Part Two: The Whisper
14 - The Most Dangerous Thing in the Woods
Felix was sore all over and his legs trembled beneath him as he walked. The night was cold, the wind growing brisk, and he pulled Torsten’s bandana up under his eyes to stave off the brunt of it. It was starting to lose Torsten’s scent after being around his own neck for so long, and after the time spent in the river. And the new clothes he was wearing weren’t Torsten’s, and didn’t smell like him at all. And neither did the small boots his feet were crammed into, or the fur pelt so large there was room enough for two.
He was thankful for all of it, though, as he was warm enough, even if his toes were being squeezed and his trousers were a size too small. At least he didn’t have to worry about them falling down around his ankles; more likely, he’d have to pry them off when the time came to remove them, which would be sooner rather than later if he succeeded in actually finding Gethrin’s camp.
He paused at the thought, feeling sick. It wasn’t too late. He’d only traveled a few miles. He could turn around right now and return to camp, sneak back into the tent with Torsten, rest his head on his chest, and try to think of a better plan before morning. That would be the safe and sensible thing to do. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that what he was doing now was the right thing, that it was what needed to be done, had to be done.
For even more important than the information he could gather from Gethrin was the chance of steering him away from a second attack against Torsten and the camp, and that alone made the madness of his idea worthwhile. It would have been helpful to have his magic flute, to play Gethrin’s camp into a deep slumber so he could simply find and flee with the proof they needed. But the flute was gone, snatched away by the hands of that insufferable, murderous pirate, and Felix had only himself to depend on, to accomplish what needed doing. It would have to be enough. It had been enough to deal with Torsten, to make him want to release him, to try to take him home, and eventually, to agree to let him come back. If he could manage one bandit so deftly, surely he could manage another. But where thinking of persuading Torsten made him prickle with warmth, thinking of Gethrin made his blood run cold. He tried to clear the memory of Gethrin’s face from his mind so he could start moving again, replacing it with thoughts of Torsten—his lips and hands and scent and . . . with a long sigh, he continued walking, not entirely sure where he was going, but somehow sure he would find his way.
He tried not to cower when he heard movement in the surrounding trees, assuming it was the wolf pack tracking him through the forest. “Please don’t eat me,” he whispered, only mildly terrified. Torsten had promised the wolves weren’t dangerous, and he felt inclined to believe it, but the idea of being surrounded by the creatures still made him want to break into a run.
A branch snapped and Felix startled, spinning around to pin the source of the sound and see if it had sharp teeth. He yelped at the hooded figure standing close behind him, flailing backwards and slamming into a tree. Somewhere to his right, he heard a low growl—definitely a wolf—but his attention was locked on the ominous figure before him.
“Who are you?” he asked, reaching down to grab something useful from the ground, something—anything—that could be used as a weapon. He found a stubby stick and lifted it like a sword. His first thought was that Gethrin’s bandits had found him before he could find them, but there was only a single figure before him, dressed in a robe instead of a rough leather cape. His second thought was that one of Torsten’s people had followed him, but they would have spoken long before now. Felix swallowed hard, the stick shaking in his hand. “I said ‘who are you?’” he asked again, more forcefully.
The hooded figure raised its hands to show they were weaponless, and then stepped forward. “I’m a friend.” It was a woman’s voice, sweet and musical. Pretty. “You must be lost.”
Felix wondered whether he truly could be lost, considering he’d started out not knowing where he was going. “No more lost than usual,” he answered, peering forward and trying to see past the shadow of her hood.
The woman laughed. “This forest is too dangerous a place to not know where you’re going.”
Felix sighed, lowering his stick. Even a mysterious robed woman in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, didn’t trust him to take care of himself. “I know exactly where I’m going. I just don’t know exactly how to get there,” he answered guardedly. He was pretty confident the woman wasn’t going to kill him, but he was not without his suspicions. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
His voice was slightly accusatory, but when she answered, she didn’t sound bothered. “I live nearby,” she answered. “I heard you walking—I suspect the entire forest did—and assumed you were lost. It’s cold. Come have tea with me, and afterwards, I will help you find the right path. I’ve come to know this forest rather well.”
“I don’t know,” Felix began, pulling his pelt tight around his shoulders. “I don’t mean any offense, but I feel like I shouldn’t go off with someone whose face I haven’t even seen. I’m a flautist, you see, and a few songs start out that way, trusting strangers. They usually end badly.”
“I understand,” the woman said. There was something so gentle about the way she spoke. Felix found himself entranced by the sound of her. “Forgive me for scaring you. I will show my face, if it will make you more comfortable, but I must warn you.” Her head lowered. “The sight of me may upset you.”
Felix squinted at her, wishing her hood did not cast such a strong shadow over her face. “Upset me? Why? How would seeing you upset me?”
“I was attacked not long ago, and I bear the scars on my skin.”
“Oh.” Felix detected the sadness in her voice, and it made him step closer. He dropped the stick. “Don’t look to me for judgment. We all bear scars, only some are more visible than others. I’m not afraid.”
She hesitated, then lifted her hands to the rim of the hood and lowered it. The light was scant, but Felix could see the burns on her face, down her neck, and on her hands. She had no hair, just layers of smooth, ridged scars on her head, pink and shiny in the moonlight. But her eyes—her eyes were brilliant. They seemed to shimmer, cat-like, exquisite.
“I am sorry,” he said, taking a step closer. Even burned as she was, she retained an undeniable beauty, and he felt drawn to her.
She smiled gratefully. “You see me as I am and you’re not afraid. Come now. Have tea with me.”
Felix looked around, his arms crossed and his hands nestled under the large fur pelt he was wearing. He didn’t need tea. He needed to keep moving, needed to get to Gethrin. “I’m looking for a camp,” he said hesitantly. “A camp full of bandits—bad bandits—one that hasn’t been in these woods very long. Do you know of it? Can you point me in the right direction?”
Her head tilted as she appraised him curiously, and he couldn’t blame her; it was an odd request. “I might be able to, if you will sit and have tea with me first. Come. It’s not far.” She turned from him and started walking, not bothering to see if he followed.
It took only a few seconds of indecision before he took off after her, following as she navigated soundlessly through the trees. He kept his eyes open for any sign of the wolf he’d heard—he was certain he’d heard a growl—but if it was ever there, it had moved on now.
His steps were loud and clumsy compared to hers, but she said nothing of it, never looking back as she led him into a section of forest where the trees appeared to be fuller and closer together, their denseness slowly increasing to the point where it became difficult to maneuver past the low branches. With so little light, he could barely see her at all, but just as he was beginning to panic, to fear that he had indeed fallen victim to a beautiful, malevolent stranger from the stories, who was luring him home to make him into Felix stew, he stumbled into a small, moonlit clearing. And in the hills that inexplicably rose on its far side, he saw the cleanly cut entrance to a cave, its interior lit b
y torchlight.
“Here we are,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder as she continued ahead. “Come rest and be warm.”
From within the clearing, the surrounding forest appeared as dark and impenetrable as the mightiest wall, and even if he could find his way out, he’d have no idea which way to go once he did. So, taking a deep breath and summoning his courage, he followed her inside. If he ended up as her breakfast, at least he’d have avoided becoming Gethrin’s dessert.
Felix was surprised when the narrow tunnel that led from the entrance opened into an area easily twice the size of Torsten’s meeting tent. He was even more surprised to see others within the cave. He’d imagined she lived alone, intent on concealing her disfigurement and only venturing out when her peace was disturbed by the occasional loud, lost flautist. But he’d been mistaken. There were thirty-some men and women in what he took to be the main room, all busy with work of some kind or another, despite it being the middle of the night, stoking a fire pit or mending clothes or tying up strings of herbs to dry from the comfortably high ceiling. As she led him through without a word, all who saw her stopped to smile at her dotingly, and all of them wore the same robe she did. A memory flashed in Felix’s mind of Scorch wearing one of similar make. Felix had taken him for a monk at the time, but these cave-dwelling people couldn’t be monks. What would monks be doing living in a cave in the middle of the woods?
She led him to the back of the room, pointing him to a softly cushioned seat at one of the many small tables that comprised their cooking and dining area. A steaming kettle was already on the table, as if a guest had been imminently expected, and she placed a mug at both their places as she joined him.
After she poured, Felix took the mug in both hands and inhaled the floral scented steam. “This smells so good,” he said, waiting for her to take the first sip. “And it’s wonderfully bright and warm in here. Thank you. You’re very kind.”
In the light of the torches, the woman’s burns were far more extensive and prominent than they’d appeared in the near dark, but he didn’t find her hard to look at. Her face was still compelling, her voice charming.
“And you’re something else, aren’t you?” she asked, setting aside her mug and leaning closer, inspecting him. “There’s something about you,” she said smoothly. “You’re different.”
“I am?” Felix sipped at his tea nervously, wondering if he was about to be offered a fortune telling. Is that what these people were? A cave-dwelling group of fortune-tellers?
“Oh, yes. I can feel it. I was drawn to you in the forest,” she said. “I felt compelled to travel in your direction, and there you were. Like magic.”
Felix nearly choked. “Pardon?”
“Forgive me,” she said, sitting back with a humble shrug of her shoulders. “I have a sense for these things, for finding those among us who are special. And special things find me in return.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” he said, “but I’m just a flautist. There’s nothing special about me.”
She shook her head. “No. You’re much more than that. But what?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not an elemental,” she decided after a lengthy gaze, sounding slightly put off. “But there’s definitely a trace of otherness surrounding you.”
“Oh!” Felix snapped his fingers. “I had a magic flute for a while. At least I think it was magic. It’s gone now, but I used it quite often. Maybe that’s what you’re sensing? Residual … flute magic?”
She considered him for a moment, eyes sparkling “What did this magic flute do?”
“I don’t know for sure, but when I played it, things I wanted to happen would happen. Usually. It’s like, if I was feeling something strongly enough, the flute would manifest my feelings. It sounds crazy, I’m well aware.” He sighed, giving the tea another sip. “It was stolen, unfortunately. By pirates. Can you believe it?”
“What is your name, I wonder?” she asked.
“Felix.”
“Felix,” she repeated, a grin tugging at her lips. “Do you believe in the Gods, Felix?”
He paused, not knowing quite how to answer. He threw prayers to the sky as often as the next person, but he’d never considered himself a man of worship. He’d given the idea no thought, no real consideration. “I don’t not believe,” he admitted, frowning at his own vagueness.
His lack of surety didn’t seem to bother her. She just kept smiling. “You’re a flautist, you said. Have you heard of ‘The Song of Whispers’?”
He shook his head in displeasure. “No.” It was not often he was unfamiliar with a song or story, and he disliked admitting to any ignorance pertaining to music.
She nodded, as if she’d expected that very answer. “It’s not surprising. The song is very old and few know of it. They’ve certainly never heard it. Most don’t deserve to hear it. But I believe there is a scroll of it in the library of the Royal Quarter. I strongly suggest seeking it out when next you’re able. You might find it illuminating.”
“Could you not sing it for me now?” he asked hopefully.
“I could not. It is a song to be found, not given, I’m afraid,” she said. “But no worries. With a certain luck, you will find it. But there is something I can give you. Something that will suit your immediate needs much better than a song. You seek a bandit camp. I have a feeling you know there are two in the area.”
Felix straightened at the sudden change in subject. He had nearly forgotten his purpose for being in the woods, beyond enjoying tea in a cave. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve come from one camp, in search of the other.”
She studied him carefully. “You’re looking for the leather-clad bandits,” she stated. It wasn’t a question. “Their leader is a very wicked man.”
“I know,” he agreed, fighting off a shiver. “But I still need to find him. Do you know where he is?”
“Some of us are touched with a gift, Felix,” she began. “It can be a burden, but never forget that it is a gift first.” She extended a hand to him. It was pink with scar tissue. “You could have a place here, with us. I believe you’d find yourself far less burdened in our company.”
He stared at her offered hand and felt a sudden swell of distress. This was not the place he needed to be. This woman and this cave, as warm and welcoming as they were, were not meant for him. He felt it intrinsically, the same way he felt the irresistible urge to find Gethrin. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I can’t stay. People are depending on me.” He declined her hand, setting the empty mug down and putting his hands in his lap. “How do I find the wicked bandits? Please tell me.”
He feared she would react unkindly to his brashness, but all she did was smile. “They are northeast, about five miles. Look for a circle of stones to exit our clearing, continue straight until you leave the barrier, and two hundred paces on you will see the tracks. The wicked ones rode through near the beginning of this long night, on their way to slaughter the other camp. I trust you weren’t present for that?”
“No,” Felix breathed, thinking of all the bodies he’d helped feed to the flames. It felt far away.
She hummed. “Lucky.”
He stood abruptly and offered her a quick bow. “Thank you for the tea and your help. I have to go.”
“Wait,” she said, rising. He watched as she went to a shelf that had been carved into the wall, pulling down a jumble of freshly cut flowers that were red with white spots. As he wondered where the fresh flowers had been obtained, she bundled a handful together, tying their stems with twine, then folded them into a small piece of parchment. Returning, she laid them gently in his hand. “Chew, then swallow, at least six petals before you go to him. It will help ease the pain.”
She closed her hand over his for a moment, then raised her head to look intensely into his eyes. “May the Gods be with you, Felix. I will be here, should ever you change your mind.”
He nodded, and when she dropped her eyes from his, he backed away. After a few steps, he turned, w
alking quickly through the cave, trying not to knock into anyone in his rush. When he made it to the entrance, into the cold, fresh air, he took a deep breath before looking back. He could see her, sitting alone at the table, her hood back around her head. He should have gotten her name, her story, where she’d come from and why she’d been attacked, and how it was she knew the things she did. But for whatever reason he’d done none of that, he’d not even tried. But at least he’d gotten what he needed, the way to Gethrin’s camp.
Stepping out into the clearing, he put the flowers in his satchel and started hunting the ground for the circle of stones. It took him some time to find them, and to fight his way again through the dense barrier of trees, but the prints of so many horses were easy to find, and exactly where the robed woman had said they would be. With a strong desire to leave the mysterious burned woman and her cave-dwelling companions behind him, he set out to follow the tracks.
He walked quickly—as quickly as he could manage given his sore muscles and tightly squeezed feet—his mind racing in remembrance of all that had occurred since the night began. The bodies, the blood, the flames of the pyre, the taste of Torsten’s mouth . . . one could live a hundred years and not experience the depth of feelings he had in a single night.
After some time, he stopped, pushing his curls behind his ears and listening. He heard voices. Moving quietly as he could now, sheltering from tree to tree, he crept forward. There were lights ahead, campfires, and then the snorting of horses, the smell of cooking. A laugh echoed through the trees, coarse and confident, and he knew it had come from Gethrin by the way it sped his heart and stilled his feet.
He’d found the camp.
Almost instinctively, Felix reached into his satchel and carefully plucked six petals off the flowers. How the woman had known what he was facing, he had no idea, nor did he have the time to examine it. He heard Gethrin laugh once more and placed the velvety petals on his tongue. They tasted sweet. He chewed them thoroughly, then swallowed, trying not to focus on why he was doing so. The effect was not instantaneous, but why would it be? It was not as if Gethrin would smell him on the wind and come crashing through the brush to have his way with him like a wild, rutting boar. Still, he couldn’t remain hidden in the shadows forever. He had come all this way, he had sought him out, and he had to act.
The King's Whisper Page 22
