CHAPTER SEVEN #3
At last, she was back to the chords of a familiar song, not a note out of place.
She spoke freely. “In the wood, you can find their runs, lay snares or nets. Out here, farmers lay bait, a sheath of wheat or a sprinkle of barley. If you stay hidden, they’ll come right up to you.
And that is how we’re going to catch the phoenix.
I’ll bring my net and we’ll lay a trap. If it’s gone this long without being caught, it’s smart. But everything gets hungry.”
“And do you know what it eats?”
“The same as any other bird, I’d wager. Worms, roots, nuts.”
“Not the souls of unwary travelers?”
Now he was mocking. But – the corners of his mouth upturned. Not mocking – teasing. She met it with a lifted eyebrow. “No, that would be the spirits.”
Deflated, he put his hands behind his back. “And do you know where to find it?”
“Not strictly.” She gestured to the map.
He stepped closer to her, leaning over her shoulder.
His own shoulders were quite sturdy, she noticed.
His slim neck framed attractively by the length of his hair, which he pushed behind his ear as he leaned over the table.
She could smell hyacinths and, faintly, his sweat.
She pinned her eyes on the map. “Johanna never saw it herself. Didn’t think it was real. But in the winter, hunters gather at this lodge.” She pointed to the edge of the map; Hivernal Lodge, high in the Accentor Mountains. “When hunters gather, they drink.”
“They talk.”
“Right.” She cast a glance at him. His own eyes were fixed on the map.
She pointed. Augur Meadow, a flat, pleasant stretch in the Chough Valley to the southeast. Nearly in the center of the map.
“Here’s where I think it might be. A favorite haunt of the prettiest ringnecked pheasants I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Nothing like the drab, stupid ones that bother the farmers.
It’s where Goo– where the one on my wall came from,” she corrected, flushing and taking a step away.
“And,” she added, voice laden with meaning, “some say, on warm evenings, you can spot one there the color of a sunset.”
His brow furrowed as his eyes roved the map. “That’s very deep. Miles.”
“Yes.” She folded the map and faced him. For a moment, the calfskin again seemed to cling to her fingers. Perhaps she’d left honey on the table. She tucked the map carefully in her messenger bag. “We’ll leave tomorrow, at first light.”
He nodded. “Before we set off, shall we set terms?”
“I’ll guide us there, find us food and water, hunt for us.
You heal me if I’m injured, keep me safe from other wizards.
We owe each other nothing but to help keep each other alive.
” She watched his expression carefully; it didn’t change.
“I have my weapons; you have your pen. We’ll both need all our tricks.
And,” she hastily amended, having nearly forgotten, “when it’s done, we split the prize. Down the middle.”
“Agreed,” he said, extending his hand. She took it; it may have been her imagination, but it seemed her hand stuck to the skin of his glove.
He didn’t seem to notice and spoke haltingly. “The phoenix. I don’t know if it can be killed, but I do need it alive.”
“I won’t kill it,” she said, happy they shared at least that goal in common. “And I’ll do my best not to hurt it unnecessarily. Only if I have to.” And I may have to. Mira’s arrow must pierce its flesh, whatever it took.
He nodded, surely picturing mislaid snares or clipped wings.
Though he clearly didn’t relish the thought, one could not remain in his line of work and be particularly squeamish.
He’d been prepared to hurt someone in the park the night before.
On her behalf. No; on behalf of his prize ticket.
What would he do to the one who stole his prize? To her?
Will I have to hurt you, too?
The clang of leaking raindrops into the pot had slowed to a drip.
With the rain past, she wanted to be ready to set out at dawn’s break.
Leaving Sylas upstairs, she took her quiver and a lantern and journeyed to the cellar to gather a sack of her and Johanna’s standard trail food, hard but delicately sweet biscuits made of walnut flour.
And Mira’s arrow.
Crouching, she unwrapped it. In the lantern light, the strange markings did the opposite of gleam – they seemed to suck the light inside them.
Hurriedly, loathe to touch it, she tucked it in her quiver.
If the wizard asked why its fletching looked different than the rest, she would lie and say for luck.
But as she watched, the fletching changed to match those of her own arrows.
“Can’t make it fucking easy, can you?” Anya muttered hotly, pulling free her knife and notching a deep X in the butt end.
When she came upstairs, Sylas had spread his bedroll beneath the kitchen window and was already fast asleep.
She raised the kerosene lamp to dim it and paused as the light fell over his face.
Though his color was improved, he was still pale and wan as a spent cloud.
In sleep, his carefully molded mask betrayed him. His face was gentle; almost boyish.
Extinguishing the light, she crawled into her bed, and fell asleep listening to him breathe.
Outside, in the dim light of morning, an east wind blew.
The air was still a bit chilly and smelled of damp earth, which always made her feel colder than she really was.
She pulled Johanna’s wide-brimmed hat over her head. For luck, she thought, sparing a glance for the rowan trees at the gate.
But something nagged her. She wasn’t imagining it, now; the brim clung to her fingers. So did the leather chin cord.
It was then she noticed, on the back of her hand, an oily sheen. The front of her hand, too. She pushed up her sleeve. A dewiness, all over her skin. Not rain and not quite sweat. Almost like…slime. It wouldn’t wipe away, no matter how she rubbed. Like it was part of her.
While Sylas was busy adjusting his rucksack, she bent and snatched a dead leaf from the ground. She tried to drop it, but it stuck. She turned her palm to the ground, and shook it, hard enough to rattle her bones.
It clung to the palm of her hand, like a spider to the glass of a window. Like a moth to the bark of a tree.