“The river take you, Kallen,” growls one of the people clutching the net. “You know the rules.”
“Do you want to get the son of a bitch back in one piece?” the man with golden hair—Kallen—replies, northern accent cutting the words short. “Least now it can’t put up such a fight.”
“What is wrong with you?” I demand, tearing free of Helos’s grasp and marching right up to Kallen. “Take off this net!” I turn to the others even as they continue dragging the feeble wildcat away.
“We’re finishing the job. Who the bloody ends are you?”
“Let it go!” I say, and Kallen knocks my collarbone so hard it jostles my balance. A hand finds mine again, tugging me backward for only an instant before pulling away. I swivel round to Weslyn, who’s clutching his hand and swearing softly. Then I look back at Kallen, whose gaze has dropped to my fingers. Where claws have materialized, unsheathed and dagger-sharp. Deadly.
Wide eyes meet mine, the connection lasting only a moment before he raises his bow, points it at my chest, and shoots.
SIXTEEN
The arrow misses by a hairsbreadth.
“Move!” Helos cries, still clutching my arm where he pulled me to the side a moment before. I tug free and we separate, creating a more difficult target. Weslyn shouts to get the man’s attention—a diversion, I realize instantaneously, as does Helos. We rush toward the attacker from either side, me with claws still drawn, ready to try to disarm him.
Another arrow whizzes past my face, snatching a few strands of hair. My heart fires through my chest as the four people clutching the net release their quarry and raise their own bows.
We’re outnumbered.
“Run!” I command, just as Kallen shouts, “Grab her!”
At the order, the quiet one who endeavored to get me on my feet when the caegar’s paralysis took hold lurches forward from where he’s stood, spellbound, ever since the wave of reinforcements rushed in. He intercepts me as I reach the edge of the clearing, grabbing my arm in a halfhearted sort of way.
I don’t hesitate. I raise my other hand, twist toward him, and slash my claws over his forearm.
The young man cries out, releasing me at once. The feeling of torn flesh lingers beneath my nails as I escape the clearing, Weslyn and Helos a few paces to either side.
Shadows lay heavy across the earth, casting the forest into a murky, underwater sort of darkness. I tear through the trees, fighting to divert my panic into something more productive. Run, run, urges the lynx, and this time I agree.
Thorns snag my ankles, and I go down, severing the stems with my claws and tearing my hands in my effort to untangle myself. Not far behind, our pursuers are crashing through the underbrush, shouting commands at one another. I wrest free and surge to my feet, hurtling after the boys.
Something’s moving to the right, keeping pace with our group. Helos senses it, too, but he doesn’t pause to examine it any more than I do. Every trace of concentration is channeled into remaining upright and avoiding the branches that almost seem to be reaching toward us. Wings start poking through my back, but again I resist the shift. I will not abandon them.
Weslyn drops a minute later, his shout fracturing upon the ground’s impact. Breath catching, I slam to a halt, sheathe the claws, and double back, grabbing his hands and hauling him to his feet. Then we’re off again, darting right when an arrow lodges itself into the tree beside him.
The hunt, the chase, the desperate flight through wilderness—the years dissolve in a rush of memory, and it’s like I never even left. The only difference is the boy at my side, and the way the land lies motionless, strangely quiet.
Before, it might have trembled beneath my feet. Plants might have sprung up out of thin air, altering the path on a whim. Then a pine’s wintry breath, roaring through our ears, temporarily deafening us to our surroundings.
Now there’s nothing. Only silence, shadows, and mist.
Mist?
Helos shouts my name, but too late—I’ve barreled straight into the silver-blue veil.
It seizes hold of my body at once. Cold air slaps at my face, so hard I have to close my eyes. Determined not to leave the others, I attempt to free my legs, circle my arms, something. Each effort is a waste; my limbs are cemented in place.
And then it’s over.
Eyelids shutter open, and my heart stammers in relief at the sight of Helos and Weslyn to either side. Both entered the mist. Both made it through.
I spin around to check for signs of pursuit. The armed men and women aren’t there. Nor is anything else familiar.
We’re not in the same part of the forest.
Adrenaline blazing, the three of us lock eyes, then turn back to see where the mist has delivered us this time.
A vast, circular meadow stretches before us, several times larger than the clearing from which we fled. Dozens of orbs of white light hover a few paces in the air, illuminating vibrant green grass that reaches past my ankles and clusters of violet, bell-shaped polemonium flowers. Smooth, silver-trunked aspens skirt the edges—enormous, reality-defying trees easily twice as wide as I am tall, broader and loftier than their ordinary counterparts in every respect. We’re standing at the edge of this open expanse, sheltered amongst plants with low-hanging leaves as long as my arm.
Three figures are seated in the clearing. Their backs stretch toward the sky—cream-colored cloth upon skin the colors of sand: tan and charcoal and slate all at once. They’re perched on boulders the size of young trees—huge stones by most standards, yet no larger than ordinary chairs for the legs that graze their sides.
Weslyn exhales in disbelief, and the sound must be loud as an eagle’s cry to their enormous ears, because all three heads turn toward us.
We’ve found the giants.
None of them rise from the rocks.
Nobody speaks.
Then, “You come with blood on your hands.”
It’s the one set farthest back that speaks, her voice low but clear. A round, smooth sound.
My gaze drops to my hands, which are smudged with dirt and blood where the thorns pierced the skin.
“You will leave. Now.”
“I didn’t—”
“Go.”
The ground trembles at the word, and half of the lights blink out. A swath of blackness and swirling grit takes shape in the darkness, rising like a scene out of a nightmare.
Weslyn steps back.
“I only cut my hands on some thorns!” I exclaim, holding my palms out in a placating gesture. “I didn’t kill anything.”
The giant who stood, now discernible for what she is, looms far above us, a thundercloud ready to strike.
“Please. My name is Rora. This is Helos and Weslyn. We need your help.”
Silence, so complete that for a moment I fear I’ve gone deaf. Then one of the seated giants rises, too, and closes the distance between us in three strides.
The ground trembles so severely at the movement that Helos grabs my shoulder to remain upright. Directly above, the giant’s shoulders stand higher than an elm, his arms the length of an entire story, his trunk-wide calves stretching taller than our bodies. We have to tilt our heads back all the way to glimpse his face.
I barely have time to process the turn of events before he bends and seizes one of my hands, pinching it between a thumb and pointer finger as long as my forearms. It would take him half a thought to reduce the bones to dust.
“There is death on you,” he proclaims, studying the skin. “But it is still to come.”
Light flickers in the dimmed orbs once more, and the surrounding aspens begin to creak despite the absence of wind. The giant releases my hand, seeming appeased, but his declaration has had the opposite effect on me.
“What do you mean?” I say.
He blinks slowly, his emotions difficult to read due to the absence of eyebrows. In fact, there’s no hair on any of their heads. It’s as if they have been carved from stone, beings of the earth itself.
“Do you mean animals I hunt for food?” I persist.
“No.”
A chill worms its way down my spine. I have never killed anything—or anyone—other than prey.
Three hastily scribbled words bob to the surface, mocking.
“You speak our language,” Helos observes.
The giant appraises him for several heartbeats. “We speak many languages.”
And with that, he returns to his perch atop the boulder, all three of them seated once more. The restored distance does little to soothe my apprehension.
Helos continues when the ground has stilled. “We seek an audience with you.”
Are the aspens growing louder?
“We know,” says the one who ordered us to leave, who insisted I have blood on my hands. She’s watching us with open curiosity.
“What do you mean, you know?” I ask.
“The only way to get here now is through the mist, and the mist puts things where they belong.”
I allow myself only a few moments to wonder at this information. “Did you create the mist, then?”
“Is that what you came to ask us?”
Well. “No,” I reply, uncertain.
More trembling in the earth, then, a beat that pulses up through my legs. Two more giants step into the clearing, equally lithe and towering, appearing decidedly less calm than the three seated on the rocks.
“What’s this?” one of the newcomers demands. “Hutta?” There’s a low reverberation beneath the words, like he’s speaking and humming at the same time. The hair rises on the back of my neck.
“They seek an audience,” our communicator—Hutta—replies.
“Send them away.”
“But there are soldiers out there,” I say, trying to ignore the way the grass beneath the angry one’s feet is turning brown. The way that line of brown is creeping across the meadow and toward our feet. I glance at Weslyn, who’s supposed to be the negotiator on this trek. He hasn’t uttered a single word. I add: “We only just escaped.”
Admittedly, I expected this bit of news to elicit some sort of outcry or alarm. Any sign of concern, at least. Instead, it’s met with silence.
“Did you hear me?” I say, temper flaring slightly. “There are humans in the Vale, uniformed humans from Eradain. Does that mean nothing to you? Nonmagical people don’t belong here.”
The brown grass leaps forward in a sudden rush, the stain spreading beneath our boots. We struggle in vain; the blades lengthen and wind their way up and around our feet and calves, no doubt a mark of the giants’ influence, until we’re encased up to the knees. The grass’s grip is rigid as stone.
“No, they don’t,” the angry one says, his pronouncement humming with the unspoken threat. His companions only watch curiously, making no move to interfere. I swear the trees are moaning now.
“We’re not human!” I exclaim, tugging against the bindings. To my left, Weslyn peers at me like I’ve offended him, the color drained from his face.
“He is,” comes the reply. “There’s magic on the two of you. But you are still—”
“My sister and I are shifters,” Helos says, adopting a stranger’s form momentarily to prove it.
“Why did you bring him here, then?” the second latecomer demands, slightly breathless. The sound is like wind brushing water. “You should know better. Which realm are you from?”
“We live in Telyan,” I reply, smarting at the condescension. “But we’re from here, originally.”
“Where exactly is ‘here’?”
I swallow. “Caela Ridge.”
At once, the scene before us changes: the grass releases Helos and me so suddenly we stumble forward, off-balance. The seated giants rise, the two latecomers step toward us, and all five of them begin to speak.
Without thinking, I grab Weslyn’s and Helos’s arms to steady us.
Hutta, who I see is slightly smaller than the rest now that she’s standing, stares at my hand on Weslyn’s arm. I drop it. “That isn’t possible,” she says, and though her voice is quiet, the rest fall silent. “Everyone in that village was slaughtered.”
I bristle at the word. Like livestock.
“I’ve offended you,” she observes.
My eyes narrow. “Our parents were among the ones murdered.”
Weslyn glances my way, but I continue staring at Hutta, not yet ready to see his face. I’ve never told him that our parents didn’t die of natural causes.
“Do not mistake my vernacular with callousness,” she replies. “It was a grievous tragedy.” She fixes Weslyn with a stormy look.
“We are not all interested in making war,” Weslyn says, finding his voice at last. To his credit, I suppose, it doesn’t shake a bit. “Telyan is eager to repair the relationship between our nations.”
Now it’s my turn to stare at him. He’s never shared that bit of information before.
His words are met with more silence. The bindings on his legs hold.
“This one’s royalty,” the giant who examined my hands observes at last. His tone carries an unpleasant note.
“What makes you say that?” Weslyn asks.
“All human kings have an air about them.”
“I’m not a king.”
“Are you not?”
Weslyn takes a deep breath, then releases it. “My intention is genuine.”
“Indeed,” agrees the angry one, nodding once. “And you would be the one to repair things?”
“Will you join me?” Weslyn counters.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is,” Weslyn insists. “A relationship requires two parties. Surely you are familiar with the vernacular.”
A pause.
“Why have you come?” Hutta says at last. Not to Weslyn—to me.
I’m glad for the chance to intervene before Weslyn starts a brawl with beings four times his size. “We’d like to make a trade.”
Her forehead wrinkles, like ripples on the shore. “Of what?”
Well, this is it.
I stand tall, hands at my sides. “Magic has begun cropping up in humans. Only nonmagical people, and most of them are gravely ill or already dead.”
“Most of them?”
“A few have appeared unaffected by the magic.”
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Unaffected. Do you think so?”
I wait for her to clarify. She doesn’t.
“One of the afflicted is our friend,” Helos cuts in.
She holds up a hand. “Enough. You have come for stardust, I presume.” I nod. “You are not the first.”
“We don’t claim to be,” I say.
Hutta tilts her head back. “Tell me. How is the land in the human realm? How is the magic there?”
“The land is dormant,” I reply, a little hesitant. “Though I assume the stardust would change that.”
“Not unless you allow it to sink into the earth. Are you planning to do so?”
“No,” I admit, taken aback by this piece of information. “Only to heal the afflicted.”
“As I thought,” she says. “Humans do better on sleeping terrain. Magic only makes them angrier, and so more dangerous.” She cricks her neck to the side and watches Weslyn. “That is why we left.”
“So the presence of stardust alone is not enough to revive the land?” he asks, undeterred by her pointed comment.
“Of course not. It must be ingested by living beings to have any healing effect, and the same goes for the land.” Her voice ticks up at the end, like he’s stupid. “It must seep into the ground to cause any restoration, and even then it would take time. Rain may cure a drought, but not overnight.”
I was wrong, then. The land east of the river will remain immobile, after all. Weslyn slumps a little in relief.
“You see? You want the magic only when it benefits you. Why should we allow you to take any?”
“My people will die,” he says roughly.
“And that should concern us? Human
s are always the ones creating problems. Your people are petty, guided by greed and fear. It was true in Fendolyn’s lifetime, and it is still true today. Oh yes,” she adds, when his expression darkens, “we hear whispers of what’s happening in the east, the growing unrest among the three realms. Why should we intervene? We tried that once. We gifted you the loropins, urged you to rule on truth and logic rather than baseless emotion, and still you choose to ignore us and destroy yourselves over ugly squabbles. If humans are the only ones falling ill, perhaps that would solve the problem, would it not? At least we would still have our refuge across the river.” Her attention slides to me, as if to gauge my reaction to this narrow-minded stance.
“You wouldn’t for long,” I say, frustrated by her coldness. “Eradain is preparing to strike the Vale, not just the other realms.”
A wave of shock ripples through the giants.
“Explain,” demands the angry one.
“Gladly. If you allow us to make our trade,” says Weslyn. “We have brought a gift.”
“Which is?”
“Seeds from the trees in the Old Forest. An emblem of Telyan.”
Reluctant interest flickers through the group.
“The forest around us grows thick and strong,” Hutta says, her voice guarded. “We have many trees already. Why offer us more? What value is there in such a trade?”
My heart sinks. If the giants reject our offering, we have nothing more to give. A refusal would condemn Finley to death.
Weslyn rises to the challenge before I can muster a response. “The Old Forest outside of Roanin is just as ancient as any west of the river, and more so than any other woods east of it—the trees there don’t grow anywhere else in Alemara. It’s a remnant of the wilderness here, a bridge between Telyan and the Vale. Those seeds tie our lands together, just as a gift of stardust would. Does such a symbol mean nothing to you?”
A trained negotiator, indeed.
“Show us,” says the one who examined my hands.
Weslyn produces the box from his pack, for the first time since that day in Geonen’s shop, and the grass releases his legs at last. In fact, the entire stain of brown recedes, until the meadow is a vivid shade of green once more. By the boulders, the giant who examined my palm crouches and holds out his own. Weslyn hesitates.
Forestborn Page 20
