forest, beyond the light of the clearing.
The same eerie mist swirled about her ankles, but she was no longer so afraid.
Perhaps it was because Dess walked beside her, his hand locked around hers, navigating the roots and rocks like he could see in the dark better than a cat.
Thia supposed he had lived the bulk of his life in these woods, so she tried not to feel too embarrassed as she stomped and stumbled her way after his silent feet.
Thran walked a few yards away from them—or so she thought; she could only make him out occasionally, as they passed under slight gaps in the boughs, though she was privy to the sound of his breathing and his light steps through the brush.
When what felt like several hours had passed, they stopped beside a creek to eat and rest. Thanks to the rush of water, the sky was finally visible, and Dess’s boyish features were properly illuminated again. He sat beside her, while Thran, in turn, took up a perch a little further downstream.
Thia slipped loose from her pack, shoulders aching. Dess did the same, then dug around in his for some bread and cheese. He smiled at his prize, ripping a chunk of each and handing them to her. “Enjoy it while you can,” he said. “It will probably be the last you see for some time.”
Thia suddenly realized she was starving. She had probably never walked so much in her life, and there was a small blister forming on her heel. The shoes were fine—comfortable even—
but they certainly weren’t molded to her feet.
She tried not to snatch the provisions out of Dess’s hands and forced herself to eat slowly. Dess, it seemed, did not share her decorum and had no qualms about shoving the meal violently into his mouth, crumbs tumbling down his chin and onto the ground.
“How far is Cyning?” Thia asked, recalling Callista’s mention of the Mage King’s capital.
He shrugged. “A week, maybe less. Depends which route we take.”
“The quickest?” Thia offered, but he didn’t smile.
“If we head east of here, we can hire a ship in Rivengard, take the river most of the way there. That will save our feet, and a few days. There’s coins in my pack. Not much, so we may have to work for our passage.”
She supposed she could barter her medical knowledge, since Haven had been so receptive. “Alright.”
“I—” A masculine throat cleared. Thia turned to see Thran watching them. He was about ten feet away, so she hadn’t thought he’d been listening. At her attention, he became engrossed in his own bread. But he still managed to say, voice a rasp, “I wouldn’t do that.”
Dess registered Thran’s words with distaste, and maybe a bit of affront at being contradicted. “We know what you would do.”
Thran picked at the crust in his hands, watching pieces flick off and float to the ground. He ignored the reminder of his crime. “Rivengard is in House Heron. They sided with the Tyrant willingly in the conquest.”
Thia frowned. “What does that matter if I aim to seek him out?”
Thran glanced at her. “One whisper of Haven, of the Storm Crow, and we’d all be dead.”
Goosebumps scurried up Thia’s arms at that pronouncement. Dess, however, wasn’t cowed. “What would you suggest then? Sitting here in this forest forever? Coward.” The last word was muttered under his breath. Thia didn’t think Thran heard it, except that the older man’s mouth tightened a fraction.
“There is a pass through the Dwimor Mountains,” he said. “Few know it, so we could travel in relative safety.”
“Then how do you?” Dess asked, brow narrowed in suspicion.
Thran ran a hand over his forearm. He wet his lips, considering. Then he said, “We all had lives before Black Forest, lad.”
Silence met that proclamation. “Aren’t the Dwimors haunted?” Dess asked, after a moment.
Thran picked another piece of crust off his bread. “Aye.”
Dess frowned. Thia could tell he wasn’t quite convinced and, like her, was unable to square Thran’s evident cowardice with a nonchalance toward ghosts. “What do you think, Thia?” he asked, chewing his lip.
She was at a loss. She trusted Dess and believed what he’d said about Thran.
But if Thran had any nefarious intentions, wouldn’t they merely be to slip away in the night and abandon them to their quest?
She couldn’t see why he would lead them astray when he was driven by self-preservation and still seemed intent on traveling with them.
She weighed the options. Haunted mountains or people who might want them dead.
She didn’t believe in ghosts.
“How far are the mountains?” she asked.
Thran ran a finger up his thigh, and she got the impression he was tracing a map in his mind’s eye. “A few days give or take.” His voice dropped. “We’ll have to pass through n?gen territory.”
Thia shivered at the memory of their beady stares, snouts dripping with entrails.
“Won’t that take us near Aelfort?” Dess asked. “The seat of House Griffon,” he added for Thia’s benefit. “If we want to remain undetected, that’s hardly the way to do it.”
Thran rubbed a hand over his short beard. “They may have bought their survival with tribute, but the Lord Sagan Riltun is known to have given sanctuary to those of the fallen Houses the Tyrant didn’t deem fit to kill. ‘Tis unlikely.”
Dess dug his heel into the dirt. “I suppose the king tolerates it so long as he receives his tribute.” He swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And Lord Sagan is a magician, so he is of a certain use.”