Chapter 22
Waking the Bog
Flora
W
e leave again before full dark. The Peathan Pass will be a hard ride, and we’ve spent nearly two full days on the road already. We have five days and half a night left to reach Muilean.
The glen is still, Loch Airceig an ink-black spill between steep braes.
I switch horses, putting us both up on Bramble to give Eira a rest after she carried us most of the day yesterday.
We hug the shore, the horses splashing through the shallows where trees force us to the water.
I start to duck under a low branch of moss-covered birch, but Chyr catches it and pushes it aside for me.
When he’s sitting this close behind me, every one of Bramble’s strides rocks me back against Chyr, pushing a flush of awareness through me. I steady my hands on the reins.
There’s more strength in Chyr’s arms now, and he balances himself more easily on Bramble’s back, but I’m not sure how much of that new strength is due to my healing as opposed to the Veilstone rings.
He wears a Veilstone on each hand, and my body draws in the warm hum of magic as his arms wrap around my waist. It’s a constant tingle beneath my skin, vibrating through me like the low purr of Chyr’s voice against my ear.
He knows, without my having said it, to speak to my right ear and not my left.
The realisation that he has pieced that together himself pulls at something inside me with unnerving insistence.
Neither of us mentions the tension between us before we slept, but for a long time as I lay with my eyes closed and sleep eluding me, wanting him was an inconvenient ache that pulsed in time with my heart.
“What’s it like in Tirnaeve?” I ask, curious, but also tired of the lingering awkwardness between us. “Is it beautiful?”
“Yes and no. Not like this.” He gestures around at the loch and the braes that are growing steeper.
“The shimmer of magic makes the colours brighter, the contrast sharper. The untamed places are glorious, but we only have a few small pockets of them left. Siorai like to claim things and change them for their own amusement.”
Wind skims over the loch, throwing up drops that hit my cheek. I try to imagine a place where the earth and water have all been tamed, and it strikes me as heartbreaking.
“What do Siorai build instead?” I ask.
I can feel Chyr’s smile as the muscles work in his cheek.
“They shape their dwellings from living trees and crystal or marble or precious stone, decorated with cascades of water and flowers that never lose their blooms. Every home is a competition to see who can create the most magical, the most original, the impossible. And nothing is ever finished. There is always something new to copy, outdo, or create.”
“Do you miss it? Home?”
He’s quiet, as though it’s a question he’s never asked himself. “The Anvar’thaine and the other Riders have been the closest thing to a home I’ve ever had. Our barracks are part of the Palace complex, but we’re rarely there, and the place itself isn’t anything special.”
“And your family? Do you have sisters? Brothers?”
His breath snags and holds a moment before he lets it out. “I didn’t see my father often, and I don’t remember my mother. My uncle took me in when I was small. Maybe that’s where my appreciation for simplicity comes from. His home always has to be the most spectacular.”
There’s a bitter note to his voice that says more than words ever could. The arm banded around my waist tightens and keeps me from asking more, but I imagine a small, vulnerable version of Chyr, alone in a house made of gems and marble. A house that’s beautiful and heart-achingly cold.
The light drizzle that had been falling earlier has finally stopped, and the sky is clear. Above us, the brightening stars shine almost as bright as the moon. They press close as we reach the loch’s end and turn towards the Peathan Pass.
Wind stirs with the scent of peat and rain-soaked ferns, and fallen pines slow our path, but the chances of running into the queen’s soldiers on this rough-bound stretch of track should be diminished. The terrain’s a natural defence.
The moon is starting its descent by the time we come to a wide stretch of bog hemmed between a steep slope strewn with boulders and a wide, babbling stream. It’s a green trap of water and loose vegetation glowing in the moonlight.
“We’ll need to cross here,” I say. “The map showed a hard climb to the pass, so we should also let the horses rest.”
Chyr swings his leg over Bramble’s flank and slides to the ground, then he holds his arms up for me. The feel of his hands on my waist, his eyes holding mine, it all makes my heart beat faster. I drag my eyes away.
We tie the horses at the stream to keep them out of the bog, and I spread more of our dwindling ration of cheese and oat bannocks out on a flat rock nearby. Chyr crouches by the water, fingers brushing the surface.
He goes still, listening. Bramble raises her head from the stream, water dripping from her muzzle. I surge up, dagger drawn, but a flicker of movement draws my eye, a twitch of ears, a pale shape hopping. Then Chyr’s dirk flies from his hand, and the rabbit goes still.
I feel its death, a pinch like I felt at the rabbit’s death yesterday. Nothing like the scale of the loss and emptiness I felt when we passed the pyres of Aknacaery and the surrounding homes and fields, but an acknowledgment of something passing. It’s unfamiliar enough to confuse me.
Chyr picks the rabbit up by the ears, smiling until he sees me. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Good, because I’ll take rabbit over oatcakes any day.” He grins at me again, and I realise it’s a smile that’s free of pain, a genuine smile. I can barely remember when life allowed for joy.
Then a sharp bark echoes off the cliffs above us, and we both go still.
The air shivers, a feeling like teeth on skin. The bark is answered by several more.
Chyr’s sword sings as he draws it and turns to look behind us. I unsheathe my dagger, and my magic answers when I call it. The dagger changes, growing and broadening, but there’s none of the effort or pain as the magic moves through my veins. I set that aside to consider later.
The horses snort, their ears pinned back against their heads. They thrash, trying to pull loose from the trees where they’re tied beside the stream.
A low growl sounds somewhere close. Too close.
I turn, and the Ravenhounds are easier to see than those we fought beside the hut.
Their eyes are like burning coals, their teeth dripping fire, and their dark bodies gleam like bog water, thick and lightless.
They crouch low as they creep towards us through the brush on forepaws the size of milking basins.
I count seven of them, working together like a hunting pack.
“Stay behind me,” Chyr says, moving to intercept them. His sword is already whistling as he swings it, and the bold grace of his movement is stunning.
I edge towards the stream and put myself between the hounds and horses. Two of them detach from the group and circle around Chyr to follow me. Then, as if responding to a signal I can’t hear, they spring in unison.
Chyr shifts to cut off the two that are coming towards me, leaving the rest at his back. But I don’t need him to save me.
I run forward and attack the closest one. They’re less solid than they look: bone, shadow, and something that ripples when I strike. My blade catches on bone. I strain to pull it free so I can swing again.
Chyr finishes off the last of the Ravenhounds as mine goes still.
He turns, his eyes raking me head to toe, searching every limb for bites, scratches, anything broken.
Finding none, he breaks into a swift, wide grin, and our eyes hold long enough to force me to acknowledge the connection between us.
My throat tightens as the truth hits me.
It’s a connection I didn’t expect or want. I’ve fought it, but the truth is that Chyr matters to me beyond getting him to Muilean, beyond him bringing back help against Vheara.
I drag my eyes away to check that he’s undamaged. Another bark sounds, and we both turn to look.
Five more Ravenhounds run shoulder to shoulder up the slope, with a second row of four more approaching close behind them. They work as a pack, fanning out, circling us to cut off escape.
Dread drags at my limbs. I raise my sword and prepare for another fight. But nine Ravenhounds are too many at once, and I won’t be much help to Chyr.
Then again, if they hunt like dogs, maybe they’ll chase what runs.
I turn and bolt. My stomach heaves with the stench of blood and the sour, metallic smell of the bog. But the bog is what I know.
I race past the horses, using solid ground while I have it. Then I slow to search for furze and saplings and the darker green patches of moss that grow on solid ground. Bit by bit, I thread my way deeper into the bog. Water splashes, loose moss sucks at my ankles, wanting to pull me down.
Fear keeps me looking straight ahead. I’m afraid the Ravenhounds aren’t coming. And equally afraid they are.
Then I hear splashing nearby, and I push another five feet farther into the bog.
But now I’m trapped. There’s nothing solid in front of me, and no way out.
I turn, and the Ravenhounds are coming, too intent on the chase to note the footing. The bog pulls at their feet. Three of them tumble into deeper water and try to swim, claws scrabbling for purchase. Their heads swivel too far on their necks as if bone and sinew were badly joined.
The fourth is the last to arrive at the edge of the bog, so it has time to realise what’s happening to the others. It slides to a stop with a chilling, distorted howl.
I can’t trust that none of them will climb out.
Drowning them is the only answer.
Panic is not an option, but my heart pounds at my ribs, desperate to escape. Drawing in a deep breath, I push every other thought out of my mind so I can concentrate.
That’s when I feel it. Not a voice. Not even a whisper. A thought that prompts me to feel for what’s around me. To use it.
I bite my lip, doubting the magic, doubting myself.
Ravenhounds are paddling, coming closer. One scrabbles at the edge of a tuft of earth and peat, pulling its front legs up. The edge of the sod breaks off, leaving a fresh, dark ridge of soil. The hound yelps and splashes back into the water.
Reaching for the pulse of magic that lives in the earth, I follow it down through the bog. It’s sluggish moving through the water, like a spoon pulled through porridge—but despite that, there’s no pain.
I let go and allow the magic to flow through me, let myself float away on it. Eyes closed, I sort through what I feel within the bog, the water and peat and various plants.
Magic and moss breathe beneath my feet. Sticky sundews and butterworts wait to capture their prey, and the stalks of cottongrass bow in the wind, faint brushes of white only hinting at the fluffy heads to come.
None of that is useful, but the toadstail moss at the edge of the bog is exactly what I need.
Untangling the long roots and creeping stems, I drag them towards me, then wrap a strand around the nearest thrashing Ravenhound and drag him down beneath the peat. I loop it around a few more times, anchoring it so it will never come up for air.
The next Ravenhound yelps as it disappears beneath the water. Its legs churn as it tries to save itself. I pull more toadstail, but whatever excess magic I had is leaving me. The effort is harder, and the pain of using it returns as I anchor the second hound beneath the peat.
The third hound gives up and sinks beneath the surface. It feels like I’m scraping my own flesh away as I make sure it can’t come up again. I barely manage to wrap a few roots around its legs.
Pain roars through every nerve, but the bog is still, as if it’s waiting with me.
I look up, and Chyr stands at the edge, the last Ravenhound motionless at his feet. The remaining hounds lie bloody and scattered where he killed them all.
His face pale, he steps towards me. “What in the Pit was that, Flora? What did you do?”
“Stop! The bog’s not safe.”
“You’re not safe. You made the Ravenhounds chase you when you knew there was no way out. Why didn’t you let me kill them?”
“You killed twelve of them. That wasn’t enough for you? Anyway, I’m not that good with a sword. Drowning them seemed more efficient.”
I’m not going to argue with Chyr. I feel drained and exhausted, but also proud. Not for taking lives, though I’m not sure the Ravenhounds were alive at all, but for stopping them, for removing something from the world that is so terrible it should never have existed.
Chyr’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly, and then he laughs. It’s a deep, low sound that echoes off the hills. A laugh that shivers through me, more dangerous than the Ravenhounds.
He holds out his hand, and I will my feet to move, pick my way back through the bog towards him, step by step, searching for solid footing.
I reach him, and he pulls me close with such force that I fall against his chest, and he holds me as though I’m something precious and breakable.
I’m neither of those things, so I don’t know how to feel about that.
But as usual, when I’m around him, I feel too much, too many conflicting emotions.
Pressed against Chyr’s chest, I feel the even beat of his heart, a contrast to the wild pace of mine. Both of us are breathing too fast.
I step back and open Chyr’s coat to check for blood. “Did you reopen your wound? Did they bite you?”
He says something, his face drawn into sudden lines of worry. His hand cups my face. His lips move, but I can’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears.
“I’m fine,” I try to say. “We should—” The ground tilts. I lock my knees, blinking hard, and my hands won’t stop shaking. Every part of me is shivering, and then the dark closes in.