Chapter 3
Jesamin
The road to Owlhorn was a nightmare of my own making.
Heavily armed, riding the fastest gelding in my father’s stables, and accompanied by Talos and two fel Arron men-at-arms, I deliberately turned north onto a smooth, yet little-used cobblestone road that cut through a tract of wilderness studded with forests and faerie mounds.
“Lady Jesamin…”
I looked over my shoulder. The men-at-arms, Mathis and Lionel, were good men. Sturdy, strong men, the first to be counted on in a crisis.
They also knew where we were going as soon as I turned Arion, my bay gelding, onto the road that veered northward.
“This is a terrible idea.” Mathis looked at me, a hint of a plea in his gaze. “Angevine Bridge is safer.”
“It’s the quickest route to Owlhorn. Taking the Angevine Bridge will add another five hours into the ride.” I gestured north, much more airily than I really felt. “This is faster.”
“By all accounts, they’ve vanished into thin air, my lady. Another five hours surely won’t—”
“Another five hours might make all the difference,” I snapped, instantly feeling guilty for my rudeness to my father’s men, but unwilling to back down.
“If my suspicions are wrong—and believe me, I pray to the Light they are—then the most likely answer is slavers. And if it’s slavers, every hour Lord Wroth requires to hunt them down counts.
I won’t blame you in the slightest if you take the Angevine and meet me in Owlhorn, but I will be cutting over the Iselaine Blind. ”
Both Mathis and Lionel sighed, drew the Lady’s circle of protection over their chests, and nudged their horses into a trot behind me. I tried to squash down the trepidation, the guilt that I was making good men follow me over such a dark path, but those children…
If hours made the difference to their family, then I would do everything in my power to whittle those hours down.
It took us through late afternoon to reach the Iselaine Blind. Mathis was visibly sweating as we approached the post at the side of the road, a silent warning to any travelers before they took the bend through the forest and approached the bridge itself.
The post was a thick log painted an eye-watering shade of yellow, six feet tall and studded with nails, and on every nail hung a blindfold.
Some had been there for years, so sun-bleached their color was indiscernible.
Some were cotton, others rough linen, and there was even a lady’s fine silk veil, wavering in the breeze.
On either side of this particular stretch of the River Iselaine, there was a post like this. Travelers ignored them at their peril.
Talos plucked a blindfold for me, a length of old brown wool, the weave dense enough to ensure I wouldn’t see a thing.
Lionel licked his lips, and we all pretended not to see the tremble in his hand as he chose a blindfold for himself. “I’ve never crossed the Iselaine Blind before,” he whispered.
“Close your eyes behind the blindfold, and tie it tightly,” I instructed. “Talos will lead the horses across one at a time. Do not remove the blindfold or open your eyes until he declares it safe, and all will be well.”
“If you hear something, ignore it,” Mathis added firmly. “Do not heed anything beyond the bridge.”
He’d wiped his sweat away with his blindfold, and we all looked at each other for a silent moment, as though memorizing each other’s faces.
“I will go first,” I told them. “Stay here until Talos returns for you, one at a time. Start riding immediately as soon as you’re safely across. As soon as we’re across the Blind, we’re a straight shot from Owlhorn.”
“Luck of the Light to us all,” Mathis said, and tied his blindfold on. He sat gripping the saddle horn, prepared to hand off his reins to Talos.
I gestured for Lionel to follow suit, and tucked my spectacles into my coat pocket. Once I’d situated the blindfold firmly over my eyes, closing them behind the scratchy wool, I felt Talos’s cold, hard hand on mine, and handed him the reins.
I gripped the saddle horn as well, sweat prickling down my back, my heart pounding in my throat with a taste like copper as Arion lurched into a walk.
Animals and golems were immune to the effects of the Iselaine Blind. I watched in my mind’s eye, sweat beading on my forehead, as Talos led Arion around the curve where the forest parted and the River Iselaine, with its narrow bridge crossing, came into full view.
I only knew what it looked like from books. Very few people had crossed the Blind with their eyes open and lived; it simply wasn’t worth the gamble to look upon it.
The bridge itself was no more than three feet across. One had to cross either on foot, or on horse. A carriage or wagon would never make it. It had no parapets, making it all too easy to slip into the river.
And this particular expanse of river didn’t flow. For roughly a mile up and downstream, this part of the Iselaine was as still and clear as glass.
Arion lurched beneath me, then the soft thump of his hooves on dirt gave way to the sharp click of hooves on stone.
Several strides in I took a shuddering breath, and when I spoke, it came out as a broken whisper. “Is something watching us?”
Talos clicked his fingers twice, two metallic snaps. Yes.
It was my turn to lick my lips nervously, my stomach trying to crawl up through my throat.
Because of that clear stillness, anyone crossing with their eyes open could see straight through crystalline water all the way to the bottom, where sometimes, something saw them in return.
If you met the eyes of the watcher, you might find you did not make it all the way across the bridge.
My skin crawled, the fine hairs standing up all over my body at the sensation of eyes on me.
It was an almost tangible sensation, as though the thing watching from the bottom of the river was trying to pry up my blindfold through force of will, incorporeal fingers prying at my squeezed-shut eyelids.
Gaze…upon me. See…me.
I didn’t know if the words were in my mind, or if the watcher spoke.
All I knew was that I was shaking like a leaf, clinging to the saddle horn so hard my fingers hurt, and only the rocking sensation of Arion beneath me and the ache in my hands kept me sane.
See with your eyes. Open your eyes for me.
“For Anto and Letti,” I chanted, trying to drown out the dry scrape of the otherworldly voice in my head. “I must see the Lord of Owlhorn. I must see Lord Wroth. I’m crossing this for Wroth, for Anto and Letti.”
The crossing seemed to take a thousand years. The unseen eyes crawled over me, prickling, slipping and sliding and oozing over my skin, touching my cheeks, my lips, but mostly…my eyes.
I am here. Look at me.
“For Anto and Letti,” I whispered hoarsely, clenching my eyes shut so tight it hurt. “I need Lord Wroth.”
I…see you.
Even when Arion’s hooves left the stone of the bridge, as Talos led him out of sight of the River Iselaine, I kept the desperate prayer in my mind.
When Talos’s cold hands touched mine, I almost screamed.
The golem gripped me, soothing, stroking my arm. My clothes were damp with sweat. I peeled the blindfold away with trembling fingers, placed my spectacles back on my face, and finally opened my eyes to see the yellow post on the other side of the river.
“Gods, let’s never do that again,” I rasped, practically throwing my blindfold at the post and uncapping my waterskin.
After all my bluster about speed and cutting hours, I didn’t want to admit the effect the Blind had on me. That too many times on that crossing, I’d felt my fingers loosening their grip on the saddle, reaching up to tear away the blindfold and look down into that glassy water.
Talos patted the air. Stay here. He loped off around the bend, to cross the bridge once more and bring the men-at-arms.
My instructions had been to ride on, but I simply sat there trembling and staring fixedly at the post, drinking water and trying to keep it down when all I wanted to do was spew it out.
Talos eventually returned, leading Mathis. The big man was shaking himself, his steel-gray hair soaked with sweat. When he pulled the blindfold away, his eyes were showing the whites all around, his skin the color of old porridge.
“It’s never been that bad before,” he said, his voice as hoarse as mine. “Fucking hell, Jesamin, could you not have chosen any other path?”
Out of sight of Lionel, the younger, newer man-at-arms who hadn’t yet earned the privilege of familiarity, Mathis could finally speak his mind. His bluntness and sudden coarse language were a balm on my frayed nerves.
“I didn’t know it’d feel like that.” I wiped my face again. I stank of fear, thick and rank. “Maybe…maybe the watcher is hungry. Hardly anyone comes this way.”
“For a good fucking reason. Fuck. Shit.” He opened his flask and took a healthy swig. Apple brandy from the Vale was his particular vice, and at the moment I was grateful for his expensive taste, because I knew he would share.
“Shitting fuck,” I agreed, and he handed the flask over. The first swallow of spiced brandy lit my throat on fire; the second soothed me, a ball of warmth curling in my belly.
We waited in silence, our eyes locked on the canary-bright post, the only sound our uneven breathing. We both twitched every time the breeze rustled the leaves of the forest, expecting to see Talos coming around the bend.
But it was taking too long. I began to shift in the saddle, and Mathis reached out to touch my shoulder.
Patience, that touch said. You cannot go back.
Neither of us would risk it. No sane person would. What was lost on the Iselaine Blind was lost forever.
And when movement finally caught our eyes—far too late, it had taken too long—we both jerked, hands going to our swords.
It was Talos, leading a pale mare.