Wyshea Shadows

by Geoffrey Saign

  “I’m sorry.” Jennelle sounded genuine. She pointed toward the stables. “Your yellow one-horn is beautiful. Her coat matches your hair and eyes. Do you ride her much?’

  “Sometimes.”

  “One-horns are rare. Where did you get it?”

  “In the Dead Lands. After my family was murdered.” She closed her eyes for a moment.

  Jennelle touched her arm. “I’m sorry, Camette.”

  Camette’s lips twisted and she saw empathy in Jennelle’s eyes. “It’s been a long time.”

  “We have a lot of orphans here, and we’re happy to provide a home for them.” Gasten cleared his throat, sounding more formal. “You were informed, Camette, that newcomers to Hope Citadel are on probation for the first month, especially the cook.”

  Camette’s stomach tightened, her insides hot again. They were going to fire her. She didn’t have the will to move somewhere else and had hoped to rest at the citadel for a while. Northerners were decent. Not like the savages of the Dead Lands that only wanted to kill her or abuse her. She decided to beg for more time.

  Her voice dulled and she lowered her head. “Can I have two more weeks?”

  “No,” said Gasten. “I wanted to make it official. You can stay as long as you like. Our last cook decided to return to Prosperus, so we’re fortunate you arrived when you did.”

  She looked up, not hearing any sarcasm in his voice. “Really?”

  Jennelle smiled. “You’re the best cook we’ve ever had, Camette. All the Northerners I’ve talked to hope you’ll consider making Hope Citadel your home.”

  Camette sighed. “I haven’t had a home for a long time.”

  “Well, you have one now,” said Jennelle. “Northerners are like a big family. Everyone looks out for each other.”

  No one had asked her to be part of their family since she had lost hers. It might have been the reason she felt drawn to come here. It brought tears to her eyes. She gave a formal bow. “I accept.”

  “Good,” said Gasten. “You’ll earn Prosperan coin now, along with room and board. It’s not much, but we all share what we earn.” He glanced down. “And I forgot to introduce another important member of our family.” He scratched the fangor’s neck. “Red.”

  Camette examined the beast as it rose to all fours. It had hairless red skin, wide jaws, three sets of curved canines, a massive chest, and sharp nails on its four feet. The beast stood as high as her chest and wagged its drooping tail. She loved the creature immediately. Fangors hadn’t been in the Wild Lands when she had left.

  The fangor did a half-hop and bent over to lick her hand. Camette stroked its neck.

  “Red is a good judge of character.” Gasten smiled broadly. “Enjoy the night, Camette.”

  “Good night,” said Jennelle.

  “Blessings.”

  As Jennelle and Gasten walked away, Camette heard Gasten’s words, “I like her. Now, daughter, tell me about Malley.”

  It made Camette feel accepted. Normal. Gasten wasn’t allied with F’ahbay. Those in league with F’ahbay were violent, selfish, and seeking power or spoils. Gasten and Jennelle’s sociable chatter and kindness reminded her of how much she missed decency. She had spent too many years surrounded by cruelty.

  She didn’t have the heart to tell them of the impending death and misery F’ahbay would bring to all of them. She had to find a way to release Sontay without killing him. Then they could kill F’ahbay together.

  She closed her eyes, trying as she had many times every day to find F’ahbay. But no clarity came. He was close, she was certain of it, but something blocked her from discovering his exact hiding place. It confused her. And then she understood.

  Her claws and fangs grew out and she wanted to scream. Mageen. Again. They had to be helping F’ahbay. Hiding him. Yet she hadn’t detected any mageen nearby.

  It took her a few moments to compose her thoughts and features.

  Taking a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to the overcast sky, imagining the millions of hidden stars, and remembering Sontay singing to her. So long ago. It drove her sadness deeper and she lowered her head. She thought of holding Sontay while he whispered in her ear and caressed her with his lips. It took several moments for her to let the image go.

  Her parched throat burned and she swayed on her feet. She needed water fast and the stairs were going to take too long.

  Turning around, she casually strolled across the walkway, glancing left and right at the east and west tower guards to be sure they were doing their job and scrutinizing the night, pretending they could see in the dark. The other Northerners had drifted away, and Gasten and Jennelle had their backs to her too, sauntering east along the walkway.

  When she reached the edge, she checked the triangular courtyard a hundred feet below. No one stirred, so she jumped. Warm air rushed against her face. Landing soundlessly, she ran across the crushed stone toward the water pump room.

  She had to visit the big yellow too, but the mare could wait. Her burning stomach was more pressing. She also decided to go out of the citadel the next day and look for F’ahbay and his mageen. F’ahbay was close by, perhaps with the mageen. She would enjoy killing the mageen.

  As she ran, she realized she was ready to fight F’ahbay. Ready to die too, if need be. Still without honor, but ready to fight for Sontay.

  “Oh, Sontay!” Why hadn’t she been ready to die for him so long ago? Why had she run like a coward?

  3

  Hunted

  Her head bowed, Famere walked through the humid forest, trying to find a reason to skip the evening wolf bonding ceremony. If she bonded, she would be proclaimed the next seer. Her eyes dulled when she thought about interpreting visions, gathering herbs, and healing warriors. Boring. She wanted something different, to explore and see new things. And she was sick of the war.

  Stopping in front of a small, ghostly white tree, she yanked off its green healing leaves. Her nose wrinkled over their pungent scent as she stuffed them into her medicine pouch. A flock of yellow songbirds sang in the tree, and one dropped down to her shoulder. The bird’s whistling song was soothing. Famere continued pulling leaves, careful not to startle it.

  Death. The word appeared in her mind again, as it had for several days now, making her hands sweat. Was it a message from Beloved or just her fear of bonding?

  Crunch. The faint sound came from the west. A foot crushing a leaf. But not an animal. Standing utterly still, she listened. The songbirds continued singing and leaves rustled in the light breeze, but nothing unusual stirred.

  After a few moments she kept working, her thoughts drifting to Ison’s strong shoulders, his handsome face, and soft lips. She couldn’t imagine life without him. Yet she wasn’t sure if he would pledge to her if she refused to be the next seer. That concern had knitted her brow all morning.

  She paused to watch a small badger walk up to her, sniffing near her feet before it moved on.

  Crunch.

  She froze. There were no unusual scents or noises, but the birds had stopped singing, and the one on her shoulder flew away.

  Whirling, she ran.

  It had to be staves. Cooing, the tiny, green-furred suu clinging to her neck tightened its hold with its four thin limbs, burying its small, round head in its fur.

  “It’s all right, little one,” whispered Famere. But she panicked when the terrain didn’t look familiar. She had strayed into enemy territory. Stupid. Her father, Darkas, would tell her that too, if she lived to tell him.

  Running northeast, she wove around the shining three-hundred-foot black norre trees, the soil cool beneath her bare feet. As always, the sky was overcast. Barely dawn and already warm. Her bodice and knee breeches, both made of woven grass, allowed the light breeze to cool her, but sweat still streamed down her neck, beneath her long green hair and over her emerald skin.

  Her pulse pounded and she kept glancing over her shoulder. The staves were going to torture her if they caught her. Her lips pursed when she consid
ered dying alone, apart from her family and friends. Away from her love, Ison.

  She steadied her thoughts. It was one of Darkas’ rules; Always stay calm. Tall and lithe, she was a good runner and no stave could catch a wyshea.

  “Protect me, Beloved,” she whispered. No one had seen Beloved for a thousand years, but Famere believed their living goddess still watched over them.

  She listened for pursuers. Nothing.

  A large meadow blocked her path northeast. She bolted from the trees into the waist-high grass, the scent of green growth strong in the air, the ground drier. Though risky to run in the open, she decided that going around the field would expose her to the enemy longer. Besides, on the far side of the meadow she recognized wyshea territory. Only a little farther and she would be safe.

  To the southwest, not far behind her, another leaf crumpled. She ran faster, biting her lip. She must have left a trail to follow, something no experienced wyshea ever did.

  Midfield, she glimpsed movement to the northwest and stopped, her body rigid. A monstrous creature ran in a blur through the woods bordering the meadow, pausing just inside the tree line.

  “Raacor,” she murmured.

  Her mother had told her stories about the legendary creatures, but she had never seen one. Three feet taller than Famere, the eight-foot-tall red cat eyed her with hunched shoulders of knotted muscle. She was wrong about the staves; the raacor had been hunting her all along.

  Avoiding eye contact, she focused on the cat’s thick legs. The predator was too fast to outrun. She would die horribly. Surprisingly, she imagined her friend Goflin crying for her when he heard. Who would he sing his silly songs to when she died?

  Her suu quieted. A butterfly flew by her nose. Dragonflies hummed. Mice scurried nearby. But she didn’t blink. Listening to the raacor’s thumping heart, she waited.

  As if in a dream, the green meadow dissolved until she stood deep inside mrilwood in the bonding meadow at dusk. Wyshea warriors ran all around her and ghostly slayers rode their two-horned maqal, led by brutal fangors. Weapons clashed and hooves stomped the ground. Her parents’ faces floated in front of her and the scent of blood filled the air.

  Fast as they had arrived, the images evaporated.

  Famere gasped, taking one unsteady step forward. She had never had a vision and this one made her shudder. Now she understood the word that had plagued her over the last days; death. Her parents were going to die at the evening ceremony, and she wouldn’t be able to warn them about it. That brought a tear to her eye.

  The raacor lowered its head, its thick hind legs bunched.

  Famere made a soft click with her tongue, which her people were able to hear for long distances. If a border sentry responded before the cat dragged her off, her parents would be able to kneel beside her remains and wish her a safe journey with Beloved to the sahr meadows.

  From forty yards away, the cat leapt—a flash of red.

  Jumping out of the beast’s path, Famere unhooked the eight foot coiled thrip from her belt. Woven from grass soaked in norre sap, the thin, sharp whip had a silver sheen and stonelike strength. But no thrip would kill this predator. Neither would her stone dagger.

  Landing smoothly, the beast pivoted and stalked her. Its closed mouth hid all but the tips of its fangs.

  Skilled enough to float the thrip, Famere kept it leveled like a spear. Backing up with stiff legs, she flicked the whip up at the cat while retreating one step at a time, striking the air in front of the beast to keep it at bay.

  She considered striking one of the beast’s eyes, something Ison wouldn’t hesitate to do. But since the predator would still kill her, she couldn’t bring herself to give the cat a crippling injury. Darkas wouldn’t either.

  She tired and the predator grew bolder, stalking to within six feet of her. Its striped tail twitched.

  Giving one last burst of effort, Famere moved the thrip continuously with flashing speed, striking close to the animal’s mouth. She didn’t want to believe she would die today. Maybe scouts were on the way.

  The gleaming, arcing line kept the big cat mesmerized, but her arm wearied and the thrip drifted lower.

  The raacor rushed forward, flashing a paw at her. She could only lean away as a six-inch claw tore across her upper chest.

  She screamed and stumbled back.

  A blow from the side slammed her to the ground. Grass and dirt pushed into her mouth as savage snarls and roars erupted above her. She curled up on her side as large paws bit the earth all around her. Another predator.

  As the beasts fought, she tried to crawl away, digging her sharp black nails into the soil. Large claws tore the ground near her face and she stopped, burying her head in the grass and clutching dirt. Terrified, she waited for teeth to clamp around her neck or tear off a limb.

  A yowl cut through the air and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Silence.

  Trembling, she risked a peek. Nothing. She lifted her head.

  From the meadow’s west edge, the raacor glared at her. The beast gave an angry cry and blurred away into the forest.

  Rising to her knees, Famere spied two immense dark shapes fading into the trees on the opposite side of the meadow. They were gone before she could see them clearly. Dizzy, she spat out dirt and wiped grass from her lips, taking quick, shallow breaths to clear her mind.

  Just above her bodice, blood ran from a gash across her upper chest, stretching from shoulder to shoulder. Clean like a dagger cut, the wound burned.

  Her hands shook as she opened her woven hip bag and poured water across the cut. It stung, making her groan. From her medicine pouch she retrieved remedies.

  First she sprinkled dried white bark across the wound to staunch the bleeding. Next, she pinched the cut closed with her fingers, while patting healing leaves over it. The leaves had a small amount of sap on their surface and clung to her skin, holding the tear together. The sap would also aid the healing. Her chest ached.

  Woozy, she sat back, trying not to faint, her eyes blurry for a few moments.

  Clods of torn grass and soil lay strewn around her. Relaxing its hold on her neck, the suu cooed, trying to sooth itself and Famere’s wildly beating heart.

  Gently, she stroked the slender animal, which stared at her with its large green eyes. “You’re safe, little one.”

  Rising on wobbly legs, she grasped grass stems to steady herself, her mind sleepy. Inhaling sharply, she forced herself to concentrate. She picked up her thrip. With one flick of her wrist, she coiled it into her palm. It took several tries with her trembling hand to hook it onto her belt.

  Light flashed, and she looked up. A tiny burst of sunshine shone through the wall of clouds. She gaped. It lasted only moments, and then the clouds closed again. Suddenly she yearned to see the sun, blue sky, stars, and moon her parents and other elders talked about in their stories, all hidden by the clouds for a century.

  Her mother, Mereeth, said the clouds had first arrived as a thin layer, allowing most sunlight through. But over many decades they had thickened. Lately, the clouds had darkened more with every passing day, darkening Famere’s mood too.

  Squatting, with two fingers she grasped a few grains of soil at her feet and dropped them into the small leather life-pouch tied to her belt. Surviving a raacor and the sun’s light were important memories to gather.

  “Blessings, Beloved,” she whispered. Sighing, she shuffled across the meadow and into the forest, her legs weaker with every step.

  Despite the clouds, the forest shone with light. Silvery and shiny, the sap covering the norre trees kept the forest alive even without direct sunshine. Filled with sahr—Beloved’s sacred energy—the sap also gave off a gentle, feminine melody, floating out from each tree as if the whole forest sang in unison. Wyshea believed the goddess sang to them through the sahr. The sound calmed Famere, reminding her of Beloved’s love, and strengthened her resolve to reach home.

  She increased her pace to a slow jog, trying to find a smoo
th rhythm that didn’t cause her wound to ache. If she stopped to rest, she feared she would be too weak to begin again. And she was too close to enemy territory to sleep here.

  She kept her feet moving, anticipating a cool drink of water, followed by a nap in the cave. Closing her eyes to slits, open just enough to see what lay ahead, she imagined Ison waking her with a soft kiss.

  Her parents would be worried about her, and she wanted to tell them about the vision. She also saw a way out of the bonding ceremony. The omens had given it to her.

  Ahead, she heard a faint heartbeat coming from behind a tree. It forced her to slow to a walk. Her wound throbbed fiercely and dizziness made her legs wobble. She rubbed her eyes awake.

  “Gof,” she whispered. She waited for a response. After a few moments of silence, she murmured, “Yameen.”

  Still no answer. One of her friends was playing a trick on her. Their silence annoyed her, but it had to be Goflin or Yameen. Ison had to prepare for the ceremony, so it couldn’t be him. Besides, he was too serious to be silly.

  She hoped it was Goflin. The same age as her, sixteen, he was strong enough to carry her home. It would serve him right. Eager to see a friendly face, she smiled wearily. Goflin was easy to talk to. She would tell him about the raacor and the sunlight, if she could stay awake.

  As she crept across the forest floor toward the tree, the subtle scent of green wood came to her. Not Goflin. Yameen. Gathering herbs in the forest. She could at least lean on her friend’s shoulder while they walked. Her suu was quiet.

  Wanting to surprise Yameen, she slid quietly halfway around the massive tree trunk, and stopped.

  A six-foot stave had his back to her. A cloak of dark green leaves hung from his shoulders, and thin lines of sahr, invisible except to wyshea sight, connected the leaves along their serrated edges. Massive leaves covered his lean torso and legs like a second skin, and were also joined by the silver energy. The stave’s thin brown arms were bare, and growths like grass roots ran from his scalp to his shoulders.