Caleb stops whistling and counts his steps to pass the time. He looks up at the fading stars and watches the shadow of his breath come out in a white plume, Winter’s shadow. His shoulders ache from the heavy pack on his back, filled with all the necessary previsions. But neither the weight nor the pain bothers him. He knows his task, and fears what will happen if he doesn’t abide by it. Dalia is right. We are all that’s left. Soon, the counting becomes too bothersome. He sings again instead.
Oh sparrow, oh sparrow
come down from the wall,
tell me all you’ve seen,
tell me all you’ve heard.
Oh sparrow, oh sparrow
Have you seen my child?
Have you heard his voice?
Have you seen his smile?
Oh sparrow, oh sparrow
come down from the wall,
look upon me now and tell
all that you know.
Oh sparrow, oh sparrow
I fear I’m alone,
guide me to my love,
my son, and my home.
Caleb continues to sing, and as he repeats the lines for the fourth time, the sun rises into the horizon and rays—like fingers—reach across the sky. He pauses, swings the pack from his back, and unties the strings to reach inside and pull out the map. So close.
Much to the pleasure of Caleb’s childhood imagination, the hermit lives in a hovel in the middle of the dense oak forest. Caleb knocks once and the door gives. Dark, with the light smell of pine, the hermit beckons him to enter with a voice deep like thunder. “Sit,” the voice commands, “and to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Caleb glances around the circular room for something resembling a chair, fails, and decides to sit on the moist lichen floor.
“I’m looking for someone, but I need your help to find her.”
“I don’t deal in matters of the heart.”
“This isn’t one.”
A sudden shifting out of Caleb’s periphery, and the hermit comes forward. Deep lines penetrate his expression, exaggerate his features. Gray hair and a beard puff around his head like billows of smoke from a stove, and his eyes, brown like the dirt beneath Caleb’s body, gaze at him with curiosity. He wears a mess of leaves and sticks that resemble a tree of the forest, while a great horned owl rests on what Caleb presumes to be a shoulder. The owl tilts its head at Caleb, yellow eyes unblinking.
Caleb looks away.
“Hmm. You seek something that you cannot find—a girl—but you do not have affection for her? Explain.”
Caleb sighs. To tell the hermit the truth means he is sentencing the innocent man to death should Alessandra be privy to his helping Caleb. To lie means potentially not getting the man’s help. He is not skilled in tracking—he is not a pathfinder like the hermit. He will have to tell him a truth and a lie. “She’s in danger, and I need to warn her. It’s my fault.”
The owl hoots, his chest expanding and compressing in rapid succession. It seems to solidify whatever thought the hermit has about helping Caleb. He shifts in the spot, the leaves rustling a soft harmony. “You’ve touched this young woman?” he says with a grin. Caleb nods. “Then give me your hands—ah, yes, I can feel her already. Are you sure of this?” The hermit and owl simultaneously cock their heads.
“Yes.”
At first, it feels like he has placed his hands in warm water, but the heat quickly intensifies to feel like an open flame. The hermit holds Caleb’s hands tightly, closing his swollen fingers around Caleb’s palms. He closes his eyes and leaves his mouth slightly ajar.
“She is held under a veil of strong constitution. I won’t be able to give you an exact locale.” He peeks an eye open and releases Caleb’s hands. “Have a map?” The hermit takes Caleb’s map from his hands and motions for Caleb to look, as his wrinkled finger circles a region in the northwest. Caleb sighs. Without teleporting, it’s at least a week’s journey, if not longer. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll take you as far as I can.”
Caleb lifts an eyebrow. “But that kind of travel is outlawed.”
“As are most fun things in this world.” The hermit motions for Caleb to draw near. “Shall we be off then?”
Caleb puts the map back in his pack and then swings it onto his back. “Yes.”
The shadow stands in the doorway. Its breath whispers out in ragged billows. It takes a step into the hallway and stumbles forward on pitched feet. Its muscles, unused for years, strain in the sudden change of activity. To save them all will mean death for them all—or rather, death as they know it.
It closes its eyes and sighs, covering its face with a hand. Being a warden is tough. When this is all over, the shadow decides, it will bask in the boredom. No, no basking. It will be the end of me. It grins at the thought. The shadow tries to recall the names of the faces surfacing in its mind but fails. It can’t even recall its own name, let alone these strange and yet familiar figures.
It limps down the hall. It will be a long journey at this pace, but the shadow must fulfill its given task. The door had been left open—the mission implied. The shadow laughs at the woman’s stubbornness. Maybe she will succeed.
Its memory clicks and clanks as the machine comes to life, then with a quick incantation, the shadow turns corporeal. Her name, what is her name . . . Deer, deer, Deirdre! Deirdre sucks in her breath. Quiet as a specter—for she is something in between—she slips up the spiraling stairs. When she reaches the top, her hands find the iron handle. Deirdre’s lungs expand and her heart gushes wildly inside her chest. Her ribs feel as though they will crack from the pressure, the space so ill-used for such a long period of time. She panics, her wobbly legs stretching out beneath her, covering ground slowly—too slowly. She turns down a corridor, passes another, swivels through an open door, and runs toward freedom.
Deirdre catches her breath, leans against the wall, and waits for a beat before she continues on. Soon, she reaches a hallway that slants on a harsh incline. She walks partway before breaking into a run. Placing her hand on the knob, she breaks the incantation with a breath. “Ah, maybe I haven’t forgotten everything.” Deirdre reels towards the door. Her heart quickens and her skin grows cold, bumps raising across her arms.
Deirdre grasps the grass between her toes and looks up into the great blue sky—so blue, so big. She starts off at a brisk jog, but her legs form their own rhythm, and she feels herself running full out. She laughs, releasing the hysterical pressure in her core. She runs and runs and runs, until she reaches a path, a memory. Then, she collapses without breath in the middle of the woods.
Lilah wakes from her reverie as she gazes out the window. A thin layer of new snow lies on the ground, but Lilah doesn’t have any memory of it ever falling. Just off in the distance, she still hears the rushing of a stream. She images the snow flurry, the crystals of ice floating on the surface, broken from the banks. How pleasant it would be for the current to carry her away, to go numb in the icy waters. She squeezes her eyes shut. But first, I must kill Alessandra.
“Lilah?” a quiet woman’s voice says, muted against the door.
“Come in.” She pulls the window shut and runs her fingers through her hair.
Jia opens the door and says, “We need to talk.” She gathers her hands at the black belt cinching her waist. She wears another silk gown, much too formal for Lilah to believe she dons them every day, but the image suits her petite frame. Today’s color is yellow. Her black hair lingers down to her sides, no matching ribbon tying it back.
Lilah tries for a smile, but her lips fight the expression and end up becoming a grimace. “Nothing else needs to be said.”
Now it is Jia’s turn to try for a smile, pathetic though the gesture may be, it works well on her features. “It is very hard, I will admit, to try and think of what to say in a situation like this.” She holds up her hands and shrugs. “It is part of my Lux nature to try and alleviate pain.”
Lilah nods slowly. She doesn’t want to talk; it�
�s all just noise. “Why are you here?” she says bluntly. “I mean, why are any of you here? I know it’s a sanctuary, but I assume you haven’t been just waiting here . . . so you also knew about the imminent attack or were told by Florence? Were you part of her army?” Lilah muses aloud, trying to find a little understanding in all the chaos.
“Verna,” Jia jumps in, before Lilah takes a breath. “Marcus said something about Florence coming to Verna. She was supposed to warn you.”
Lilah thinks back to the Ludi. Verna had wanted to talk to her, but Lilah had not given her the chance. She denied Verna, shunning her guardian’s pleads because she was uncomfortable with the emotions. Pinpricks pierce her eyes, and her throat burns. Lilah condemned Verna, now the betrayal moves from Verna on to Lilah’s own shoulders. The weight of it cripples her.
“Florence came to Verna?” she breathes.
“Yes, with the Six.”
Lilah’s jaw slacks. No wonder she was so distraught. “The Six. They’re really scared of a little girl like me?”
Jia laughs. “Power makes even the fearless quiver with suspicion.” Jia pats Lilah’s shoulder. “Aza would like to talk to you. She’s waiting downstairs.”
“Why?” She crosses her arms, the petite woman’s placid smile infuriating Lilah even more. “Is it something you can’t just tell me now?”
Jia shrugs and shakes her head. “I know you are eager for the truth, but it isn’t as simple as you’d like it to be.”
Lilah’s upper lip curls up in anger, then her torso comes alive with a fire that courses through her limbs. “It is that easy. If something is true, then the alternatives are false.”
“That is fact. Truth is not fact. Fact is logic, but truth is based off our experience and perspective.”
Lilah snorts. “So now we’re talking about the nuances of words? I don’t have time for this.”
She storms past the woman and down the hall, making her way down the stairs where Aza is to meet her. In the light of day, the house feels foreign, as if it has come alive to judge her with its pure rays. She hurries into a shadow, certain the light would find her guilty, the punishment too grim to think on.
Aza approaches her, dressed in a black gear that covers her extremities and a sheer black shawl that comes up and over her hair. A lacy bit covers most of her face but leaves her eyes and eyebrows visible. The gear acts to cover all of her skin, hiding her signa, and thus keeping her abilities unknown. She must have a wide range of abilities to need so much covering. She makes up for it by being particularly expressive with her eyes. Lilah wonders if the woman used to operate as a shadow assassin—rogue warriors of either sect turned mercenaries—before being rallied to the sanctuary, which would explain the lengths she goes to hide herself.
They exit the house, but Aza immediately turns to Lilah and says, “Stay. Someone passed through the barrier.” She stalks onward, her steps become precise and inaudible. She pulls a dagger from a crease in her gear. Lilah pauses for only a moment before she places her feet directly over where the tall grass is slightly bent from Aza’s footfalls. “Can’t you listen to one order?” Lilah shrugs; Aza smiles. Lilah trails her until they are in the thick of the woods, the trees branching out in every direction. Looking around at their surroundings, Lilah nearly walks into Aza’s stopped form.
“Aza, what is it?” Lilah whispers. When she doesn’t respond, Lilah steps to the side to see for herself. There, lying on the ground in front of them, huddled in a fetal position, is a naked woman. Her body so malnourished, the bones peek through the thin skin. Her black hair flourishes against the white of the snow. “Aza?” Lilah breathes. She hastens to move forward, but Aza grabs her arm.
The body makes a tiny movement, a breath wheezes out from the grass. “Florence?” the woman says in a high and airy voice. “Florence, is that you?”
“Asher,” the red-haired, middle-aged man yells out from behind the counter, in a way that makes Caleb believe he knows it’s a fake name.
Caleb stands and walks over to grab the brown paper square where a turkey and cheese sandwich hides. “Thanks,” he says, handing over a few of his precious coins. He forked out a hefty sum for the pathfinder, the emptiness of his pockets dire. He couldn’t bring much, only what money of his own laid around the house. By now, he knows Dalia has probably figured out he’s gone. Would she search for him? Caleb doesn’t let himself think too much about it, unless a great rush of guilt should overcome him.
He sits at one of the empty tables and takes the sandwich out the paper wrapper, then bites into the savory meal. In his haste to leave before Dalia woke, he neglected to pack food.
The hermit transported as close to the location as he could, but now it was up to Caleb to travel the rest of the way. Just follow the magic. Or where the magic ends.
“Can I use the restroom?”
The woman at the counter gives him a cursory examine before passing him the key to the bathroom, which is outside of the building and around the back. She smiles and says, “Use as much water as you’d like.”
The bathroom is small but clean. A large barrel of water sits in the far corner, opposite of the toilet. He’s heard that the water in these parts is still toxic to drink from the war. No one could figure out a counter spell. Caleb wonders if he can trust it. Maybe the water is still toxic, and this is just a trick. But it looks so good.
He takes a sip and doesn’t taste anything—poison can be tasteless, though. He pulls a canister from his pack and fills it to the brim with the clear water. He takes a towel from the counter and dips an edge in, wiping his face of the dirt from traveling. Once Caleb finishes, he finds some semblance of himself in the mirror.
Caleb returns and sits at one of the small café tables, one where he has a clear view of the street, but enough privacy so he can look at his map without the owners coming over to ask if he needs directions. The map shows in detail the Nox territory he’s entered and the surrounding areas. To the northwest of the Nox territory lays a forest, which runs parallel to the ocean and limps north into forbidden land. He stares at the map, a sickening pull in his gut. Is he going to go through with this? So close. He feels himself wavering.
Alessandra came into his hometown, after Florence and her forces thought themselves safe to hide there. No one knew Rowley had died, since Alessandra continued to raze cities during battle. After the initial blasts to the city, Alessandra took a small force through the remains. Caleb remembers it vividly: Alessandra came in through the basement door and took them away to the house they live in still. His parents had left them there after going out to fight for Florence’s side.
He shudders out of his reverie. “Asher?” Caleb flinches. The woman from the counter stares down at him with her brows furrowed. “Sorry, but we’re closing.”
Caleb looks outside, the sun is still shining. “What time is it?”
“Three in the afternoon.”
He should get back out there before the sun sets and he finds himself in unfamiliar territory, in the dark. The search is wide and he should use all the time he has. He gathers the map and shoves it in his pack. No time to procrastinate. Though he wonders about his hesitation.
“Why are you here?” The woman sits at one of the barstools and crosses her legs, exposing black signa on the calves of her legs and a patchwork of scars that stretch from her knee down to her ankle. Caleb stops and looks at her. She has a long face and sun-worn skin riddled with wrinkles. She looks grim, but her eyes are not unkind.
“Visiting a friend,” he says, but his voice cracks, unnerved by what she might say—or do—next.
She laughs, a short chesty echo, which sends her reeling into a coughing fit. She composes herself and answers him calmly. “Visiting who, Lux? That map you’ve got there is pretty nifty, but these parts are haunted.”
Caleb goes rigid and pushes out from the table, throwing the pack over his shoulder. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”
She points to his neck.
“When you’re flashing that you ought to be more aware of your surroundings.” She stands from the barstool and takes a step toward him. “Lucky for you, I don’t care what sect you belong. Most won’t in these parts—we all fought on opposing sides. Fathers against daughters, mothers against sons, neighbors again neighbors.” She gives him a pained look, then she smiles, then grabs a bag from the counter and offers it to him. “Safe travels, Asher.”
“Thank you.” Caleb stashes the sandwich in his pack, then makes for the door.
“Oh, Asher?”
Caleb turns back. “Yes?”
“Don’t go wandering in the woods. Their magic still lives in there. As if it soaked into the soil and everything with roots sucked it up,” she whispers, her eyes glancing around.
Caleb smiles and nods in acknowledgment of her advice before walking out the door into the street. Looks like I should head straight for the woods then. The town, composed of only three small shops, is quiet. The sun shines down onto his shoulders, but a cool breeze sweeps across him and he tightens his jacket. He keeps walking until he reaches a part of the path that juts out and turns sharply to the right.
Caleb stops and takes a deep breath. The air is fragrant with aromas he’s never smelt before. Something sweet—like honey. Something strong—like lavender. But the third smell is unmistakable—death. Caleb turns into the wind and switches his direction to follow it.
Made up from a variety of different trees, Caleb can’t recall ever seeing such thick woods anywhere else. But as he wanders from the comforts of the open town deeper into the forest, he begins to understand why perhaps the townsmen call it haunted. Not a single creature lurks in the branches or scurries on the ground, while the still air smells of something rotting. It isn’t hard to follow the scent to its origin.
Premonition Page 15
