The injured human stood, pressing himself up despite the arrows. The golden-haired alp calmly stepped forward, drawing a short dagger. In the moonlight, it looked dark, almost black. The alp said a quiet word and then punched the dagger into the human’s chest.
Ahraia gasped.
The boy in front of her flinched, as though he had been stabbed himself. The human slid off of the blade, still rasping for life. Ahraia shuddered, wondering if it had been the same for Kaval and Altah. She wondered if the Astra had returned the blackened blade of the Stone Tree to the alp. The alp called out to the others, and the strange group gathered themselves and made off through the woods. As soon as they did, the menace lifted. The forest seemed empty where a moment before it was filled at every corner.
The boy she had followed suddenly started moving again. He stumbled forward as though unfrozen. Ahraia heard his voice, and watched as he curled over the body of the fallen human and cried. She crept closer, leaving her arrows in their quiver. She didn’t intend to bind him—she had no interest in knowing how broken he was, but she mirrored his words, just as she saw the fallen human’s hand go limp. Dead.
“Brother? Edwin?” the boy choked in the human tongue. She could hear him sobbing into the dead man’s chest. She broke the bonding. The pain was too sharp, even just to mirror his words. The dead human and the boy were of the same nit, the same house as the human at the lightening had called it.
She slumped to the ground, hearing only the sobbing sounds of the boy.
Ahraia couldn’t bear to even listen. She felt like she was losing her own brothers again, like she had just watched Kaval and Altah die, like she was re-living Hayvon disappearing into the fog. She hated herself for what she was supposed to do. She lay looking the other way for a long time.
You have to be ruthless, a voice within said.
Ahraia stood up, drawing her drain.
I will be.
26
Lost
The head swung back and forth in a makeshift sack, bumping Ahraia’s leg with every other step forward, dragging over low ferns and swinging wildly as she leapt over logs. She couldn’t bear the smell of dried blood and ruined flesh, but even worse was the guilt wracking through her for taking it. It hung like a weight on the back of her tongue, threatening to gag her at every breath. The dead weren’t meant to be meddled with.
Not even by daemons, she thought, sickened by her own actions. Even with the razor-sharp bone knife, it hadn’t been easy.
To top it off, she was lost—and she was out of time. The Bright Moon’s turning was all but spent.
“Where in the light are you, Losna?” she muttered, seeing only the same rainswept woods she had seen for the last two nights. Droplets fell from dying autumn leaves and pine needles alike. With every step, water squelched up from the sodden ground. Her boots were soaked through, her feet within were heavy and wrinkled and numb. The Bright Moon had already passed the Blood Moon in her circuit. She wouldn’t be rising except just before dawn.
If she isn’t already turned, Ahraia thought darkly, unsure. The nights had melded together into one unidentifiable mess. She guessed a dozen nights had passed since she had taken the fallen human’s head. The full alignment of the Blood Moon and Bright Moon had come and gone, and all she knew for sure was she hadn’t seen anything recognizable for the last three nights. Her desperation had long ago passed to resignation.
I’m never going to find Angolor, she thought.
Thick fog swirled through the tree trunks.
Her hair was lank and dripping wet. She guessed she was close—close enough that she had hidden her bow and the alp’s quiver in case she stumbled upon the darkening.
The fog shifted and Ahraia wondered where she had gone wrong. More than once it had occurred to her that Golan’s directions could have misled her. But it had been an open enchantment, and surely someone would have spoken up—her father, at the very least. Unless he was in on it with the Astra.
She felt blood warming her cheeks.
If Losna’s been shown the light, let these be the Shadow Woods. Let me be done with this, she thought. The dimmest light in the east began to show. A raven cawed nearby. She looked about and saw its brilliant, white feathers. A moon raven. The worst omen.
The time had come to send a message to Kyah.
Ahraia looked about the woods for any other birds. The spattering of rain swelled as though trying to drive all living things deeper into their shelter. She reached out with her mind, searching for life. She was alone. There were no other birds to be had.
Just my luck.
It seemed as soon as she had taken the human’s head, she had been cursed.
The days and nights afterwards had been the worst Ahraia had ever known. She spent the first day tucked beneath the roots of a monstrous human bridge, just across the river from one of their stone darkenings. Under the bridge wasn’t nearly as sheltered as she expected, and she listened in terror as the humans clanged bells and trumpeted horns all day long. She heard shouts and marshaled voices, and then an endless line of lightwalkers had emerged, shaking the bridge with their passing. Ahraia cowered in the darkest shadows, tucked in against the cold stone, sure that they would sense her or the head she carried: the stench of blood was nauseating. The next night, she had pushed on with all haste, putting as many miles between herself and the human realm as she could.
But the nights had not grown better.
The forests had become less familiar, with endless, deep valleys and ever-churning rivers. Strange creatures haunted the woods. A lone Hob had tried to surprise her, and a bear had nearly stolen the human head from her while she was trapped underdaeing. Her mind felt raw binding it, and she barely managed to send it lumbering back through the woods.
At night, there were plenty of maras to avoid. Like biting bugs that emerged in the summer, she couldn’t fathom how they survived without flesh and thought to sustain themselves. She even saw a massive jontun wading in the river, and when it spotted her, it rushed towards her with earth-shaking strides. In the Gelesh, these creatures feared sprites and kept their distance. But here, they seemed wild and unafraid. One pair of imps had followed her for an entire night before she managed to scare them off with a well-placed arrow.
By the fifth day, the smell of dried blood and sweat beneath her nose burned her nostrils. Her underdaes hadn’t afforded much protection from the Dae-Mon and her markings were seared-in by the constant light that she had suffered. She slept wedged beneath fallen logs one day and fought a fox for its undersized den the next. She had even tucked herself beneath a crowded clump of pines in the deepest corner of the forest when she couldn’t find anything better. She rested fitfully, and when she slept, her dreams were filled with the sobbing voice of the human boy, calling “Brother . . . brother.”
And if the daytime dreams were terrible, the waking nights were even worse.
She felt the head thump against her leg.
Brother.
Another step.
Brother.
She swallowed down her rising sickness. A weight, far greater than the contents alone, lay upon her. The human boy’s anguish haunted her, gnawing at her conscience. The world seemed intent on condemning her, and the rain fell even harder. The Dae-Mon was coming.
Ahraia wondered if it was even worth finding an underdae. The forest around her was dark enough to sleep where she stood. At first, it had seemed a boon, a sign that she was close: the canopy was thick and healthy, and the understory thin and spritish. The only things growing were those plants that loved the dark: sap pines and leech ferns, willow root and spindle elms. But the Masai had spoken of walking for days beneath the dark, and now Ahraia understood why.
Losna! Just call out. I’ll find you, she conveyed desperately.
But the bond was still stretched too thin.
The eaves-web of her cloak succumbed to the wet, seeping through as though she had jumped headfirst into the stream she was running alongsid
e. She leapt over a fallen log and flitted down a mossy hillside. A valley wall loomed ahead. The pervasive gray of the coming dawn spread like fog through the rain-laden trees. Ahraia’s time was up. There was no more night to run in. She passed through a low dell, with sparse grass and stopped dead in her tracks.
White wings of a moon raven fluttered across the shadows.
A figure stood at the edge of the glade. A sprite, standing before Ahraia in a black fur cloak.
A smile spread across Ahraia’s face in recognition.
It was the Masai. Her eyes glowed out tenebrously.
Shade Ahraia. You’re just in time.
The trees beyond the Masai rose in great, towering columns. Far within, the rough form of an enormous darkening wall melded with the forest, a shell so expansive that Ahraia had mistaken it for a valley wall. The rains were lessened where she stood, and stopped entirely a dozen feet away, funneled down by a series of spiraled spinners and leaf-turns. Hooded sprites and veiled wards materialized from the shadows, wings rustled distantly and ravens cawed in chorus. Ahraia’s heart unclenched.
The tension collected across her mind broke for the first time since Losna had been taken from her and her lungs swelled with fresh air, as though she hadn’t breathed properly in a full turning.
“This is Angolor?” she asked. I’m going to see my shadow. The thought escaped in a moment of unchecked elation.
But it only lasted a moment.
Her relief faltered as her gaze came to rest on the Masai and the black cloak that she wore. Ahraia’s smile slid from her face.
The cloak, black as true dark and draped skin-like over the Masai’s shoulders, was an enormous wolf hide. The hood was the wolf’s head, and its bone white teeth hung above the Masai’s stark yellow eyes.
The blood drained from Ahraia’s face. Her stomach clenched and she felt lightheaded, her worry for Losna redoubling.
“At the last possible moment.” The Masai shook her head.
More sprites were emerging from the shadow-clad trees. With a flutter in her chest, Ahraia saw Kren amongst them. Both relief and anger twined together, but at once, her attention was drawn away. The Astra hurried towards her, unimpeded by the dim glow of dawn. She was followed by a harrowed looking group of wards and sprites from Daispar.
“Shade Ahraia! Where have you been?” she said crossly. Did you swim here? She glanced towards Ahraia sodden hair.
Ahraia’s tongue pushed against her thickened lip where Golan’s elbow had slammed into her. She glared at the Astra.
Are you surprised to see me?
The Astra furrowed her brow. Her skin had the faintest light markings, and her eyes had just a tinge of gold at the edges.
You’re late, she conveyed. She was tensed forward, like a tree grown against an ever-blowing gale.
“She is late,” the Masai said flatly, drawing Ahraia’s attention sharply back. Her ears flickered aggressively, indicating she didn’t want any conveyance beneath the surface.
“Late?” Ahraia said, her voice weak from disuse. “I’m just in time. The Bright Moon is still turning.”
The Masai pursed her lips. The sprites from Daispar were nodding. The Astra’s eyes flickered towards the sack in hand.
“Have you done it? Have you killed an enemy?” The tension seemed to bleed from her and her voice quavered with excitement.
Feigned excitement, Ahraia thought, glowering at her as she remembered Golan’s words. The Astra’s act was convincing. The fact that she had sent a dae-ward to kill Ahraia didn’t show on her face in the least. The Masai’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes. What have you brought me? What enemy have you killed?”
Ahraia walked across the glade, looking for Losna.
Where is my shadow?
You’ll see her soon enough, the Masai conveyed.
Ahraia handed the rain-soaked sack over with a breath of relief. The Masai opened it and tipped her head down to peer inside. The wolf’s lidded eyes stared at Ahraia.
The Masai smiled a sickening, flat smile. The Astra peered over her shoulder, insincere relief spreading vacantly on her face. The sprites around the glade leaned forward, ears twitching and gazes shifting to get a better look.
The Astra reached into the sack and grabbed the human head, withdrawing it by its lank and blood matted hair.
“A man,” she said with a wild look in her eyes. “And a healthy one, at that.”
The Masai looked at the head, then at Ahraia.
“You should have been here nights ago.”
Ahraia kept her eyes down. The Astra seemed ambivalent to the Masai’s mood.
“Come. Let us get away from this accursed light and you may tell us all about the kill.”
Ahraia couldn’t look at the head. Her stomach turned. She swallowed, and found the Masai staring at her.
“Did you kill it in the daytime?” Get her a veil and make her a ward, she conveyed loosely. Wicked smiles mixed with condemning muttering. The sprites from Daispar shifted uncomfortably.
Ahraia flushed with embarrassment, wishing she could cover her markings. When the Masai made her thoughts known again, they were just for Ahraia.
I hope you know how close it was, she conveyed.
The Astra swung the human head in her hand as though she had just learned the Dae-Mon was dead.
“Your task isn’t finished yet,” the Masai said. She nodded to one of her wards. “Give me the spire.” A sprite stepped forward and gave her a long spear, bone-white and as tall as Ahraia was.
The Astra held out the human’s head, but the Masai’s ears batted back, and she pushed the spear into the Astra’s hands.
“You show her.”
The Astra took the spear and tossed the head casually onto the ground. It thudded and rolled onto its side, staring up at Ahraia with blank, horrible eyes. The Astra brought it about with a kick of her foot.
“The trick is to hold it steady with your feet.” She demonstrated, positioning it so that the severed neck was pointing to the sky, muscle and ligaments and flesh all ragged and rotten. She lined up the spear. “You want to hit it slightly towards the back of the neck. Where it’s softer. That way you won’t hit bone, right about here.” She pointed with the spear. “But if you’re not careful, you’ll skewer your foot. Here.” She handed the spear to Ahraia.
Ahraia immediately recognized the bone by touch. It was from the keress, likely the long bone of the leg, sharpened into points on both ends.
“Innocent and enemy together,” the Astra said, nodding.
The spear felt rotten to her hand, but Ahraia had seen enough staked heads to know its purpose. Revolted, she arranged the mangled mess so the neck faced upward, lining up the spear while clenching her stomach and holding her breath.
“Do it,” the Astra urged her.
Excitement swelled from the sprites surrounding them. Ahraia’s thoughts went to the human boy crying over his brother; she tried not to imagine what he would think if he ever knew what she had done.
I’m sorry, she thought. She held her breath and raised the spear. She plunged it downward. Hard bone and tissue crunched beneath the point.
“Good!” the Astra said. “Now, go and mark your territory. Put it away from the darkening, where any unexpected visitors will see it. This is your land now too, Ahraia.” The Astra smiled at the Masai.
The Masai watched on silently.
Ahraia carried the spear back towards the dimly lit forest, holding the head away in disgust.
I need my shadow, she thought, horrified at what she held. Losna? She reached out again with her mind but felt no sense of her.
She found a place of soft earth and pushed the spear into the ground. It stood unbearably tall. She wished she could bury it. Or burn it, she thought, if that’s what the humans do.
She hurried back towards the darkening.
“Well done, Shade Ahraia. Your second task is complete,” the Masai said.
When do I get to see Losna? Ahra
ia conveyed, desperate to be reunited. She was ready to run, to flee and be done with the test. The Masai stared at her, with no light in her eyes.
“You don’t,” she said. “Not until your third task.”
27
Darkness
Ahraia could feel each individual heartbeat in her ears, pounding, one after another. Her vision narrowed to a dark point.
“Why not? Where is she?” She looked at Kren. “None of the other shades were taken from their shadows before their third task.”
“You aren’t one of the other shades, Ahraia. Stop groveling.” The Masai turned back to the darkening, gesturing for her wards to follow.
Ahraia’s despair threatened to suffocate her. For the whole turning, the only thought keeping her sane had been that Losna would be waiting for her.
I just want to see her. Just once, she conveyed, unable to contain her thoughts.
“Another half a turning isn’t going to kill you,” the Masai called back, with finality. “You are on the verge of becoming a sprite.”
The eyes of the sprites in Angolor seemed whiter than those in the Gelesh, milky pale, and more indifferent than the stars on a winter night. Dozens of them stared cruelly at Ahraia from the deep dark of the woods. Kren stood amongst them, hooded and empty-eyed.
“Half a turning?” Ahraia said breathlessly. She couldn’t last that long. Another day or night without Losna would kill her.
“Come, Ahraia. You’ve passed your second task,” the Astra said.
But Ahraia was unable to move as the Astra and Masai turned towards the darkening. I want my shadow back.
The wolf cloak trailed after the Masai, its legs and tail dragging lifelessly on the ground. The rest of the sprites followed. Kren’s gaze lingered on Ahraia. An impassivity spread across her face, but her eyes burned with something else. Fear? Hatred? Hope? Ahraia couldn’t say, and Kren quickly turned about when Ahraia met her eye. Her sister hurried after the sprites, falling in amongst the nitesses of Angolor.
Between the Shade and the Shadow Page 34
