Kat's eyes glued themselves to a high ceiling of crumbling stone and dripping dew. She tried to move her fingers, tried to wiggle her toes. An icy chill crept over her skin.
“You will help me.” a low voice murmured, the words soft. “Because you are not like her,” he breathed. “because you are not a monster.”
FOURTEEN
Kat was blinded on that rotten wooden board. Blinded by a cloth of brown thatch. Taken from the room and forced through a corridor completely foreign to her. Forced through an echoing passageway she could not see, but could feel with her naked feet. Dust swept cobbles began to rise into a stairway, a stairway that spiraled round and round. Up and up.
A cold chill trembled through her as a pair of soft hands guided her, the hands squeezing her inner forearms as the stairway looped around a tower, moving up until the stairs leveled out into a landing. The hands halted her then, as a door moaned upon rusted hinges and a sour gust of stale air swept back Kat's matted locks. She was shoved, still blinded, still naked and covered in night sweat. Lurching towards the middle of the room with the thatch about her eyes, her palms slapped to a cool cobblestone floor as the door behind her slammed and locked with a tight click.
On hands and knees, Kat lowered herself to the floor and rolled over onto her side. Hugging her knees into her naked chest, she allowed the thatch to stay. Allowed it to continue to blind her. She hoped that—if she didn't remove the blindfold, if she continued seeing nothing but black and burlap brown, maybe this would all go away. The nightmare, the pain, the strange people cawing a foreign language that had begun to grate at her ears. That had begun to make her set her jaw and grind her teeth until silence came again. Until she could hear the air in her ears and the solid echoes of a stone enclosure.
She hoped it wasn't real. She hoped she was simply dreaming—simply stuck in a trance as her comrades patched her up in the real world. She figured this was punishment—punishment for what she had done as a child. Finally, finally I'll pay for what has been done.
But wasn't losing her mother punishment enough? Kat asked herself as she hugged her knees in tighter. Wasn't losing her home and family punishment enough?
Now she had lost everything—now she had lost...
Stop. Stop it.
Kat froze as Bertrand's voice rang in her ears.
Stop hurting yourself, Sis, over something so long gone.
“Am I dead?” her voice echoed—high and pitiful, like the whisper of a child. Like the whimper of a little girl on the verge of tears. “Tell me where your spirit lingers so that I may follow.”
Kat hugged her knees in closer, bloodied memories of fighting the hetaera flashing vividly in her mind's eye. She felt the beast rip at her hamstring, snapping it. Crippling her. She heard Bertrand scream, heard the sickly squelch of the monster piercing his eyes with its needle like claws.
“Bertrand?” she whimpered, calling out.
Her own voice replied, bouncing around the drafty room with a steely echo knocking upon stone.
“Bertrand!” she repeated, touching her forehead to her knees. “Please...” she pleaded, voice thick. “...don't leave me alone...”
But nothing came, nothing answered. A cool draft whispered by her ear and rolled over her head as her shoulders racked quietly. As the softest hint of a whimper escaped her lips and tears began to gradually fall. Dripping down her face like warm rain. She could remember being alone—a long time ago. When she lived with her mother in that little cabin in the forest. She could remember being alone when her mother disappeared nightly, leaving the cabin in a huff only to twist and transform outside into a wolfish creature Kat couldn't recognize. Into a creature that frightened her—into a creature that was not her mother.
Whoever had played with her head—had made her relive her last memory of Remicourt—had gotten the ending all wrong. Her mother had never attacked her—her mother had never—
The tears stopped as she snapped her eyes open. Placing her palms to the floor, she forced herself up. Forced herself to scan the surrounding room.
The chamber was spacious, but bare. Drafty due to the rows of long rectangular windows lining the walls and tiny slits of murder holes that acted as dividers. She was right about this whole place being stone. Was right about being high up in some tower.
This is no dream. She told herself, setting her jaw. Wherever I am...
Kat stood, legs wobbly. Knees unsteady beneath her weight as she spread out her arms to balance herself. To the right of her, stacked near a tall stone wall sat a single wooden chair and a tiny desk. A pair of slippers sat upon the chair. A bundle of brown clothing lay tossed upon the desk, and Kat approached the meager set of clothing. She found a long tunic and itchy cotton breeches, complete with a thick cotton belt made of a long yard of bulbous fabric. Throwing on the tunic and breeches, she wrapped the belt around her midsection once, twice. Three times. Stooped to smack the shoes from the chair and slipped them onto her feet.
She brought her eyes to the rectangular windows, then. Approached them at a slow shuffle, still getting used to the newfound power in her bum leg. Still getting used to her body which felt new. Refreshed. Anguished, yet at peace.
Flattening her palm against the wall, she brought her face to the slender window and looked out.
Snow melted upon a field of yellow. A bloated river of gray ice moved at a sluggish pace, curving around a courtyard of dead grass mixed with patches of snow slush.
Past the river, she saw trees. Trees with chalky white bark and slender, curving, branches. These were not the stygian trees of Baate Noir—the Black Forest she had so recently trudged through. Killed a damned vampire in. Lost her best friend to. No—for as far as she could see, the white bark trees covered everything. Damn near everything in a pure sullen whiteness that brought light to the silver sky above.
She was on the border then—had to be. Wherever these people had taken her—she was far from the Southern Reaches. Far from Montbereau and had finally cleared the Path.
Kat was on the Poudurac—or somewhere near. But where? Could she hope to find her kinsmen? To find Horace and Alan? Could she hope to spare the two from the punishment her mistake would bring? Would they ever forgive her for running off in search of Manuel and Noel? True, Alan had committed her to the task, but she could have turned him down. She could have gone back to the bivouac and warned Horace. Perhaps, he could have picked a better two man team to go track Manuel and Noel down. Kat—Kat was useless. Winterskin?
Kat shook her head. Spat upon the cobblestone floor.
What a useless trait. It was all in her head—the cold not bothering her. She wasn't special—she couldn't save Manuel or Noel. Bertrand—she shook her head—Bertrand too. They're all dead and it's her fault.
If she ever found her kinsmen, she'd take the punishment. Take the punishment for both Horace and Alan. It would be the right thing to do. The guard needed those two, but her?
Sonant Kaiden was right.
No, no...he was wrong. Wrong about one thing—that the Path would eat me up, no.
It ate those who tried to protect me. Me, who—without them—would have been destroyed regardless.
The Path took them from me, in exchange for my life.
And I should pay for what has happened.
Yet, here she is. Whole and well while her comrades have perished and moved on to the next world.
And yet, here she is.
Leaning her lower arm upon the stone wall, her open hand tightened into a hard fist as she scanned the courtyard below. Gaze sticking to the trees, searching.
If I am to live, she told herself, her chapped lips straightening into a line, then I will do all that I can to return to them. I will find Labassette Chateau and meet my kinsmen. I will save Alan's life and spare Horace's reputation. I will set things right.
With a start, she heard the door at her back wheeze open from the far side of the circular room. Flinching, Kat slid her gaze towards the wall near her windo
w as soft soles whispered upon the flagstones.
“Solace, young egidul.” Whispered a throaty voice.
Kat turned, but not completely. Bringing her gaze over her shoulder, she came eye to eye with the shredded face of a tall willowy man who was almost sylphlike in a silken robe of flowing crimson. Long arms were hidden within the lanky mouths of scarlet shaded drop sleeves, the fabric crossing over his chest where the robe lay open. Revealing a sharp collar bone and a mess of tribal scarring carved into a dark circle.
Kat felt the heat rush from her face as her skin became pallid and cool. “Y-you—,” she stammered, eyes wide yet barely seeing him as her vision blurred. “—that voice was in my dream. You—you took me back to that place!”
She was too weak to fight—too weak to stand the fire in her head as her anger quickly devolved into a spiking headache. Slapping her palms to her forehead, she bowed her back and hung her head as the headache moved to the crown of her head. As it began to split her skull in two.
“What am I doing here?” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Where am I? Do you—,” she attempted to breathe the pain away, attempted to calm herself. “—do you speak the common tongue?”
She watched the scars of his mangled face twist as he dipped his head in a curt bow and moved towards her, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Then, tell me—,”
He ignored her, shoving past. Gliding towards the window near her shoulder. Lowering his chin, he squinted his eyes as he looked down upon the courtyard. Kat backed away, her hands free of her forehead as the headache slowly subsided. She watched him through narrowed eyes, her vision focused and clear.
“Solace, human.” he murmured, his soft voice echoing around the circular chamber. “My agents found you on the brink of death. They...brought you back. Reliving that massacre in your memories guided your soul back to your body. They held your hand, bringing you back from the Plains.”
The man flung a sprawling lock of long black hair behind his shoulder with a graceful toss of his head. The hair collected at his back, riding his spine to gather at the pointed ends of his shoulder blades. “The woman who invades your memories will always be a threat lingering on the edge of time, but would it benefit you to know that She still lives? That, while you may not be able to wash away the blood of those murdered in that enfeebled slum; perhaps you could still find forgiveness elsewhere. Perhaps, you could find forgiveness in Her? Your mother?”
Kat opened her mouth. Closed it. Felt her hands cover her mouth as her breath caught in her chest.
“You are not a capricious devil like she is, egidul. Will you grant me your aid?” he asked, sliding a sidelong gaze over his shoulder. “In return for Her location, will you help me?”
FIFTEEN
Kat's answer was—yes, of course—she'd give him anything. But...
“My mother is dead.” she deadpanned, hand sliding from her face. “Cut down by one of the Rose's Champions. I saw it,” she murmured, her gaze far away as her vision focused on the waning silver light creeping from the thick glass of the window. “saw it with my own eyes, sir.” I felt her blood splatter across my cheek.
The man chuckled at that—the honorific and the assumption. It was a glassy sound, a sharp snicker that bounced off the stony walls of the round chamber as he brought his face back to the view outside. “Yet, She survives.” he replied, his voice a subtle whisper. “As the Lady always has. As Baate Noir thrives in the south, so shall Her life and Her vision.”
Were they talking about the same woman? Kat wondered, blinked as she began to slowly shake her head. “A woman cleaved to bits...” doesn't survive such a blow. Doesn't get up and cry out your name—but her mother's corpse had as Kat turned away in the snow. Jolted to movement by the kind hand of a Champion of the Rose, a gentleman who believed he had saved her. The gentleman who had taken her to Montbereau in search of her family, in search of other Maevas who would take the little forest child in.
Gran hadn't wanted her. Told the Champion to take the little forest girl with him because she'd live a better life in the capital. But the Champion couldn't. The Champion could not be swayed.
Kat had had four cousins at the time. Four misplaced souls lacking parents. During her first winter in Montbereau, one of them perished due to an outbreak of small pox in the little mountain town.
She remembered having to burn the body. She remembered creeping out into Baate Noir to scatter his ashes, only to fall prey to a sinister presence that cloaked itself in a shadowy blackness. Darkness shaded its body like sticky ink that bubbled upon its oil-like skin. The presence wouldn't harm her—it couldn't though it had a mind to. She remembered it raising its tentacle like appendages only for its arms to freeze midair as its oily body began to reverberate, began to shiver with fear.
A voice whispered for her to make haste—back to the village, back to safety.
Beseech the Night Lady, it had told her as she ran. Beseech the Night Lady.
The same voice had came to her when she shivered in Bertrand's arms after that gruesome fight with the hetaera. Right when she believed she would die, it told her...
Beseech the Night Lady.
Realization made her widen her eyes before furrowing her brow. “My mother is the Night Lady.” she mused, mostly to herself. “The witch of the black forest.”
“Ah,” replied the sylphlike man with a sigh. “if only it were that simple.”
“Which means that I...” Kat squeaked, her heart suddenly racing. “...am I a witch?” Kat spat the word out, felt it roll upon her tongue as a spiked barb that dug against the skin. That soured everything in her mouth and made her taste cotton.
No. No—I can't be.
The corners of the man's lips dropped, darkening into a taut frown as he sighed sharply. “Your mother exists, egidul, in a form that clashes with that of your memories. But, she exists nonetheless. I offer you her whereabouts in exchange for information privy to you.”
Kat forced away her thoughts, tossing the word “witch” from her mind. “Information of what sort?” she attempted. “...sir.” Kat slowly added, straightening her hunched back as she bent her right arm and placed it behind her.
“Everything you know about this religious cult,” he told her, passing her a sidelong gaze before bringing his eyes back to the window. Sliding his gaze up, he caught a glimpse of pale sunlight and huffed. “referring to themselves as the Sonants of Liberation. The Monarchy thinks them laughable. The Rose believes that these Sonants are nothing more than a silly smattering of southern colonies burning harlequins from time to time. Barbaric.” he spat with a sharp shake of his head. “But I believe that they are more.” silky crimson fabric slid from his arm as he brought his hand to his chin. “Correct me if I am wrong.”
~~~
Kat didn't mind telling him everything she knew about the Sonants—which wasn't much. She didn't completely understand the Sonants' practices, much less believe in them. But she tolerated the witch hunts and burnings because she didn't like witches—this much she made clear to him. Kat hated them, in fact. Despised women endowed with magical abilities because magic had taken away her home and made her mother into a monster. Magic made people do terrible things, she believed. As a southerner, Kat strongly believed that magic caused the Cataclysm, bringing monsters and freaks into their world.
“The Cataclysm?” he asked, tilting his head of black air. An air of amusement tinkling in his voice.
From across the scant desk of thin oaken planks, Kat brought her palms to the table and scanned his eyes. They were cold. Hard. Popped into a clawed up face that, at one point in time, may have looked satisfactory. Maybe even handsome. But now, as his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows raised, Kat did all she could not to twist her lips into a disgusted grimace as his rippling scars widened. “'The belief that an overabundance of magic pulled every inhuman thing—from harpies to direwolves—into our world.'” she told him, her response almost automatic as she repeated Gran's words
verbatim.
“Ah,” he replied, slowly nodding his head as he stared at her. “'Harpies to direwolves', you say. And dragons?” he asked her, shrugging with upturned palms. “Did this 'Cataclysm' not bring merpeople, and kitsune into your world as well?”
“Kit-sun-eh?” she stumbled over the foreign word, scrunching up her face. “What is that?”
She heard him chuckle. Watched him shake his head and close his eyes as his face brightened with callous laughter. “Leras, egidul. Shesha lyle otha.”
Kat had to press her lips together to keep from snapping at him. “What tongue is that, sir?” she hissed. “I've been hearing it everywhere.”
His eyes hardened then, as he brought his gaze up to meet her's. “None of your concern, human.” he snapped, his words curt and clipped. “But, understand that it is the language of your betters. The language of those who have walked this world centuries before humankind swept over these lands like vermin. Like roaches...”
Kat stared at him openly for a moment, trying to understand if she had heard him correctly. “Centuries before?” she whispered, looking down. Avoiding his serpentine gaze as her eyes found the flagstones of the floor. “But I've been told...”
“Do not worry yourself, egidul. Your kind certainly hasn't before.” he said, throwing her thoughts to the wayside. “Tell me more of the Sonants. Is it true that they burn and entrap non-humans?”
“No.” she snapped, snatching her mind away from her growing questions and the fog bubbling in her head. “Only witches.” she told him. “Only humans.”
~~~
Things would go on like this. Him, questioning her about the Sonants. Her, answering as best she could. Kat counted the days on her fingers. Whenever the light outside vanished, the night encroaching; darkness shading the sky in a darkening cobalt blue, she'd tally another day off upon her fingers. Repeating the number over and over to herself as she laid her head upon a bedroll of thick cotton and found traces of sleep in her lonesome chamber. The following morning, the man would come. Carrying a tray of food for her—porridge. Gray porridge. It was always a clay bowl filled to the brim with damned porridge, but she was grateful for it. If she were still on the Path, traveling with the Montbereau Sonants and the Guard's detail of eight, she'd be eating nothing but sun dried bread and salted meat fouled by sitting in her travel bags all day. The meal was tasteless, dry and forgettable. But after she understood that she'd only be getting one bowl a day, the meal began to weigh heavy on her mind whenever hunger pangs interrupted her sleep or forced her to wake early and fretfully wait for her interviewer.
Winterskin: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 1) Page 7
