9. Chapter 9
Vaelin trekked down the dusty road, careful to avoid protruding tree roots, the dry foliage that had fallen to the forest floor crunching beneath his boots.
Hard days of travel on foot had left his clothes coated in a thin layer of grime, his boots caked in mud.
Though he, Aurelia, and Evric had left Vaelastris on horseback, his mount had come up lame about halfway through the Pass.
Given they did not have the luxury of time, Vaelin had encouraged the others to continue on without him while he led his injured horse on foot to the nearest town - a small hamlet called Willowick that sat just outside the mouth of the Pass on the Terravern side.
Still, the inconvenience had cost him an additional two days, and had not improved his mood.
While Evric and Aurelia rode to the farthest towns on the eastern and western borders of the human realm, Vaelin would hit the closer, more central settlements once he’d managed to obtain a new horse.
He’d planned to exchange his injured mount for another in Willowick, but found the small hamlet bereft of available horses.
He’d left the animal in their care, continuing on foot to the next village.
But much to his displeasure, there were no horses available in Brackenford, either.
These were small villages — horses were for working, not for travel.
And so, Vaelin had begrudgingly trekked farther inland on foot.
The dense canopy of the forest seemed to press down on him from all sides.
He missed the sharp, cool winds of the mountains where he could breathe without inhaling earth and dust, and move freely without errant branches snatching at his clothes like greedy fingers.
He stubbed his toe on a root and swore colourfully, dragging a hand over the stubble that now peppered his jaw.
Despite years of conditioning and training for battle, his body felt leaden, like he waded through water with each step.
Sleep had not come easily these past weeks, flashes of Sereth burning rising like a blinding afterimage each time he closed his eyes.
He couldn’t get that smell out of his nose…
Abruptly, he shook his head, as if to hurl the scalding memory from his mind.
He drew his hands into fists, rolling his stiff neck along his shoulders, breathing deeply. He had a job to do.
The tops of cottages rose, just visible through the thick canopy of the forests, and he grumbled, shaking his head.
Humans and their ridiculous need to build villages all but inside the trees.
What exactly did they have against seeing the sky and letting the wind move freely?
The last two villages had yielded nothing but dust and gnats and the endless stares of humans unaccustomed to seeing fae in this realm.
In Willowick, villagers had peered warily from within shop windows as he made his way toward the town healer, who had confirmed his fear that the illness had reached Terravern, though he hadn’t needed to hear it from her.
The persistent coughing that rang out through the village had been confirmation enough.
Unfortunately, they had found no cure, only a modest management of symptoms. There had been no deaths - yet.
In Brackenford, it had been much of the same.
Children whispered to each other, trailing behind him as he made his way through the village.
Adults tried and failed to hide their stares.
The local healer, a young woman whose skin, hair, and eyes were all a nearly matching shade of brown, gave him the same report he’d heard in Willowick, between her blushes and stammers.
He had not been terribly kind to the girl, his impatience growing as she stumbled over her words, wide-eyed and breathless.
There had been no sign of cure here either, though he had learned that the disease seemed to move more slowly among humans compared to the fae.
Now, Vaelin trudged along the earthen path as it wound into Rowanmere, the largest village in Terravern. The healers here were rumoured to be the most skilled in the realm — if anyone had answers, it would surely be them.
The ache that had settled into Isla over the last week was bone-deep as she made her way through town.
She smiled at familiar faces, but the air felt heavy, as though the forest itself held its breath.
The leaves on the trees had continued to turn, but not into the beautiful burst of reds and oranges that typically marked the turning of autumn in Terravern.
Instead, the leaves were yellow and wan, dry and brittle, curling in on themselves as the trees saved what little rainwater they had stored before the drought had begun in earnest.
In a matter of days, the illness had continued to creep through Rowanmere, resisting treatment and spreading at a pace that had Isla feeling constantly sick to her stomach.
More than a quarter of the village now struggled with the same persistent cough.
Though it seemed to have only a moderate effect, Isla and the other healers had continued to provide willowbark to those affected, though their stores ran dangerously low as demand readily outpaced their supply.
The afternoon sun had begun to sink in the sky, casting a warm glow over the rooftops.
Isla sighed, rolling her neck gently from side to side.
Her muscles screamed at her to rest, a familiar exhaustion tugging at her relentlessly.
Sighing heavily, she glanced up at the sky.
The unease that seemed to have taken up permanent residence at the base of her spine stirred again.
Though the day was blue and clear, something felt off — but she couldn’t put her finger on what.
Vaelin’s eyes snagged on the girl. Exhaustion rolled off of her, even at this distance, a healer’s apron tied at her waist. She turned slightly, smiling a greeting at a passerby and the recognition hit Vaelin like an arrow to the chest. He staggered back a step as though pushed by some unseen force.
Quickly regaining his composure, he slipped smoothly back into the shadows of the tree line, just as she turned in his direction.
She was the one from his vision, without question.
His heart thumped hard in his chest. Why her?
Why had he seen her among all the decay and disease in his dream? What made her different?
From the shadows, he watched as her eyes snapped to the tree line where he stood, narrowing slightly.
After a beat, she huffed a breath, and continued on her way.
Quietly, he tracked the healer as she moved through the village, greeting villagers by name.
She crossed the bridge that arched over the stream that ran through the middle of town, and he stepped out of the shadows to follow her toward a stone building with smoke billowing from its chimney.
She spun suddenly on her heel, fixing him with a piercing glare.
He froze, the air leaving his lungs in a single rush, as the exact scene from his dream played out before him.
Strands of her tangled, chestnut hair lifted in the breeze, having pulled free of the hasty knot she’d tied at the back of her head.
The small, crescent-shaped scar above her eyebrow was stark against her skin, freckled and tanned from long hours spent in the sun.
She held his gaze with her striking green eyes, unblinking, and definitely angry.
He was tall like all the fae were, dark hair just brushing his broad shoulders.
He stood unnaturally still, the sun glancing off the steel at his hip.
His expression was smooth and unbothered as he met her eyes with his own, a blue so pale they were almost grey.
His gaze seemed to snag on the scar above her left eyebrow so briefly she might have imagined it.
Her expression soured immediately.
“Can I help you?” Isla spat.
The fae tipped his head as though she was a puzzle he was trying to solve, moving in that smooth, unearthly way the fae did. He scanned her from head to toe, making her exceedingly aware of her tangled hair and rumpled clothing, filthy from the day’s work.
“Who are you?” he asked slowly, his voice low.
“Who am I?” she repeated, her temper flaring. “Who are you? You’re the one following me.”
“You’re the healer,” he murmured, as though he hadn’t heard her.
“I — yes, I’m a healer,” she said, knocked off balance by his… question? Statement? Her brow furrowed. “Are you injured?”
He laughed dryly and her dislike for him bloomed, an image of the fae she’d had the misfortune of crossing paths with earlier at the forge flashing through her mind.
Suddenly, the door to the forge swung open. Oren stood at the threshold, his welding apron covered in soot, forehead shining with sweat. “Everything okay out here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he dried his hands on a rag.
The fae rolled his eyes as Isla muttered assurances to Oren. “Your husband?” he asked.
Isla and Oren exchanged matching looks of revulsion, and the fae raised an eyebrow of his own in vague surprise.
Isla opened her mouth to respond, but turned at the sound of her name. Luke sprinted over the bridge, his hat crushed between his fisted hands.
“It’s Leona! The babe is coming!”
“I’ll be back later,” Isla said to Oren apologetically. “Make sure your father drinks this. It should relieve the cough a little, help him sleep at least.” She threw him a glass jar, which he caught easily, accustomed as he was to her throwing things at him without warning.
She turned to follow Luke’s retreating figure, but not before rounding on the fae, and jabbing a finger sharply into his chest. “And stop following me.”
Vaelin glanced at his chest where the girl had just jabbed him, baffled.
He raised his eyes and watched as she hurried after the villager.
She was exactly as she’d been in his dream.
The chestnut hair falling free of its loose knot, striking green eyes, right down to the scar above her eyebrow. And she was pissed at him, apparently.
The man she had called ‘Oren’ cleared his throat and Vaelin turned, eyes flickering over the man’s scarred arms and ash-dusted, dark hair. A weaponsmith, then.
“I need a blade,” Vaelin said, the lie rolling easily off his lips.
Oren raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing. He turned on his heel and headed into the building, Vaelin following silently.
“What are you looking for?” Oren asked.
Vaelin scanned the steel that hung from the walls as the forge’s oppressive heat pressed against him. “Is this all you’ve got?”
Oren huffed a laugh. “Look. I’ve been forging blades by myself since I was twelve. It may not be Fireborne steel, but I can damn well forge a blade that’ll hold its edge and last more than one skirmish with the Shifters.”
Vaelin felt his eyebrows lift a fraction at the combination of determination and pride in the man’s voice.
Oren folded his arms across his chest, fixing Vaelin with a curious stare. “Why did Isla think you were following her?”
Isla. Vaelin rolled the name around in his head, feeling as though an answer to a question he hadn’t asked had just clicked into place, but he kept his expression unreadable. “We happened to be going the same place. She made an assumption.”
The weaponsmith cocked his head slightly. “Isla doesn’t make assumptions.”
Vaelin shrugged, unbothered. “Is she always like that?” he asked.
A smile tugged at the weaponsmith’s lips, but he gave no answer as he turned to face the bellows behind him.
“So, are you looking for a short sword or something more like what you’ve already got there?” he asked over his shoulder.
But Vaelin had already slipped back into the streets of Rowanmere, the iron bell above the forge door clanging dully at his back.