Merick turned to Sandu. "She needs to rest."
Sandu peered back at the road, sure he'd see glowing red eyes. "No, we should keep moving. They've hunted men for miles from what I've heard."
Another wordless exchange between the other two. What's wrong with her?
After a moment, Merick nodded. "Alright. We keep movin'."
They're hiding something from me, Sandu thought, watching them. Something that may have to do with why Stanthorpe wants her.
Chapter Three
Cara
CARA'S HANDS SHOOK, her knees weak from squeezing the horse's sides. It was over a candle's time after the prowler attack. She thought she should be fine again, that her heart should slow, her trembling gone. But each time it felt like the panic receded, she remembered the prowlers' red eyes, their blood-blackened fangs, the shrieks as they flew over the ground toward her. Each time, she descended back into that awful place where it felt like the fit would overpower her and release the beast.
She thought, too, of the fits of years past. Spasms that shook her whole body, sharp nails raking her own skin, dark terror taking over her limbs and invading her head, the beast in all its foul glory reveling in her distress. She had screamed for Merick every time, shaking as he held her, begging for it to stop. He'd hold her until the nightmare retreated from her arms and legs, the beast coiling itself in the bottom of her belly, waiting to emerge until she was too weak, angry, or frightened to stop it.
Cara hugged herself and stared out into the night. Memory after memory bored into her head: crimson eyes; blood staining her clothes; Freebane forcing calming draughts between her teeth; screaming in the dark–
A cool hand touched hers. Cara jumped, her eyes darting back and forth, expecting to see a red gleam in the darkness. It was only Merick with his familiar calloused fingers. Cara took a deep breath and focused on his touch. She didn't look out at the dark forest again, for the prowlers lurked within its depths, and she didn't know if she could hold back her inner beast all night.
"You're doin' fine, Cari," Merick said, his grumbling voice soothing and warm. "Jus' keep breathin'. Don' worry 'bout nothin' else. Remember what Freebane told you? Breathe."
Breathe in for the count of five, Freebane had said one sunny afternoon three years before. She held Cara's arms while she shook and raged. Hold it for the count of three, and then breathe out for the count of five. Imagine stamping the beast down where it belongs. Bury it in your stomach, build a wall to keep it in.
For five eternal seconds, Cara breathed in through her nose, filling her lungs with sweet night air. She held it, then released out her mouth. She anchored her mind to Merick's hand. With the movement of her breath, she forced the beast down and down, picturing herself stomping on its head and stacking bricks to keep it away. Though it retreated, the beast left a hot, burning trail down her throat as it went.
The beast was both her and not her. When it came, Cara could still see, think, and move, but as if through a thick pane of distorted glass, all her intentions funneled through the beast's hunger.
Calmer now, Cara said to Merick, "When I saw the prowlers, the beast woke. It was worse than ever before; I only resisted because I didn't want Sandu to see." She twisted around in her saddle, but thankfully the stablehand slept on his horse, head bobbing on his chest.
"Aye, lass. You did a fine job, too."
A shriek sounded in the far distance, a prowler's high-pitched cry. Cara's throat felt dry as she swiveled, peering into the darkness. No glowing red eyes manifested in the woods. She swallowed her fear and prayed that the beast would leave her be.
Another candle passed, then another. Merick didn't let them stop or sleep, and Cara felt grateful for the hard pace. As the night grew darker before the tint of dawn brushed the sky, she calmed. Ride, pause, drink, ride again: the beast was driven down by her overwhelming fatigue. A soreness gathered behind her eyes, and the aches and pains of the previous day came to haunt her.
As the blue-black of night gave way to pale tendrils of day, Cara thought of Renna. How many days was it now since she'd seen her friend and mistress? Three? Four? In the limbo between waking and sleeping, as her body cried out for rest, she couldn't recall. I was useless when Renna was taken, and then against the prowlers. I did nothing while Merick saved me. How can I hope to rescue Renna from the Hooded Man when I can't even rescue myself from the beast?
For the first time, Cara wondered if she should have stayed home in Kell and let the Realm's Protectors find her friend. A lump rose in her throat, and she knew she would have gone mad if she had done so. She remembered the only time Renna had ever left the fief without her, for a deshe trip to meet her future husband. The days had passed slowly, each filled with worry. Cara did her chores without complaint, but she looked at the manor's gate every candle, hoping to see Renna. When her friend did finally come home, Cara had clung to her for candles, drinking in every word that fell from Renna's lips and savoring her lady's beautiful features.
This separation was far, far worse, for Cara had no notion when it might come to an end.
"What's on your mind, Cari?" Merick asked. He slouched over his horse's mane, tired and grey-faced. One hand clutched the bandaged wound on his stomach, but his eyes were attentive.
"Renna," Cara said. In the early light, she thought that Merick looked so old now. When had he aged? "I miss her."
"Me too, Cari."
"When I wake up, sometimes I think I'm still back in Kell, and that I'll hear her singing before breakfast. And then I see she'd enjoy, like a stand of flowers or a bird's song, but when I turn to tell her about it...she's not there. Do you remember the first time we danced at the harvest feast, and how lovely she looked with a crown of leaves in her hair? I think of that sometimes, and I become afraid that we won't find her in time for this year's harvest." Cara's words bled from her heart. "What if we're not strong enough? My fits aren't going to go away, or they may get worse. If I can't fight the prowlers, how can I defeat the Hooded Man?"
"We're strong, we'll get her back." He spoke confidently, but she doubted his words. She was a girl prone to strange fits, and he was a wounded mercenary who should have long since retired. Not to mention Sandu, a cowardly stablehand who fled the tower at the first sign of trouble. Be kinder to him, Cara chastised herself. He saved you all by killing the gelding.
Merick frowned. "A lot goin' on in that head, eh Cari? Once was a time you'd tell me everythin'."
That was before all this. "I know." She changed the subject. "Your wound hurting you?"
"Aye. I think it came open. And all Freebane's potions are gone."
"Not the jirriloe."
"I'm not risk'n my life for a few drops of that stuff."
Sandu's horse rode between theirs, its rider now awake and alert. "There's a healer in the next village, a bloke named Kirri. We shouldn't be too far now."
As he spoke, the trees around them parted to reveal a decent-sized town. The road changed from dirt to cobbled stone as they rode closer. Chimney smoke drifted into the air along with the scent of freshly-baked bread. In the center of the town, a grassy space opened up between the buildings. Around the square were various shops and homes, along with a steepled novum and a two-story inn with a weathered sign hanging above its door. The novum here was smaller than Kell's, and would host only a clothman as its religious leader. In the cities and high lords' estates, the novums might belong to a curate. The Grand Novum in Con Salur was the home of the predicants and the Exalt, the greatest men of Dostchar's religion. In recent years, Cara had entertained the notion of traveling all the way to the Novum to be healed by the Exalt himself, for the holy man must be able to cure her fits.
"The novum's quiet this morning," Sandu said, frowning. "No dawn bell?"
In the square, townspeople gathered dressed in drab colors. They faced the novum's closed doors as if waiting for them to open.
"Is it Deshem Day?" Cara asked.
"No," Sandu said. "Something
's not right here." From the inn's doorstep, they could see the crowd and novum. In the middle of the square was a raised dais with an upright pole and wood stacked all around it: a pyre.
More and more villagers gathered, their expressions grim. Mothers held tightly to their children while men gripped farm tools or daggers. All stared at the closed novum, silent but not still. They pressed together, fingers taut on their meager weapons, straining toward the door though none of them broke for it. An angry murmur started somewhere in the throng, building into hoarse whispers and grunts. As she watched, Cara's hands sweated, her pulse raging through her skull. The beast in her belly woke, delighted by the tension, and crawled slowly up her windpipe.
"Get inside," Merick grunted, his eyes darting over the people. "We don' want to be mixed up in this." They all dismounted, and Sandu took their horse's reins to lead them to the stables around the back. But Cara couldn't tear her eyes from the expectant villagers.
"Cari?" Merick asked. She stood stiffly, nostrils flaring. The beast filled her throat, choking her with its presence.
One of the village men shouted, "Bring her out, Paol! We're done waiting!"
The crowd's noise rose to a swelling wave. They pushed and pulled at each other. Just before their fury reached a breaking point, the novum doors opened. The clothman edged out, his red robes stark against the pine-wood doors. At his presence, the swarm fell back, still seething, bottled lightning that churned in its container.
"My children, return to your homes," the clothman pleaded, his hands raised in supplication. "Let there be no deaths here today. Haven't the prowlers made us suffer enough? Let there be an end to it."
"It's all her fault!" someone yelled.
"My boy's dead because of her!"
Their cries poured into the air. The clothman shrank back against the novum. Cara's beast tittered in delight, and she gritted her teeth, not letting it take over her head. Her hands clenched in front of her.
Sandu came running back up to them, the horses secured away. "Come on!" he urged, waving at the inn's door. "Where are the Realm's Protectors? Shouldn't they be doing something?"
"Four or five Protectors agains' a mob? Not bloody likely," Merick said as he grasped Cara's arm. "We're goin' inside afore–"
The mob surged forward and flung the clothman away from the door. He cried out, but his words were lost amid the uproar. The forerunners tore open the novum's doors, bursting inside. Merick and Sandu hauled Cara into the inn and slammed the door behind them. A wisp of a woman stood at one of the windows, wringing her hands.
"Oh, poor Marta," the woman said, sparing only a glance for her guests. "They'll burn her for sure."
Away from the crowd, the beast seemed louder, more insistent, drilling at Cara's resistance. With an effort, she gripped Merick's hand, tight enough that his skin turned white. His eyes asked a silent question, and she shook her head in reply. It's not going away.
"We need a bath," Merick said to the innkeeper.
"I'd readied one for myself, but then I heard..." The innkeeper drew away from the window. As she did, Sandu peered out of the cloudy glass. The woman's voice was timid and small. "The water must be cold by now."
"It'll do. C'mon, Cari, let's get that road grime washed off." Taking Cara by the waist, Merick steered her to follow the woman, his steady hand a welcome relief. They came to a small room on the second floor with a full tub. A window looked out on the square, with a mirror on the left-hand wall. Merick said in a low voice as the innkeeper bustled about, "Take yer time. I'll get our room an' the bags sorted." He seemed as if he were about to say more, but he cast his eyes down and left abruptly.
"D'you need help, Maid?" the innkeeper asked. "Or...?"
"You can go," Cara managed. Once the woman left, she leaned her sword against the wall, stripped off her clothes, and quickly got into the bath. The water was cool, but it felt like a balm on her hot skin. She ducked her head under, surfacing only when she absolutely needed to breathe.
A wailing scream greeted Cara as her ears drained of water. A scream, and cheers. Unable to stop herself, Cara clambered from the tub and went dripping to the window. She crouched at it, only her head peeking over the sill, and watched the pandemonium below.
Two men held tightly to a struggling woman's arms as they dragged her through the throng to the pyre. The woman screeched, her hair flying about her face. Townsfolk pelted her with vegetables and rotted meat. Cara watched in horror. She imagined the feel of their rough hands on her arms.
When they reached the pyre, the men forced the woman toward the pole. They raised her arms above her head and tied her hands to the pole, then wound a rope around her writhing body – Cara had felt that once, rough rope biting into her skin as she thrashed in her fits. She pressed one hand over her lips as hot tears poured over her fingers, yet she couldn't tear her gaze away. The woman's mouth moved, praying or begging. One of the men poured oil over the woman's head, and she spluttered. Cara wanted to cry out, to help the woman, but what could she do? Terror pinned her to the window, and she was but one woman against many.
The beast quivered in Cara's belly, and she sensed a new emotion from it: fright.
A strong-looking man stepped from the mob, bearing a torch aloft. He walked around the pyre, lighting it in multiple places until the whole thing blazed. Within the flames, the desperate woman thrashed, her cries of pain piercing Cara to the marrow. The beast overcame Cara in a single, horrible moment, and she spasmed as she clung to the windowsill.
Cara's nails elongated into claws. The woman on the pyre screamed again, then fell silent. Cara's vision changed, becoming sharper. Below, the raucous shouts sounded not victorious, but dreadful. The beast squirmed in Cara's head, urging her to go down, to fight these people, to save the burning woman–
But it was too late. The woman fell silent, her charred remains consumed by the red flame and black smoke.
The beast roared in her head, and Cara cried out. She beat at her head, too knotted up to breathe, too contorted with the sight of that poor woman to imagine her beast behind a stone wall. One hand scratched at her own cheek, almost piercing her skin.
In that moment, Cara saw herself in the mirror. She screeched and tripped over the tub. Water splashed over the wooden floors.
It was not herself she saw. Her own forehead was ridged, her teeth fangs. Her cheekbones shadowed her gaunt face. Red tinged her eyes. A prowler's eyes.
Cara scrambled forward, examining herself in the mirror again. Yes, it was her, but a prowler version of herself. Was this the beast's doing? Did a monster lurk in her very blood and taint her soul? Was this truly the cause of her fits?
As she questioned, the beast fed her indignation. Freebane knew, Merick knew, yet they told her nothing! All those candles of agony, of fear, yet they never told her what she became. They had spoken to Cara's mother in whispers, but never Cara herself.
Then Cara thought of Renna. Gods, what would her lady think, to have employed such a monster? Was Cara any better than the Hooded Man?
Of all of them, Renna was the most innocent. She had never seen Cara's fits, never been told of them. Cara tried to picture her monstrous self standing next to beautiful, golden-haired Renna, but the image seemed all too wrong. What lady would want a corrupted watchwoman, one who felt the urges of evil when confronted with danger? There was only one way to be worthy of her: Cara had to rid herself of the beast.
But first, Cara had to find Merick. She wanted to slap him and hug him, to demand answers yet be soothed by his gruff voice. She could almost hear the beast saying, Yes, demand answers from him. Make him pay for his deception. Cara shook her head. Her anger was righteous, but the beast's was not. It would have to slumber while she confronted her master.
After some minutes of breathing and imagining, the beast slunk back to its hiding place, and Cara's features transformed back to normal. She checked to make sure before she dressed, strapped on her sword, and left the room.
Voice
s drifted up from the inn's common room, and Cara went slowly down the stairs, expecting Sandu and Merick. Instead, she saw the innkeeper and clothman, heads bent together in close conversation.
"...nothing I could do," the clothman was saying. "I'm so sorry, Elise. I tried to stop them."
The innkeeper sobbed, and he brought her head to his shoulder, murmuring comforting words. Awkwardly, Cara lingered at the bottom of the stairs. Her righteous temper was momentarily set aside at the sight of the mourning woman.
A moment later, the clothman saw her. His brow crinkled at her weapon, but then he smiled. "We're not alone, Elise. Come, child, there's no need to hover at that distance."
Moving with a tentative step, Cara came to a neighboring table and sat down. The innkeeper, Elise, lifted her head and wiped her eyes. She stood quickly, mumbled something about work to be done, and scurried away. The clothman was an older fellow, well into his fifties, and had white hair that made his pale skin seem translucent. He sighed, running a hand through his thinning tonsure.
"My child, you look troubled," he said, his kind brown eyes meeting Cara's.
More than you could know, Cara thought. Aloud, she asked, "Why did they burn that woman?"
"Ah. How long have you been in town?"
"Just arrived this morning."
"That was Marta Jamison, Elise's sister. Marta...ah...had a son. And, well, he was bitten. We all thought it was the plague at first, but he turned prowler after he died. She didn't tell anyone when he passed, and she didn't have the heart to burn his body."
"How many others did he infect?"
The clothman shook his head. "There's no knowing. He wasn't the first prowler we've had, nor will he be the last. But the people wouldn't listen to reason; they've wanted someone to blame since the first person turned."
Cara shivered, her skin still damp under her clothes. If a village burned an innocent woman for her son turning prowler, what would they do to her?
"What do you know of the prowlers?" she asked.
The Lantern-Lit City Page 3
