CHAPTER 4 #2
I slide into the water and settle my feet on the smooth stones littering the streambed.
The fish dart about warily at the first sign of intrusion but quickly become accustomed to my presence and settle into the current swirling around my legs.
I wonder if these fish have any natural predators.
Every one of them is fat, tails swishing slowly back and forth as they idle contentedly in the flickering sun breaking through the leaves above.
This is going to be easy.
Two hours later I’m soaking wet from my many failed attempts at fish wrangling.
I’ve managed to wrap my hands around two, both sliding through my grip with frustrating ease.
Now, most of the trout have taken to hiding from me under cover of a nearby rock ledge where they watch from the shadows, mockingly.
I’m about to give up for the day and go back to using the pole, preferring a shameful surrender to that of starvation.
Whether it’s tonight or another day this week, I will catch a fish with my bare hands. It is now my single purpose in life.
A lone, portly trout flicks his tail lazily between where I stand and the shore. Unperturbed by my attempts to seize the others, he seems happy to ride the current and simply exist as though I do not.
I glance up to find the shadow master watching intently. His brow drawn down, as he surveys my target with great interest. I suppress the shame of my imminent failure even as I narrow my eyes on the water. Shame that promises to send me down a minor spiral of depression for the evening.
I move slowly at first, lining my hands up behind the fat fish, whispering near silent prayers to the stars.
I lunge, noting the flick of its tail the moment he spots me.
I’m too late. The plump trout makes a break for the obscuring shadows of the rocky overhang only to be swept into a strong eddy that slings him toward me nearly sliding him right into my hands.
My mind fumbling the line between shock and utter exhilaration, I latch onto it like my survival depends on this single act.
With a whoop and a wide smile, I throw it onto shore where it thrashes about, covering the shadow master’s cheeks in a smattering of water droplets that catch the waning light of the day.
Wiping his face dry, he claps his hands cheerfully, meeting my smile with a wide toothy grin of his own.
“Was it worth the effort?” he chuckles.
“I suppose that depends on how good your cooking skills are,” I snark, tipping my chin toward the fish.
My quip has the desired effect and I’m practically drooling over the mysterious smells coming from the firepit.
The sun casts out a wide array of orange and red hues across the horizon as it sinks below the mountains to the west. While Leanna may have taught me about other, more deadly herbs, she failed to mention the herbs that the forest provides for flavor alone.
I tell myself that I will make the shadow master promise to teach me about all of them, just as soon as I have eaten my hard-won prize.
With a self-satisfied grin, he hands me a large, folded leaf containing my dinner, and I dig in. It is, by far, the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and I can hardly slow my eating enough to make sure I’m not swallowing any tiny bones.
Oh well, if I die, it might be worth it.
It only takes three bites for all my well thought out plans to change. My only goal for the rest of the week is to eat as much as I can while he is still bound by our deal and forced to cook for me. A luxury I highly doubt I will ever receive again.
His eyes sparkle as he watches me eat, clearly smug about how much I’m enjoying his cooking. He is less enthusiastic when he starts in on his portion, but I suppose he’s become spoiled by a lifetime of savoring his own meals.
I suck the tender meat off every frail bone I find, licking my fingers clean of the buttery herbs until there is nothing left.
The moment I’m done my eyes grow heavy and I slip into my bedroll with a satisfied moan.
One sleepless night and a belly full of fish and all I can think about is how good the fire feels on my face and how life would be perfect if every day were just like this.
My eyes don’t open again until the sun breaks the eastern horizon the next morning. I yawn, glancing across the fire to find the shadow master still sleeping deeply. My lips quirk up at the ends. It appears I’m not the only one who’d fallen into a fish induced coma.
Content to let him sleep a while longer, I stretch my legs before quietly pulling myself from my bedroll and making my way to the stream to wash.
The forest is eerie in its stillness. The only sounds as I trudge back to camp, the swish of my pants rubbing against my thighs, and the occasional crunch of my leather boots upon a fallen leaf.
My feet still at the border of our camp, the hair on the back of my neck stiffening.
Eyes squinting warily when I find the shadow master still asleep.
I check the sun, telling myself it’s still early, but for reasons I cannot understand my nerves begin to fray and all my instincts wail that something is wrong as I approach him.
I’ve never known him to sleep past the sunrise.
Eyes narrowing across the fire, I suppress a gasp. His skin is slick and lightly tinged an alarming shade of yellow. Every hoarse breath he draws is shallow and his body is far too still.
I stop myself from reaching for him when my eyes flick to a glint at his side, my breath catching in my throat.
A small viper sits coiled above his hip, green scales refracting hues of purple and pink under the light of the rising sun.
I don’t take my eyes off it, and, in a similarly wary fashion, the serpent watches every movement I make.
I crouch down and slide a blade from the shadow master’s pack.
The viper flicks its tongue, scenting the air, as I take aim.
Exhaling a deep breath to steady myself, I lob the dagger at the beast, severing its head from its body with the solid thunk of the blade as it sinks into the earth.
The tail of the creature coils and writhes, bumping and pitching it’s still very alive and lethal head closer to the shadow master’s side.
I lunge, carefully snatching the head from the slithering mass and throwing it into the forest.
My stomach twists as I kneel beside him, my eyes falling on the angry bite on his forearm.
This is bad, really, really, bad.
My mind reels, grasping for anything I’ve ever been taught about surviving the venom of such a strike.
These are lessons I was given long ago. Lessons I’ve had no cause to use in the many years since.
Clenching my jaw, the muscles in my arms strain, my fists balling at my sides as if the physical effort my body exerts might somehow summon the long-buried memories I seek.
My brow draws down in frustration as I search the deep and dormant caverns of my mind.
“Latrice.” I suck the word in on a thin breath, nearly tripping as I throw myself to my feet and run into the dense overgrowth of the forest.
Leanna taught me about the herb when we first began to venture into the deadwood surrounding the keep.
I was young, with many years still to pass until my courses came to claim me as a woman.
Leanna reached into a viper’s den, allowing a strike to her wrist that should have been fatal; it would have been fatal, if not for a small patch of Latrice growing nearby.
Of course, the lesson hadn’t ended until Leanna forced my arm into the same den. The herb worked as intended, and had I not taken three strikes before she allowed me to withdraw my arm from the pit, the herb would have kept me from the week of purging and bedrest that followed.
Digging into the recesses of the memory, I conjure an image of what I seek.
A slender shoot with a plethora of dark, waxy leaves and small snow-white bells to adorn it.
It is the leaves of the plant that nullify the toxin, but only if they are ingested soon after the bite.
Without knowing when he was bitten, there is every possibility I am already too late.
I smother the terror that skirts across my veins in icy waves, willing my pace to quicken, weaving through the trees with a deft grace I hardly recognize as my own.
My frantic pace only slows when I find a dense stand of ancient oaks with wide arching branches.
I curse the moments that pass as I squint, my eyes adjusting to the low light.
The world turns on its head as thin shafts of flickering light make it through the thick canopy above, each ray pattering the mossy ground beneath my feet to resemble a star flecked night sky.
I search for signs of water flowing beneath its surface, stumbling when my toe catches on a thick layer of lichen underfoot. My heart stutters hopefully as I follow a trail of darkened moss like a map, searching the northern base of every tree for the sprig I seek.
Heart plummeting, my throat burns, and I push back the pitifully useless tears of frustration that threaten to come, when finally, I find what I am looking for. Kneeling on the soft mat of green beneath me, I inspect the herb growing at the base of a gnarled and heavily knotted oak and frown.
Though I was taught of the many herbs that could heal, for each of them there are a dozen that can end a life.
I nearly choke on the knowledge that latrice has a deadly cousin, a look alike.
The only way I’ve been taught to tell the two apart are the tiny, bell-shaped flowers that adorn Latrice in the spring.
The two are otherwise identical, at least to my eyes.