Chapter 15 #3
At the mention of the magical creature, the mages grow agitated.
Unlike the calm with which the court mages move, these beings rapidly switch positions like a maze imbued with magic, appearing and disappearing whenever they collide with one another.
The horror is worsened by the absolute silence that accompanies their inhuman speed.
When one finally makes its way to the front, the rest freeze in position.
“What you’ve heard is true,” their voices twist together. The loudest one at the front is deep and female, but it sounds rugged as though already expired in death. There is no emotion attached as they say, “Its body has already leaked much energy into the forest.”
Damn it. This can’t be a mere coincidence.
I skim the woods on the other side of the village, about two hundred yards away. How had I not noticed it before? The darkness spilling from the thick trees is an obvious warning to any who dare to enter, a clear indicator that something has gone terribly wrong.
Had I been too focused on Ether? Too distracted to notice the blackness curling from the shadows like hands of death? Or had the Sanvira been alive, trapped somewhere while Ether had agreed to join me?
Ronan presses, “You mean to say its body has been discarded in the forest with no funeral rites? Without affirming who killed it?” I wonder if his monotone is intentional. A practiced detachment. This must be how he disarms people.
Could he have used it on me?
The mages interrupt my thoughts with jagged, echoing laughter. I cover my ears before the unholy sound can be seared into my memory. “Your assumption is correct. If you wish to purify the creature, you are free to do so. But we are not responsible for any consequences you may incur.”
Ronan tightens his fists until they’re white at the knuckles, and his jaw clenches. There it is. Anger. How long has he held it in? Has he chosen this moment to let it spill over?
I reach and place a hand on his shoulder. I’ll take it from here.
Without reading my face, he understands, easily reading my intentions. If he’d been similarly attuned to Xavelor, it’s no wonder he’d been indispensable. Bending away from the ripple of mages still standing in our way, he returns to Melanie and I take his place.
“Prince,” they hiss my title as though it burns their tongues.
Eight pairs of small black eyes focus on me, not bothering to hide their hostility.
I can almost sense the distrust in their pupils alone, shrunken and pulsing from the magic gurgling within them.
My body convulses with fear for a moment, but I’m quick to regain my composure.
I’ll blame it on the brisk morning breeze if I have to.
“If you honor your king in the slightest, your duties do not end with your unwarranted abandonment of a highly revered creature of the wood.” Though my words are steady, my heart trembles as the mages’ pupils dilate to specks.
I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and speak on the exhale.
“You must do as I say and follow us into the magical forest to perform proper rites for the Sanvira.”
The mages fold in on one another again, shuffling their order like a demonic hand of cards.
They mutter incomprehensible incantations, their scrambling growing with ferocity, and the air whips around them in a storm of leaves. The lantern clangs against the inn, killing the soft candlelight and forcing us into the darkness of a still-awakening dawn.
I edge back, covering my brow with a hand to let my eyes adjust. Beyond the fierce wind, their bodies distort until a singular figure stands still, and the wind settles. The moon silhouettes its body, making it easier for me to focus.
The lone mage speaks, but the voices of all eight accompany its deep, guttural words. “Your Highness wishes for the impossible. Mages are ill-permitted to enter the magical forest.”
“If not you mages, who disposed of the Sanvira’s body?”
The mage stays silent for a moment before it lifts its arm and points a bandaged finger to the buildings behind me.
“Humans.”
The word is thick and filled with a malice I can almost taste. The mages were humans too, once. Is it even possible for them to regret their decision to become what they are now?
“We understand,” Ronan shouts from behind me, agitated. “We will enter the forest and perform the rites ourselves.”
The mage’s pupils expand, and it bows its head before it dissolves into nothingness, becoming one with the village and the sky and the cobblestone path. It takes the heaviness from before with it.
I flip around to Ronan, who’s already strapped his belongings to his torso—a short knife, his pouch of magical elixirs, and a flask of water. He offers me a lopsided smile, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Will performing rites mend the breach in our treaty?” I ask, walking to Claude. I grab my flask of water and a small satchel of unleavened bread. I’ve never had to use them since I never ventured far from the castle.
Is it childish for me to be excited about such a thing as using the rations as they are meant to be used?
Ronan clicks his tongue, then inhales. “Elves are simple creatures, but they’re not that simple.
I reckon they’ll want to find the Sanvira’s assailant before they trust any human again.
” He starts down the center of the village, which is a straight shot to the forest’s edge.
“Not that they trusted them in the first place.”
“We won’t be able to return to the castle until their investigation is over, then,” I mutter behind him. The king should have no qualms about us entering Aldorin, assuming he values the sensitivity of this situation even slightly.
I bite my cheek in deliberation. Somehow, going into the forest with his approval makes the whole ordeal considerably less exciting. But it also makes it easier to get away with finding a tallup on the way.
Ronan rears his head, his eyes wild with that same enthusiastic mischief. He seems to enjoy this in a way I don’t entirely understand. Almost as though the deeper into danger we go, the more comfortable he becomes… Or maybe it’s just the grogginess of sleep getting to him.
“Don’t you worry, Ramiel. I’ll make this quick.”
My first step into the forest and every step after feels heavy, wrong.
The last time I saw a dead body, I was standing over my mother’s corpse.
Paintings around the castle depict death on the battlefield, swords plunged through chests, gore spraying the dirt.
All telling their stories in delicate brushstrokes.
I’m used to seeing those, but it will never evoke the emotions of the real thing. Actual death.
Every tree seems to watch us as we hobble beneath their branches.
Their wide leaves are green, vibrant, and shade the ground where we walk.
Thick, round yellow fruits move slightly with a gentle breeze.
Bright red berries wink on dark bushes. Aside from our feet crunching twigs and rocks beneath us, there is only silence.
The occasional whistle of wind rustling the bushes.
I hadn’t felt any huge difference when I crossed the boundary into Aldorin, only that I knew doing so might spark more rebellion. Ronan doesn’t seem to be worried, but this also isn’t his first time trekking through the woods.
Instead of separating, we search together. He agrees splitting up wouldn’t be the wisest idea.
After about thirty minutes of minimal conversation and a lot of searching, we find the remains of what appears to be a giant.
Long-nosed, wrinkled, and pale, the Sanvira lies naked, his clothing stolen from his monstrously large body, revealing a long, white torso and bony limbs. Enormous feet stick up in the mud. His pale skin glows in the dwindling starlight, making it impossible to miss.
If I didn’t know he was dead (and if he were clothed), I might think he’d simply lain down for a nap.
Instead of disgust or shock, relief settles in my shoulders and spine.
We’ve discovered the Sanvira’s body with a week to spare.
This feels too… easy .
I kneel next to the body to observe any damage. There are no abrasions, no obvious changes in skin tone, or wounds revealing how he died.
I push the thought of my mother from my mind as soon as I sense it creeping in. This situation is different.
Or is it?
Ronan bends over the body, his expression stoic as he pulls a marbled oval elixir from his burlap satchel.
It’s similar to the one he’d given Ether, but I can tell it’s somehow different.
He quickly slips it between the Sanvira’s thin, dry lips, then massages the corpse’s neck with two stiff fingers, forcing the lozenge down its throat.
I watch, unable to look away. How many of these rituals does he know? How many has he performed? Where did he learn them? And why does this all feel so routine to him?
Seconds pass in silence as Ronan avoids my stare and continues working the loose skin left and right.
“ Itta pa teea! What do you think you’re doing?” a voice shrieks, echoing through the trees.
With a flinch, I sink into a crouch and hover over the body. Its stench draws steadily into my nose, confirming that it is, in fact, dead. I look above, scanning for movement. My nostrils burn.
My heart races.
The trees’ leaves ripple a few trunks away. Something is hopping from branch to branch. A shadow. Closing in.
Ronan pushes the elixir deeper into the dead’s throat, then rocks onto his heels. He looks past me, unfazed and satisfied. As though he expected this confrontation—or worse, as though it doesn’t matter who watches us. Or maybe he hasn’t heard the shout. Have I imagined it?
“I asked what in the seven hells you think you’re doing!”
Before I can react to the tenor voice behind me, my head slams into the dirt, pain flashing behind my eyes as knees dig into my shoulder blades. Fingers press hard against my skull, pinning me down like an animal.