Chapter 13 Neirin
NEIRIN
Though the woman’s scent lingered, I recognized her absence the moment my monster woke.
It left the creature on edge. He panted, ears pinned, as two men spoke, their voices carrying from the front of the wagon.
Crates and satchels of goods and wares littered the small space in disorganized chaos, most of the cargo having shifted throughout the trip from the capital.
“Her warmth is disingenuous.”
“Give her time, Ruairc.”
Ruairc’s sigh was audible. “I will not force this on her if it’s not what she wishes.”
“And that is one of the reasons I gave you my blessing.” The wagon rocked as the speaker stepped down from the coach’s seat. “I regret I may have pushed this all on her too suddenly.”
Ruairc’s response sounded heavy with concern. “Have you changed your mind?”
“No.” The reply came without hesitation. “No. She will come around.”
Footsteps on stone sounded the approach of one of the men, and the cotton flap at the back of the wagon was drawn to the side. A rush of cold air broke the staleness, and my monster backed up, bumping into a crate of glass bottles that rattled at the impact. Lips raised and ears tucked, he snarled.
“What—” The man cut himself off, taking a step back.
“Aureus, what is it?” A second man came into view, and his eyes widened, hand going reflexively to the pommel of his sword.
My monster’s heart raced, and he made a series of warning barks.
Though he was a coward and would flee given the chance, he would lash out if there was no alternative.
The fear scent that radiated from him was thick.
Another creature would have recognized it, but humans had no sense of such things. They saw only his bared teeth.
Both men backed away from the wagon, creating a window for escape.
My monster lunged forward, and the hard ground jarred his joints as he landed heavily on his front paws.
Across a cobbled road, trees and brush offered cover between two buildings.
My monster darted forward, but a high-pitched wail rang out, raising the fur along his spine and stopping him in his tracks.
He spun, addressing the noise. By the central well stood a young boy, half-hidden behind his mother, eyes wide.
Crouched, my monster’s sides heaved. Shouts came from his left, accompanied by nervous whinnies.
Pelt bristling, he leapt out of the way, narrowly avoiding the hooves of a dapple-gray mare.
Metal horseshoes scraped on the stone, sending a cringing shudder through my creature’s shaking flanks.
He inhaled briskly and turned back toward the cover of the brush, darting for their safety.
Through the undergrowth, a pasture stretched to the forest beyond.
He ran alongside a wooden fence, ignoring the curious nickers of a bay and her foal.
Once in the sanctuary of the woods, he slowed to a trot. The beech trees in this area grew to great heights, their gnarled trunks and twisting limbs covered in moss and cracked bark. Spring leaves shuddered in the chilled air.
The creature stopped and raised his head, scenting for threats. Traces of humans and horses carried on the southern wind. Fainter was the scent of chickens. My monster cocked his head and swiveled his ears, listening to their distant clucks.
Through the bond came an instinctual drive to hunt, though a prickle of fear accompanied it. He’d hunted hens in this form before. On the last occasion, he was nearly skewered by a pitchfork. My creature seemed to remember this and sat back on his haunches, snorting.
I sensed it then, the subtle release of tension.
It was a window, and I took it. I grasped for control, and just as I did, the creature reacted, standing with a yelp.
He fought back, straining against the pull, but I had my hold on him.
He bared his teeth and snarled. With each shift, he held on longer and resisted my grasp to regain power with more vigor.
I feared the day his strength would overcome my own and I would be stuck in this form.
Left to live a life amid the trees, imprisoned within his pelt.
Forever trapped within the skin of the creature responsible for Thatch’s death.
Burning heat flooded the creature’s veins. He threw his head back, and anguish shot through the bond. His spine snapped with a hollow crack, and his lower half went numb. Falling sideways, he dug at the dirt, pain searing in waves of fire.
He trembled, gave in to the agony, and lay still, tongue lolling, panting as his body became mine again. The pressure in his skull was nearly unbearable. Everything was pulsing. His vision blurred, and through fluttering eyelids, I focused on one of his paws, the fur clumped and dirty.
In a motion of expanding, my fingers folded outward from the pads. The skin stretched over the gnarled bones, too tight, tearing at the knuckles. Veins pulled at the back of my hand as it flexed involuntarily. A black band stood out around my index finger—my mother’s ring. It was magic, then.
Sensing the re-attainment of control, I closed my eyes and focused on the blood pounding in my ears. My left arm bent awkwardly under my weight. It ached. Wind grazed across my bare skin; the contrast to the heat that scalded my body was disconcerting, and I shuddered.
When my breath returned, I opened my eyes. Vivid green leaves danced along the branches of the beech trees, and the dying evening light cast a yellow glow against the western sides of their trunks. I breathed in, scenting only the subtle hints of dirt and dew.
My pinned arm tingled, and I rolled to sit and take the pressure off it. Head spinning with the sudden movement, I braced myself, eyes lowered as I regained my composure.
As my vision cleared, my eyes caught on black markings along my left arm. They wove from wrist to shoulder, beneath my collarbone, and ended at my chest. I ran my fingers over the design, then flattened my palm over the rapid thrum of my heart, the slick unease of a nightmare choking at my throat.
The image struck me of Kaius’s tattoo bathed in the early light before Mother’s monument.
Each of my scars held a memory. Those, which were plain to the eye, lines of uneven discolored flesh, were reminders of enemies whose blades had found openings in my defenses.
The most recent being from a run-in with the thieves, was already fully scarred over.
The faintly raised scars that branched like the many roots of a tree were repercussions of the times in my childhood that my monster took over.
The subtle blade marks of Astraea’s lessons—cuts along my neck and hips to draw my blood—left only the faintest of impressions.
Turning my arm over, I addressed the tattoo with a form of detachment.
The concepts of magic and the cruel reminders it marked me with were not new; yet, at least in the past I had always held a remembrance.
With my other scars, there was pain associated, a wound at infliction.
I flexed my fist, and the muscles in my arm tightened, rippling the designs along my skin.
These marks had come without pain, without notice.
A breeze rose little bumps along my skin, and I leaned against a sturdy trunk.
Though I recalled waking in the wagon and brief moments after, the images were all a blur, a half-forgotten memory.
I observed nothing notable around me or beyond the trees, no landmark to discern where I was.
Focusing on what I knew, I pushed pointless speculations about the magical tattoo aside and assessed my situation.
My clothes were back in the forest east of the castle, along with my sword and my silver.
It was dusk, which meant I was at least a day’s travel from the capital.
The beech trees indicated we hadn’t gone as far south as the volcanic fields in the mining regions, at least. That left Urandun, Yorel, Navarre, or Elrune.
Cursing my monster, I ran a hand over the stubble at my jaw.
I was stark naked in an unfamiliar wood with no coin and no way of regaining my uniform, not with half the castle guard searching the capital and surrounding farmland and forests.
They were wasting their time pursuing me when the true threat walked within the castle walls.
Agitation heated my blood, and I turned and struck at the tree with a closed fist. The impact bristled, and red marks scraped my knuckles where blood rushed to the surface.
Without direction, I began walking. If I found clothes to steal and a cloak to conceal my hair, I could veil myself from immediate attention while I sought out a routier or huntsman who might deliver a letter to Harlan and warn him of the treachery within the castle.
A huntsman, as at odds as they were with soldiers and the guard, would be less likely to hand the note over to someone who may pass it along to Rion.
Still, there was always a risk associated with putting faith in others.
There was also the matter of coin, of paying a huntsman, should I find one.
The clucking of hens led me to the back gardens of a sizable building.
Half a dozen free-range chickens pecked at the packed earth, searching for bugs or remnants of feed.
One raised its head, dark eyes round and blinking.
It clucked, and the others mimicked. The feathered creatures drew nearer, necks bobbing as they walked, and I growled my irritation.