Before she could think about it, she was by the door, intending to lift the bolt and disappear into the night. Instead, her eyes went to the lantern. A spurt of wicked jealousy shot through her. Why should Hava have it all? Lifting the light off its perch, she turned and threw it into the midst of the baskets, perfect baskets made of reeds, light and bendable but not breakable. The lantern smashed, and the flame leaked out, licking through the baskets like a beast hungry for nights on end finally devouring its prey.
A mixture of glee and apprehension came over Zilpha as she watched the baskets burn. A darkness seeped out of her soul, and she was glad. Burn it down. Let them pay.
As quickly as the sensation came, it passed, captivating Zilpha with a raw terror. If someone saw the fire, they’d call for help and find her, standing over the dancing flames. She’d be questioned and punished, most likely thrown into the city jail reserved for the worst offenders. The jail had been built shortly after the war, for while most people converted, there were some who still followed the old ways and prayed to the immortals who wreaked havoc on the South World, controlling it with their rule of blood. She would not last a day in prison, and what would happen to Bram?
A cough shook her throat and Zilpha stumbled toward the fire, tears leaking out of her eyes as she stomped it to death, grabbing wool to beat out the last stubborn flames. Terror consumed her, and with fumbling fingers she unbolted the door, opened it, and ran into the darkness. Instantly she tripped on her torn dress, hurling her body head long into the grass. Frightened someone had heard, or even worse, seen her, she leaped up and ran to the wooden gate, slipping through it and continuing down the cobblestone road.
It was later than she’d thought. Darkness gripped the land, and the homes were closed, the last lights of the street winking out. Now was the time for the thieves and night revelers to come out. There were those who were up to no good, and it was a dangerous time for her to be alone. Zilpha took a deep breath as a new fear struck her. There was no one to walk her home, and she bit her lip, recalling stories of those taken by the night, returning breathless and soiled at their doorsteps. There were pirates that came to port now and then, stealing from the rich and causing chaos for no other reason. There were still warmongers, people angry at the turn of events when the war between the mortals and immortals had ended and they were left in disaster. The mortals, led by the Great Conqueror, swept the land, taking out anyone who had the potential to oppose them. Even now there were Watchers, a sect called the Disciples of Ithar, who roamed from city to city, keeping watch for uprisings.
A moan escaped her lips, and she ran as if the shadows of the night chased her. There was only one place she could request safety if they would let her in. And why would they? She hadn’t been faithful in going to the temple or bringing gifts and offerings to those who kept it. Maybe if she begged and promised to be more faithful, they would take her in on such a night. When dawn rose, she’d hurry home, find Bram, and make a new plan. She only had until nightfall before Lord Arden would seek her out.
The temple rose like a frowning giant into the night, the bulk of its hewn stones blocking the Green Light and hiding the starry sky. The temple was unfinished, for it had been begun just after the war, and the rough stone had to be quarried and carried back and forth. The temple was a cultural point of the city and it was not governed by the Warden. It was built by workers who volunteered their time or the rich who gave grandiose gifts to the friars and priestesses who dwelled there, providing guidance to the lost souls coming to grieve, pray, and meditate.
Mathilda went occasionally, claiming it brought her solace, but Zilpha skirted the temple. It made her emotions flutter and her thinking felt jarred when she sought something beyond the here and now. If it wasn’t tangible, she wasn’t interested. Going to the temple and feeling peace would not give her food, clothing, and a roof over her head. Only her wits could bring that to her.
Regardless, she slowed her steps as she trotted up the last swell in the hillock on her way to the temple. Her chest heaved with relief, for she’d met no one on her way. Perhaps it was too early for the people of the night to stir.
A muskiness hung in the air, the scent of animals and dung. Zilpha frowned and shrugged her shoulders. Once or twice she’d seen a friar leading a goat or sheep to slaughter. They had to eat something. Just as she crested the hill and leaned against a stone wall to catch her breath, the moon came out, gleaming in its almost full circumference. Usually the harvest festival took place on the night of the full moon, and this was no exception. In seven days, the moon would be full and the city of the Sanga Sang would rejoice.
Lifting an arm, Zilpha wiped sweat off her forehead and took a deep breath, running lines through her mind, memorizing what to say to whoever would answer the temple door. As she crept to the five broad stone steps that led up into the dark yawning mouth of the temple, her foot slipped and she skidded, just catching herself on her elbows. Her hand came up, sticky and wet with something warm. Frustrated, she wiped it on her skirt, hoping it was not animal piss. First she’d sat in dung and now this? She muttered an oath under her breath, hoping not to draw more bad luck to herself.
There was more of the slick liquid as she approached the steps, and a shape lay at the bottom. Zilpha frowned, tension winding itself up her spine as she paused. Stray dogs were not common in the city, yet they worried her. She stepped back, concerned about being chased and bitten when the moonlight shone with full force down on the temple steps. The dark shape revealed itself, and terror seized Zilpha. She stumbled back, and her hands flew to her mouth as she let out a blood curling scream.
6
Warrior and Hunter
“Enchantress.” Morag’s low tone rumbled across the waters.
Citrine picked her way around boulders and sharp stones, eager to join her water monster and hear his words. After the devastating incident with the Master of the Forest, Citrine and Morag shared important news out loud. Morag had suggested it, and Citrine appreciated his caution, but an unease pricked in her mind. What if others were listening in?
“Morag,” she whispered, her foot catching on a rock.
She stumbled but maintained her balance, moving toward the edge. Morag’s head rose over the waters at eye level, for the cliffs were sharp and did not allow one access to the Jaded Sea without hurling over the edge into an instant death.
However, Citrine considered the cliffs the safest place to conduct their whispered secrets, because it was rare she’d seen anyone out there in the wild moors. The wet pounding of the waters and the gray surroundings gave the seaside an eerie aura. At times, the way the waves roared reminded her of someone playing a flute—a heart-rending tune wailing like one grieving the death of a lover.
Water ran off Morag’s behemoth gray hide and shone in the dim light. The last of the sunset disappeared over the horizon, making Morag’s jeweled eyes glow.
“What news do you bring?” Citrine crouched at the edge of the cliffs, a mere ten feet from her beloved beast.
“I traveled north and west.” Morag’s neck arched over Citrine, like a snake about to pounce on its prey.
Citrine wanted to touch his snout and glimpse what he saw. While she loved hearing her beasts speak in her mind, she sometimes wished for the ability to see through their eyes. The world fascinated her and while crossing the sea, she had realized there was much more to explore than she’d ever imagined.
“The Under Water World People gave me my first clue. Did you know they are also called the Udi? A phrase coined by the sea-faring heroes, Wekin the Warrior and Yamier the Hunter.”
Citrine grunted. She’d heard of the two heroes who’d made a name for themselves during the war of the mortals and immortals. They had followers in the city who bragged about the adventures they’d had with the two—escapades so outlandish Citrine doubted they were true.
She perched on a boulder, thoughts drifting to Triften the Storyteller. He’d traveled with Wekin and Yamier, y
et the tales he weaved did not seem as bizarre.
“Go on,” she encouraged Morag, returning her gaze to his wide face.
His nostrils flared, puffing out mist. “They were frightened at first, for they claimed many of my kind haunt the seas, destroying their homes and taking them as prisoners.”
Citrine lifted a finger, pausing Morag. “Are we still talking about the Udi? I need not know their history. Will you please give me the key points? Tell me. Did you find it?”
“Aye and nay, at least if the words of the Udi ring true. You should listen to their stories, for there might be another way. They told me all treasure comes from the great mines in the Cascade Mountains. Surely you have heard of the mines from old stories? The place where no one goes if they want to live. The Holesmoles.”
Citrine hissed and a chill wind blew over the sea. The waves splashed up, and she rubbed her arms, grateful for the warmth of her dark cloak. “The Holesmoles? Are you sure?”
Hundreds of years ago, the talking moles and voles had discovered the mines overflowing with a host of treasures, silver, gold, precious jewels, and stones with uncanny powers. But they had awakened creatures of darkness who slaughtered them all, leaving the mines a place where no one went unless they desired to lose their sanity.
“The Udi directed me to a group of pirates and, after eavesdropping on their conversations, I revealed myself and terrified them one night.” Morag chuckled—a devilish rumble over the waters.
Citrine grinned, wishing she’d been there to see Morag frighten the pirates. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“Nay, mortals are simple, it was easy to scare them. They told me of the South Isles known for their treasure, but stones are mined from the Holesmoles. As legend tells, that’s where the Green Stone came from.”
“How do we get there?” Citrine mused.
“Rumor is there’s a cave on the other side of Ellsmore where one can enter the mines. From there it’s a search in darkness. An endless quest.”
Citrine scowled. “The Holemoles are miles long. It could take a lifetime to find the stone there and that’s far too long.”
“Hum…that’s why you should have let me finish my story. The pirates speak of mortals who recently transversed the mines and came out the other side unscathed.”
“Who?”
“None other than Wekin the Warrior and Yamier the Hunter. If you could find them, you could ask for their help, although I suppose they would extract a heavy price.”
Citrine squared her shoulders and chewed her lower lip. Her eyes fell to the waters of jade far below where in the gloomy light she could just make out waves surging against sharp rocks in the water. A coolness settled in her bones, and when she looked back up, Morag was retreating.
“Wait.” She stood and took a step closer to the edge. “Do you know where I would find them?”
“Is the stone that important? Why do you want it so badly?” Morag’s eyes half closed.
Anger flared up in her like the birth of a flame. “Why are you questioning my motives? I am trying to keep you safe, to protect you. You know very well I need the power of a stone—”
“Don’t forget…I served the Master of the Forest. I was inside his head as were you. Obsessions lead to disaster, and unchecked power leads to madness. You know this.”
Citrine frowned and shook her head. “You are my beast,” she snapped.
“Aye. I serve you, Enchantress, for there is no one greater. Only. I worry. What will you become?”
“Just tell me what I want to know. Where will I find the Warrior and Hunter?”
“It is not that you get angry. I would not do my due diligence if I did not warn you. Rumor has it they make port once a year and spend the winters in the Constel Heights with the Rulers of the West.”
“They make port. What are they? Sailors?”
Morag arched his neck over the waters, his eyes narrowing, and his voice came out of his throat like the low rumble of thunder. “Ah. They have great ships. The first ever built. Captain Wekin the Warrior and Captain Yamier the Hunter. At times their ships make port here, in Sanga Sang.”
Citrine inhaled, surprise vibrating through her body like the plucked string of a harp. “Here? Do you know for sure?”
“I knew it would be your next question. According to members of their crew, it seems they intend to take their ships to the Constel Heights for the winter.”
Citrine.
Ava’s thoughts filtered into her mind, interrupting the conversation.
Ava. Not now. I’m with Morag.
No need to get upset. I’ll leave you and Morag alone. Heaven forbid I know what secrets you share. I just thought you’d want to know there’s someone hanging around the cave…oh wait…yes, they are going inside.
Citrine’s back stiffened in panic. What? Who is it?
I don’t know. Hunched over with a dark cloak and a stick. Staff. Tree branch? I don’t know. Do you want me to—
No don’t kill whoever it is, just detain them until I can get there. I’m coming now.
Hurry. I’m feeling hungry.
Ava!
The communication broke, and Citrine leaped to her feet. Pressing her hands together, she addressed her water beast. “Morag. I thank you for this news and appreciate the energy you spent seeking for me. I must go, someone is trespassing and—”
“Milady, we shall speak later. Call when you need me, for there is more I wish to share with you. You don’t have to go down this path. There is another way.”
Citrine shivered, for Morag’s words did not seem welcoming, and a dread sank to the pit of her stomach. She nodded, lips trembling, before she turned and stumbled uphill, making her way around boulders in the dark.
7
Terror Unleashed
One glimpse gave Zilpha all the details she needed. The dark shape she’d mistaken for a wild beast was one of the friars, lying on his back with his dead eyes staring at the moonlight, as though in silent prayer. His patchy face was twisted in anguish, giving every impression of a gruesome death. His robes were torn open and deep gouges raked through his midsection as if claws had opened his stomach and ripped until there was nothing left but a gaping hole. Red blood ran in rivulets down the steps and bloody footprints were scattered across the cobblestone street, staining them crimson. Zilpha realized it was the liquid she’d wiped off on her skirt, and black spots covered her vision. Bending over, she took deep breaths to keep from fainting. When she regained some sense of normality, she spun and ran down the path leading to the farmland.
Wings of darkness gave her speed, and she tripped and fell more than once, breaking the skin of her hands and ripping her dress even further. The light of the moon was stingy, coming in and out of clouds, giving her only occasional flashes of her path. The farmlands were impossibly dark with only the lights of night, and she cursed, wishing she’d grabbed a lantern but knowing the murderers in the dark would be less likely to see her. How could she be so foolish to go to the temple for safety? What if someone had heard her scream and came to investigate?
When at last she came to her home, the last building on the row of peasant huts, tears flowed without pause. Dashing inside, she slammed the door and lifted the block of wood across the door frame. A sob burst out of her throat and, disgusted with herself, she reached her hands up and ripped the dress from her shoulders. Fingers shaking, she tossed it by the door. She held her hands in front of her as she made her way to the table and fumbled in the dark for a light.
The hiss of the flame shattered the darkness and brought a warm glow of comfort to the room. Zilpha took a deep breath in an effort to get a hold of her senses but her tears would not stop. Holding the flame up, she lit two more candles. The warm haven of light began to spread toward her like an encouraging friend. Shadows danced on the wall, happy to be brought to life and show off their appreciation. Shaking like a leaf, Zilpha went for the water bucket. It was half-full and cool from the night wind. She took
a sip and poured some out into a basin. Lifting a rough cloth, she scrubbed her body with water and leaves of mint until her skin was red and raw, rubbing away the guilt and horror of the evening. If only she’d gone home with Mathilda, she could have avoided everything. What if Hava discovered her charred baskets and silk? Would she search for the victim? Lord Arden was vindictive and could be cruel, even to his own blood. What if someone had seen her?
Shuddering, Zilpha picked up a candle and peeked into the other room. As she assumed, Bram was not home. With a frown, she crept to her bed. Should she worry about Bram? What if something terrible had happened to him? He was honest and trusting and gullible, but he did not seek out mischief for no reason. She sighed, holding the candles as she perched on her bed. The grass she’d stuffed the mattress with poked her. Setting the candle on the floor, she curled her feet under her and leaned against the wall, taking shallow breaths as the bloodied body flashed before her eyes. This was it. When morning came, she’d go to Mathilda with the news and come clean about her debt.
Her fingers trembled, and her mind spun with questions. Reaching across the bed, she gathered grass into her lap, her fingers weaving them into a basket, even in the darkness. Usually she liked to work outside in the sunlight, but her mind would not stop, and the quick work of her fingers made her feel calm. There’s no use worrying, she told herself. Tomorrow I will figure out this mess.
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