16. Chapter 16
The glow of the morning sun stretched through the clearing, catching dust motes as they danced through beams of light. Vaelin shifted his eyes to where the healer lay still. Her face was relaxed in sleep, her body relishing in the rest it had been screaming for.
He had let her sleep later this morning than he ought to have. She had clearly needed it, though he doubted she’d ever admit as much.
He twisted the sword in his hand, examining its razor thin edge as the sunlight glanced off of it.
She would surely be angry when she woke.
Though, it seemed that everything he did made her irritable, so what was the difference, really?
He glanced at the angle of the sun, estimating how many hours it might take them to arrive in Brackenford.
Before nightfall, surely. His eyes slid back to Isla’s sleeping form, snagging again on that stone ring that lay still - for once - on her finger.
What could I possibly have to do with any of this?
Her voice rang through his memory, as clear as if she’d spoken it aloud just now.
Flashes of his dream rose unbidden, the illness spreading like wildfire throughout Vaelora, ending with the face of the human girl who lay before him.
Upon waking, he had felt so certain she was the key to ending it all, a feeling that had only intensified since meeting her.
And yet, she was just a girl. She had yet to display any hints of hidden power or unexpected skill.
She was confident, yes - perhaps overly so.
He suspected she’d be summarily cured of that affliction once they crossed the Vaeloran border.
I’m just a healer.
He turned her words over in his mind like stones.
Could he truly rely on his dream? He considered the ill omens that had come to pass since Sereth’s vision.
Orion Shipbreaker’s fleet drowned at sea.
Terrin’s children dead within weeks of falling ill.
Maeylar’s account of a devastating shadow army.
And Sereth… the grief sliced through him like a blade.
Sereth’s fiery death had brought a violent and undeniable finality to any doubts about the truth and return of the Dreamwalker visions.
But…Vaelin was no Dreamwalker. Born in the Windborne court, he had no Starfire blood.
He scratched the back of his neck, brows knitted.
He supposed it was possible there might be Starfire blood in his line somewhere, perhaps centuries back.
He knew little and less of his family, and Sereth had always remained tight-lipped about how she’d known his mother.
Still, it took only a brief look at Vaelin next to one of the Starfire to point out the blatant differences in their appearance.
Most glaring of all, he wielded the wind alone.
He lifted a hand, summoning a swirling current of air.
He was powerful, yes. Perhaps one of the most powerful windwielders in recent memory.
But the Starfire fae could manipulate all elemental magics — that being, in large part, how they had retained power in Vaelora for as long as they had.
He glanced back at Isla, and lowered his hand abruptly, sending the current of air sailing across the clearing.
It sent strands of chestnut hair dancing across her face and she woke with a jolt.
He watched her gain her bearings and check the height of the sun, making sure to wipe the smirk from his face before her eyes found his.
“Why did you let me sleep so late?” she demanded.
He shrugged, keeping his face carefully blank. “You were tired. I wasn’t.”
They had ridden all morning in relative silence before breaking by midday near the river.
Isla grimaced as she squatted to fill her canteen, the weight of her sword feeling heavier with each passing minute.
Her shoulders were rubbed raw where the leather straps of her harness had dug in, and she was certain the blade had painted a diagonal bruise across her upper back.
She sunk her free hand beneath the surface and into the bedrock, watching the clear water run over her fingers as she listened to the familiar forest sounds around her.
She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing as she listened for the birdsong overhead, the wind whispering through the trees, and the soothing sound of the rushing river.
She swiped her wet hand across her forehead, relishing the cool burst of wind that happened to blow across her face as she did so.
Sighing, she sat back on her heels, taking a deep drink from her canteen as she attempted to ignore the dull ache of fatigue that throbbed throughout her body.
Gravel scratched beneath boots and she turned to see Vaelin watching her, his brow furrowed and arms crossed. She rose quickly to her feet, ignoring the protest of her muscles as she did so. “Let’s go,” she said, feigning a stamina she did not possess.
“We can rest for longer,” he offered.
“I’m fine.”
He said nothing, only stood there, holding her gaze.
She glared at him, frustration heating her blood along with the flush at her neck. “I told you I don’t need coddling.”
He shook his head slowly, his gaze unwavering. “Gods, you’re annoying.”
She blinked, lips parting in surprise as he turned toward the horses without so much as a backward glance.
“Finally,” she murmured, hours later. Vaelin slid his eyes to hers, lifting an eyebrow. She pointed down the trail. “The turn off for Brackenford is just ahead.”
He made a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement, but kept his eyes ahead. Something felt… off. Like a subtle vibration snaking its way up the back of his neck.
“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?” the healer muttered quietly at his back.
He scanned the tree line for signs of unrest. No downed trees, no strange smells or sounds. Still, something needled at him, insistent.
“The more you speak, the less you can listen,” he said, without looking at her. She jumped, as though surprised he’d responded. He managed to suppress the twitch of his lips. “It also encourages those around you to share more than they perhaps intended.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly, and this time, there was no stopping the twitch as the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.
Ahead, the trail split off into two directions, the fork to the right leading to Brackenford, where they’d rest tonight before continuing on to the Pass in the morning. The wind shifted, then, lifting the heavy branches of the trees that rose around them, and he went rigid.
All at once, she noticed the sudden change in his posture, like a doused flame. He’d gone preternaturally still, gripping the pommel of his sword where it lay strapped to his saddle.
Isla pulled her mare up next to him, feeling the tension gather in her own shoulders as she echoed the shift in his body language.
“What’s wrong?” She followed the angle of his stare to the massive fir tree that stood before them, its needled branches shifting in the sudden breeze. Her stomach pitched.
The ancient fir stood where the path split between the main trail and the turn-off to Brackenford.
The tree bore deep claw marks gouged right to the trunk’s core, four diagonal slashes splintering the deep ridges of centuries-old bark.
Vaelin’s jaw looked almost painfully tight, a muscle twitching in protest. His brow was furrowed, a shadow darkening his expression.
Only his eyes seemed to move, flicking from the claw marks to slide over the surrounding tree line.
“A bear,” Isla suggested, forcing her tone to stay light.
But she, too, had marked the height and depth of the gouges, the strength with which the bark must have been wrenched apart.
She fought to ignore the nausea that rose low in her stomach as she silently acknowledged that even a bear could not achieve such a feat.
A sound of dark uncertainty rumbled through Vaelin’s chest as he seemed to make a decision. He tugged on his reins, urging his horse down the fork of the trail that would take them into town. “We need to keep moving.”
They arrived an hour later, the trail widening into the town streets.
Small compared to Rowanmere, the cottages in Brackenford were typically only a single story.
The village was nestled beneath a thick canopy of trees, more coniferous varieties now evident as they inched closer to the mountain border.
Isla had been to Brackenford a few times before, joining her mother on healing trips.
It had been some time since her last visit, but even still, Isla felt her brows draw together as she noted the eerie atmosphere of the town.
The silence here seemed as loud as a beating drum.
Windows were closed, villagers scarce, and the air seemed heavy with an unspoken tension.
Isla glanced at Vaelin, surprised to see a similar expression of unease on his own face.
“It seems quiet,” she said.
He made that sound again - a low rumble of agreement that seemed to roll through his chest. “Too quiet,” he said. “Even compared to a week ago.”
They turned a corner and Isla pulled her horse up abruptly. Vaelin reacted quickly, shifting easily in the saddle, his horse sidestepping to avoid bumping into Isla’s.
“What is it?” he asked.
Isla shook her head, lips parted in shock, but found herself unable to speak.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him follow her stare to where several freshly dug graves sat in a small yard, marked by random rocks that served as headstones.
The graves were adorned with seasonal herbs and flowers, a memorial for the dead.
She looked to Vaelin, his lips drawn in a thin line.
“Had there been deaths when—” her voice came out raw and she cut off as he shook his head sharply in response.
The smell of freshly turned earth mixed with the sickly floral scent of wilting flowers seemed to force itself up her nose, and she flattened a hand against her stomach.
It had only been a week since he’d last been here.
The illness… the speed of its contagion, its progression…
“I need to see the healers,” she announced. “Now.”
But Vaelin shook his head. “Not yet. Food and rest first.”
Isla stared at him, anger flashing, but he was unmoved.
“We will speak to the healers afterward, I promise you. There’s nothing that can be done right now, anyway. You—” he paused, “We need to rest.”
Sensing that attempting to convince him would be as successful as trying to move a boulder on her own, she followed begrudgingly as he urged his horse towards the inn, gravel crunching beneath their horses’ hooves.