Chapter 7
The sun rises over a sweeping hillside of scorched earth and dying greenery.
Shadow is exactly as expected—a desecrated land crippled with blight.
The air cools as I descend the mountainside trail and cross a vast open valley of boulders and rotten black oak.
Only a faint hum whispers from the earth.
There’s no life here. No birds or field mice.
No beetles or spiders, even. I knew the stories of our western neighbors, but nothing could prepare me for the smell—rotting bone and over-bloomed hyacinths.
I follow a narrow crossing through the field to the brambled tree line on its far side, my hand never leaving my dagger’s pommel.
By midday, I’m chilled to the bone. Even the air out here breathes Morvayne’s frost. It’s frigid and barren, and the backwoods are all too quiet. All too still. But most certainly not empty.
There are eyes in these trees. I feel them following me…no, hunting me, and I don’t dare let my gaze linger too long on the shadows. There are things that don’t wish to be seen, and so I respect their wishes. I know better than to fuck with the ancient forces of the earth.
A black sash tied around the base of a massive stump marks the next turn in the trail, taking me deeper into the heart of the forest. Three more trail markers bring me to a slithering brook, its streaming water whispering in lost languages and ancient melodies.
I jump the narrow footbridge and scan the canopy for the next marker.
By dusk, I’ve second and triple guessed every twist and turn on the trail.
These woods are endless, stretching into the horizon in thickly settled patches of thorny brush and gnarled trees.
A rotten stump, infested with lichen, has me wondering if I’ve lost my mind.
Is that log just eerily familiar to one I’ve passed or am I going in circles?
It’s too late now to question the blind faith I’ve put in the courier’s advice, so I press on, locating the next scrap of torn black fabric.
It’s one I haven’t seen before. That’s promising, at least.
Astora help me.
When the daylight fades, this mission starts to feel helpless.
I’m significantly underprepared with no bearings and a dry water flask.
But don’t worry, I’ve got more weapons than all of Smoke’s armory.
Gods be good, I’m a dumbass. I shouldn’t be allowed to make these types of decisions, but it’s far too late to turn around—if I could even find the path back.
The silence out here leaves me breathless. After years of deafening violence, how can I withstand the quiet? I kick a rock with my boot. For someone who’s constantly sought the serenity of isolation, I’m a fucking baby when I’m truly alone.
I tell myself if I don’t keep moving, I’ll be stuck out here with the nightmares and wraiths, but they’re no worse than those of my own creation. Maybe I’m not running from Shadow’s ancient creatures, but the demons that come when there’s vacancy in the silence.
Focus on the target. The mission. I repeat the words I’ve told myself over and over again.
When I spiral so far into violence that I barely recognize my own reflection, I whisper that mantra, but now the weight of this place keeps it lodged in my throat.
Just before midnight, I reach the tavern.
A faint glow of candle lit tables wisps through the trees with the rustle of an approaching storm.
Half mad from the journey, half terrified of the backwoods, I shuffle through the entrance.
Exhaustion’s grip loosens when the heat from a blazing hearth warms my face.
Only a handful of patrons remain, most glazed and pink faced from one too many ales.
“Last call is soon, so make it quick,” the barkeep says from behind a cracked slate counter.
I keep my eyes low as I take a seat beside a stumbling woman and the man she’s clearly decided to take home.
The lovers share quiet murmurs of drunken seduction, and my cheeks blaze at their wandering fingers and parted lips.
The last night I shared with another ended in my knife pressed to his throat after waking to find him rustling through my top drawer.
I’ve never had the best taste in partners.
My preference for toxic, broken men has left me full of regrets, but the eager thrill of being just shy of danger is one I can’t seem to shake off.
Seeing these two, now engaged in such normal, unremarkable affection, sends a tinge of heartache through me.
A few more weeks, Nova. Then you can engage in all the drunken flirtations you want.
“Just a pint, please,” I say to the barkeep. She nods and pours a chipped glass to its brim.
“You’re new to these parts,” she says—not a question, but a statement—and places the drink before me. I gulp the ale down, then gesture for a refill.
“I’m here on business,” I reply.
“Two pints doesn’t seem all too professional to me.” She raises her needle thin brow. “What sort of business?”
“I’m delivering a package.” She’s quiet for a while, contemplating whether to trust me, no doubt. “Have a look.” I pull the directive from my satchel and smooth it out on the bar. “Official business.”
The woman squints at the parchment, then returns her brown eyes to me.
“Out back.”
“Thanks.” I toss her a couple of stipen and rise from my seat, leaving the lovers to their late night whispers.
The hallway leading to the back rooms is a mess of doors with rusted hinges and tarnished locks. This place makes the roughest of bars in Smoke look fit for royalty. It’s damp, and dirty. Even just traversing the narrow corridor leaves my skin sticky with rotten wood and mildewy grime.
The exit creaks in protest as I step into the night, taking in the fresh taste of midnight stars.
Moonlight washes over a small paddock with two white mares grazing in the ankle-high grass.
Just beyond their enclosure of makeshift fencing is a barn…
or at least what once was a barn. It’s by no means suitable for a complex smuggling operation, but this is Shadow after all. Stranger things have happened.
I reach the open doorway and take a moment to gather myself.
The courier never specified what she carried, because she assumed I knew, but now the satchel is heavier than rock.
This could go well…or gravely for the worst. I steal a glimpse inside.
Something gold and far too expensive to be tossed into a ripped up sack glints in the starlight.
So gold or jewels from Ashar’s vault then.
I swallow the lump in my throat and re-secure the clasps.
Piri’s warning comes back to me in whispers, no louder than the late night breeze. Cael Fleetwing isn’t someone I’d go looking for if I were you.
But it’s too late now. I’m here. I’m doing this whether I gain my freedom or meet Morvayne. The flickering glow of candlelight heats my cheeks as I enter the barn.
“Business?” A man dressed in decadent purple velvet sits at a table center to the space. The absurd contradiction of his lavish attire amidst the hay bales and chicken shit is a sight to behold, but I stifle the grin before my lip twitches. This is most certainly not the time to crack jokes.
“I’ve brought cargo,” I reply. The man’s hand, adorned with glittering rings of every precious gemstone, juts toward me.
I blink.
“Gods, courier, your directives? I don’t have all night,” he snaps.
My cheeks heat, but I rustle through the satchel and retrieve the scroll before any suspicion sets in.
Without glancing up from the ledger propped open before him, the man takes my directives and sets them beside a stack of unopened scrolls, each carrying the emblem of a different faction.
Other trade authorizations…it’s not just Smoke who’s taken interest in Fleetwing’s goods then.
Maybe that’s somewhat relieving? Knowing Ashar isn’t the only one gathering dragonstones.
“Leave the package just there. Cael is finishing up another deal, he’ll be out in a moment,” the man says, nodding to the closed door on our left.
The barn is colder than before, but I shove off the creeping dread and lean against a support beam. The man returns to his ledgers, humming a tune as he flips through pages of inked parchment.
Maybe minutes, maybe hours, pass and finally the office door swings open. Another courier with chestnut curls and tawny skin appears from within. The mossy green cloak sashed to his shoulders suggests he’s from Storm. His emerald eyes flash when they lock on me. Shit.
The courier approaches, his massive hands lingering in the shadows of his cloak. He’s armed and he knows I know. My eyes dip to my boots, but not without catching on the speckle of crimson blood staining his trousers. My dagger is unsheathed and gripped tightly before my next breath.
“Cael,” he calls over his shoulder, his voice smoother than velvet. Another voice from the office grunts a response, but it’s muffled, shrouded, like he stands behind a waterfall.
“I thought we agreed. No other appointments today…” The courier grits his teeth and turns on his heels. A ripple of green curls around the door frame as the stranger disappears back into the office, leaving the entrance open behind him.
“Who is that?” I ask the first man behind the desk. He’s no longer invested in his ledgers, I realize, but straight-backed and standing.
“That’s none of your concern,” he snaps, and the shrill of panic in his tone flares my pulse. “Come back tomorrow. Cael cannot see you tonight.”
“What? No, my client is on a strict deadline,” I reply.
“Trust me, girl, you don’t want to be here tonight.”
His words hit me harder than they should, but I’m determined to stand my ground. There’s no delay. No walking away. I’ve come all this way, gotten this close to my freedom, I’m not leaving. He sees the resolve flash in my eyes and shakes his head.
“Listen.” He steps toward me, speaking in mere whispers. “That is Isra Kaari. Do you know who he works for?”