by Trudi Jaye
After what seemed like hours, their surroundings changed. Her captor slowed, then stopped, and dragged her off his shoulder and onto the ground again. The blood rushed back to her head, and Jena closed her eyes on a wave of dizziness. A large arm held her up, and she leaned on him until the world righted itself again. She blinked a few times and tried to focus.
She saw a tiny stream, a grassy verge, and a small campfire.
Jena turned slowly. Her captor was big—she knew he was going to be—dark brown in coloring, with messy blond hair and thick muscles over his entire body. His eyes held only kindness, and he seemed more childlike than anything else. He smiled and nodded at her, and she nodded cautiously back.
They weren’t the only ones in the clearing. Across the campfire three more strangers watched, two women and a man. The women both wore long dark green robes and had long flowing hair. The man wore dark forest clothing, the kind used to stay hidden in the trees.
“I found her. She bit me.” The voice rumbled behind her.
Despite her initial estimation, she glared at him. “You kidnapped me,” she said.
“You were trying to touch fever flowers. I saved you. Most people faint, they don’t bite.” He held up one of his fingers that had been bleeding, with clear bite marks on the side.
“I was just following my instincts,” she said indignantly.
“Your instincts need some help if touching the white fever flowers seemed a good idea,” said one of the women, circling the campfire to come closer.
Jena hesitated, then let out a huff of breath. “Then I’m grateful you were there to save me,” she said, nodding at the big man behind her.
He nodded back, his expression pleased as he folded his arms across his massive chest. He was a strange mix between man and child, knowledge and sensitivity.
A throat cleared and Jena turned back to look at the others. They were all standing now and had moved closer. She felt their stares heavy on her scars, almost like a physical touch to her face. She flicked her long dark hair to cover one side of her face.
The woman who had walked forward first was older, her dark hair starting to grey. The man was older as well, but the second woman was young, around Jena’s age, with long white-blonde hair. Jena’s eyes widened. She blinked and looked at the younger woman again.
The face was familiar; it was like looking at a necklace that has been worn again and again. The woman had Jena’s nose, tilted and slightly crooked. Her eyes were of the same bright blue that Jena saw in a mirror when she bothered to look. A long face, and a strong chin. The young woman looked exactly like Jena in every way, except for her long white-blonde hair and her perfect skin.
Who were these people?
She glanced again at her almost-mirror image, who was staring back at Jena, a frown on her face.
“Who are you?” Jena demanded.
“I was about to ask you the same question. I am Breanna. This is Carah and Pietr. Rallo was kind enough to bring you to us.”
“My name is Jena. My master, the mage Thornal, told me to travel here. Before he died.”
They all reacted with shock to the news of Thornal’s death.
“Thornal is dead? Who is the new Guardian?” The older woman’s voice was sharp and she eyed Jena suspiciously.
Jena blinked. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask Thornal. “I don’t know. No one.”
“No Guardian? That is impossible. Where is the Book of Spells?” The older woman looked at Jena as if she had the book hidden on her person.
Jena scowled. She crossed her arms in front of her and pushed out her chin. “He burned it,” she said.
“The Guardian cannot destroy the Book.” Carah turned to Breanna. “The forest has led us astray with this one. She is a liar and a thief. We must turn her away.”
“I don’t think the forest has made a mistake, Carah.” Breanna’s voice was calm.
“It is impossible for the Guardian to be killed.” Carah’s voice rose higher. “His skills surpass any other mage in the kingdom. That was why he was Guardian.”
“Maybe it was his time,” Breanna said.
“Where is her proof of what she says?” said Carah. “We cannot take her with us without proof.”
“What makes you think I want to go with you?” said Jena, impatient with the way the woman was talking about her as if she wasn’t there. She was tired and sore, but she hadn’t been doing so badly on her own.
“You’d never survive in the forest without us. What was she doing when you found her, Rallo? Covered in silkworm strands? Trapped at the side of a tree? Fending off beetlebugs?” Carah’s voice was filled with scorn.
Jena made a mental note to avoid any bugs.
“None of those,” said Rallo. “She was even heading in the right direction. But she stopped and tried to pick a fever flower.”
“They were too high. I couldn’t have touched one,” said Jena.
Carah looked like she was going to say something more, but in the end, just crossed her arms.
Jena couldn’t help herself; she smirked. “Maybe I don’t need you after all?” she said. She felt a peck on her stomach and winced.
“Well, we definitely don’t need you,” said Carah.
“Look,” said Breanna, “Carah is wrong.” She paused to glare at Carah, then turned back to Jena. “I know you’re telling the truth, Jena. Please come with us.”
“What makes you think I’m not lying?” Jena asked suspiciously. This strange woman who looked so familiar seemed to know secrets Jena wasn’t privy to.
“I don’t think you know what is happening any more than I do,” said Breanna.
“You don’t know why we look identical?” Jena asked.
Carah’s head snapped up. The older woman stared at Jena and then Breanna, before pursing her lips together.
“No, Jena, I don’t. But I think we should find out,” said Breanna.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nate blinked himself awake. It was dark, the middle of the night. The moon was a sliver in the sky and the clear desert air was silent, except for the buzz of the protection spell that Argus had used around them.
“I only have a couple of them,” he’d said, pulling the powder out of a strange patterned pouch. “But we’re both tired. We’ll use one tonight.” It was the only indication Argus had given him that he was feeling the effects of being wounded by the wolvans. Nate had said nothing.
Now, Argus slept beside him, his soft snores melting into the darkness. The campfire burned low at his side. Nate tried to go back to sleep, but there were too many thoughts racing inside his head. He couldn’t even hold onto one, before another popped into his mind, distracting him and making his head hurt.
He sat up quietly, dragging his bag over. He put his hand into the familiar soft confines, looking for the lava salt bag. His hand hit something hard and cool. One of the Hashishin knives he’d used the day before. Had it really only been the day before? It felt like days, months. Years even.
He pulled out the knife and stared at the strange markings. He traced the image of the Ember Volcanoes, the Flames, anything to avoid looking at the fire ruby in the center.
What was he doing here? What did it all mean? He knew he couldn’t follow Argus to his master. But where else was he to go? Did this count as forfeiting his Salt Mage bond? Would he be hunted by the Mage Council forever more? The questions seemed to build up inside him, wanting to burst out like lava out of a volcano.
He let out a heavy sigh and stood up. He put his bag over his shoulder and fumbled inside again for the lava salt bag. This time he felt it, still full of the precious mineral that would buy him some time and distance from this situation. He held onto it a moment like a talisman.
He pulled on his shoes and buttoned his jacket, keeping an eye on Argus. For a deadly warrior, he was sleeping like the dead. Another indication he wasn’t as whole as he’d appeared earlier.
Nate walked up to the protection spell and put a cautious ha
nd to where it shifted gently in the night sky. He put his fingers against it and then through. A slight sting, but nothing too much. Taking a breath, Nate pushed his whole body through the spell and out into the night air. He shook himself, trying to get rid of the residual buzzing that was affecting his body.
It was much colder outside the spell barrier; it must have been keeping them warm as well. He hesitated a moment and glanced back at Argus. The mage who was behind all of this, who’d sent the mercenary with the spells and the abilities to keep Nate safe, must be very powerful. He might be someone who really could help Nate.
But the whispered warnings of the ghost in the cellar came back to him.
The mercenary’s master is setting a trap. Do not go with him. Promise to help me and I will set you free.
No, he couldn’t afford to trust this mysterious mage.
Nate started walking, keeping his steps slow and silent, toward the side of the rocky formation over their heads. He just needed some perspective on where they were.
He scrambled up, trying to avoid slipping or sending rocks down below. It was an arch, but the sides were low, and the angle wasn’t impossible. He stood on the top, looking out over the desert. It made him feel small and insignificant. Who was he that Prince Lothar wanted him dead?
The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he felt the ghost before it spoke. He didn’t turn around or acknowledge it. Perhaps it would just go away.
“You must help me,” it whispered to him.
Nate shook his head. It was always the same. They wanted his help with some complicated problem that was keeping them bound to this world. They should have crossed over into the Edges and beyond by now; they should have moved on into the next world. But these ghosts, they held themselves here, unable to leave this world, often for some stupid reason like they’d left five cows to their neighbor, not six.
When he was young, and significantly more idealistic, Nate had tried to solve their problems. Especially in the beginning, when they’d first started appearing. And sometimes he’d succeeded. But mostly he didn’t. He’d learned the hard way that there was often nothing a young boy could do to help.
As an adult, he’d learned it was better to ignore them all.
“I can help you. The mercenary isn’t telling you everything.”
Nate spun around. The ghost was an old one, starting to fray around the edges. A man, stooped over with age, one hand grasping a tall walking stick, which seemed to be the only reason he was still standing.
As soon as Nate looked into the ghost’s eyes, he knew he shouldn’t have. They weren’t entirely sane.
“You’ll end up dead, if you continue on this journey, following this man.” The ghost cackled, showing a faded mouth with just three teeth.
“What do you know of the mercenary?” he asked, despite himself.
The ghost smiled slyly. “He isn’t giving you the whole story. He must take you back to his master or his life will be forfeit.”
“What do you mean?”
Shaking his head, the ghost pointed out into the sand-covered wasteland in front of them. “You must help me. My body is buried two days into the desert. You must dig it up and bring my body home to my family. They don’t know where I am.”
“What happened?” asked Nate, stalling for time as he tried to decide whether to do as the old ghost wanted. He needed any help he could get at this moment.
“One of my sons got tired of waiting to inherit.”
Nate grimaced. The ghosts never had good stories to tell. It was always a tale featuring the worst of humanity. It haunted him. Literally.
“Where do your family live?” he asked.
“Near here. I can lead you there once you have my body.”
Nate hesitated, watching the old man closely. “I’m not going two days into the desert to find your body. But I can visit your family and tell them where to find you.” And perhaps get some supplies in return. That is, unless they decided to kill him for bringing up their father. Nate narrowed his eyes at the ghost, trying to figure out how long ago he died. Maybe ten years? It was hard to tell.
The ghost’s face scrunched up as if he was suddenly in excruciating pain. His eyes bulged and sharp rows of pointed teeth appeared in his suddenly engorged mouth. Claws emerged where his fingers had been.
Nate watched impassively. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. These days he understood it was all for show. Ghosts could do very little to affect this world.
He wished he’d known it as a young boy.
“It will be sufficient. Take it or leave it.” They always accepted the deal, whatever it was. What choice did they have?
The ghost raged for a moment longer and then returned being simply a ghostly old man. “I accept your deal.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Here we are,” said Breanna, proudly sweeping one arm toward a patch of forest that looked the same as the rest. They were in the base of a deep, rocky gully surrounded on both sides—below and above—by the blackened trees that had greeted Jena at the edge of the forest, as well as a mix of greener undergrowth. There was a burned-out hollow, desolate and gutted by some long-ago fire, and a heavy unnatural mist hugged the edges of both cliffs. The middle of the gully was rocky and looked like it might once have been a streambed. A feeling of desolation hung over the whole area. Goose pimples rose over the unscarred skin on Jena’s arm.
But on second glance, she saw that some of the mist coating the trees was actually smoke, and there was a hint of roasting meat in the air. She squinted and saw doors and windows cleverly carved into the rocky cliff face on both sides, designed to be unnoticeable at first glance. The village was effectively hidden in plain sight.
“Welcome to Flamehaven,” said Breanna.
They entered a large cavern on one side, and Jena took a swift breath. “All these people live inside here?” she said.
There were people everywhere; it was a bustling community. Men and women walked between entranceways, and came in and out of doors in the rocky walls. Children attended lessons in one corner, adults worked looms and sewed, and others were cooking and cleaning.
In the middle of the cavern’s rocky floor, flames emerged from several natural vent holes in the ground, natural fires, breathing life from the earth. High above were hundreds of tiny smoke holes, none so big as to attract attention, but enough to allow the rising smoke to escape, and mingle with the mist above.
“There are many who would destroy the forest. It is older even than the Royal Flames. Some say even more powerful.” Breanna smiled; her warmth and goodness seeming to shine out through her golden skin and hair. Jena found it hard to look directly at Breanna’s face. It was too bright and clean; she was fresh and unaffected by the hardships of life.
Instead, it seemed better to ignore her and concentrate on the village of Flamehaven. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Jena finally understood why Thornal had sent her to the Forest of Ghosts.
“I’ll take you straight to the High Witch Miara. She will be anxious to meet you,” Breanna said, still smiling.
At the mention of Miara, Jena felt the raven move on her stomach, and visions filled her head of a striking young woman at the royal court, surrounded by admiring men. One of the men was a handsome younger version of Thornal.
Jena walked absently behind Breanna, wondering precisely who Miara was, and what she had meant to Thornal. Ahead of her, Breanna strode through the cavern, smiling and nodding at people as they passed by. She headed into a hallway dug into the rocks on the other side. The rocks on the edge of the tunnel were smooth. Jena had chipped away at enough rocks in her time to know what a freshly hewn tunnel looked like. This place, Flamehaven, had been here a very long time.
Breanna stopped and knocked perfunctorily on a wooden door, then opened it with the ease of long practice. Jena followed more cautiously. The small room was warm and comfortable. A tapestry of the forest covered one wall and bookshelves lined the other two wall
s, while an old desk stood opposite the door. Large comfortable chairs flanked a leather couch in front of a fireplace.
Jena’s gaze landed on the small figure in front of the fireplace. The High Witch came up to Jena’s shoulder. She wore the same robe as Breanna, and although the deep lines on her face and her white hair marked her years, she stood straight and regal. Jena still had flickering images of a youthful woman at court, dancing and laughing, inside her head. It gave her a disconcerting double view of Miara.
“Miara, may I introduce Jena. Rallo found her in the forest.” Breanna swept one arm toward Jena and then Miara. “She brings sad news of the Guardian Thornal. Jena, this is High Witch Miara.”
“What is your news child?” she said softly. Her eyes were like pools of dark water, so deep there was barely a ripple.
Jena cleared her throat, suddenly unable to say the words. This woman knew him, had known him for a long time.
“He has returned to ashes?”
Jena nodded.
“He sent you to me?”
Jena hesitated. Her eyes darted around the small room, as if the furniture could provide her with the answer. Had Thornal sent her to Miara? He’d only mentioned the Forest of the Ghosts. The flickering images of the pair of them dancing at court flickered through her head. She nodded again.
Miara looked from Jena to Breanna with a guarded expression on her ancient features. Her eyes narrowed, and she settled her gaze on Jena. “You are family, there can be no doubt,” she said abruptly.
“Pardon me?” said Jena.
“You have almost exactly the same features. There can be no doubt.”
Jena shook her head. “Our hair. My scars.” She gestured at her face.
Miara took a step forward and stopped when Jena flinched back. She sighed. “Your scars are a physical change that occurred after you were born. Your hair... well, family members do not have to have the same color hair. But your features... It is truly amazing.” Her gaze went from Breanna to Jena and back again.
