“I was perfectly calm, Jarad.” As calm as one could be when having a conversation with a myth. “A dream couldn’t have warned me about the bridge.”
She turned to trudge deeper into the forest. Indeed, a narrow track of smoothed ground lay ahead. Whatever Jarad believed about the faeries, he followed.
As he landed, the clack of Noire’s talons reverberated through the cavernous chamber. Twenty chairs surrounded the glossy dining table on which he stood, only one of them occupied.
“If I may be so bold,” Magda said, setting a yellowed dinner plate before Venefica. “You shouldn’t expend so much strength all at once. Five days of pooling all your power into one trap? You’ve circles under your eyes, Effie-girl, and I can see your veins.”
Shadow and ice crackled around Venefica. “Never,” she said, “address me thus.”
Noire flapped a hasty retreat to the other end of the long table, as Magda went rigid, her face white as the towel she choked between her gnarled fingers.
“Do you think it so easy to manipulate nature?” Venefica said, her voice bouncing off the dark paneled walls, rattling dinnerware in cabinets and setting crystal droplets to tinkling on the chandelier. “The power required to alter the flow of that river would crush you to dust!”
“F-forgive me,” Magda whispered. As if released from a puppeteer’s hold, she slumped. She turned and rummaged at the sideboard, then dropped a pewter trencher at Noire’s feet. “It nearly worked, milady.”
Noire tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at the trencher. His senses detected no poison, and he’d consumed far less pleasant fare, but that crone was not to be trusted. She’d spoken true on one matter, though. Venefica’s plan nearly had worked—until Jarad appeared.
“I had to change the course of the current to wash out that cursed bridge,” Venefica said, snatching up a heel of bread. She squeezed it, letting a few crumbs fall. “The Shadow Mist isn’t a solid hand, you know. An entire month’s collected fury and fear was barely sufficient fuel to churn those waters and create that sinkhole. Weakening the consistency of earth from this distance isn’t as simple a matter as crushing bread.”
“Yes, but you knew it was a risk, milady,” Magda said. “There was always the chance the girl wouldn’t even go that way.”
“There is no other path out of this pathetic village,” Venefica said, “except the forest, and she’d be a fool to travel through that tangle. She’d never survive on her own.”
Ah, but Lyssanne wasn’t on her own. Not any longer. Noire’s tail feathers twitched, silent in the ominous stillness that filled the dining hall.
Venefica swung her gaze to him. “The forest—that is the only choice left her. Find her. Follow her. I want to see every twig she snaps.” She opened her hand, eyeing the mangled bread as it rolled to the floor. “I want to watch her die a slow death in that wood.”
Noire bowed, his beak grazing the tabletop. He would do her bidding, but at a distance this time. He’d not risk becoming a target of Jarad’s heroics or the Shadow Mist, as he had at the bridge. Foolish, straying so near the Mist and being swept up in Venefica's fury! If he became nothing more than one of her puppets, he’d never force her to fulfill their bargain.
“Do not let her leave your sight,” Venefica said, piercing him with eyes of liquid night. “But should her steps turn back toward Cloistervale, inform me at once.” She swirled the wine in her crystal goblet. “I want her dead or so far from my village, she has no hope of returning.”
A fortnight later, Noire sidled closer to the trunk of a plateris tree twenty paces from Venefica’s prey, rendering himself invisible amid the shadows. Lyssanne’s rests had grown longer with each passing day, while the distance she and the boy covered grew shorter. Now, she sat curled between two large roots, her face drawn and pale.
“Jarad?” she called, pulling her blanket and cloak tighter around her shoulders.
A rustle and muffled grunt from the upper branches of the tree in front of Lyssanne’s resting place were the only reply.
Still, Noire permitted not a feather’s twitch. The dove, who’d rejoined Lyssanne sometime that first evening, lurked nearby. Besides, Jarad was too good a shot with his arrows, felling other birds and small game from impressive distances for their daily meals.
“Do you see anything?” Lyssanne asked, shivering despite the stifling summer heat.
Branches creaked, leaves plunged, and Jarad shimmied partway down the tree. “I wish you could see this!” he yelled. “The treetops look like lumpy green clouds from up here. There’s a clearing not far south. I saw a flash of light down there. Could be sunlight reflecting off a pool or stream.”
“Thank the King,” Lyssanne muttered, eyeing the half-full water-skin beside her, the last of the rainwater she’d collected in her cooking pot during an afternoon shower. “Will it take long to get there?” she asked, her voice a mere rasp.
“What was that?” Jarad yelled.
She cupped her hands to her mouth and drew in a deep breath. “How far?”
“Um…” Jarad shimmied back up the tree.
Lyssanne rested her head on folded arms.
Moments later, Jarad dropped to the ground in a flurry of leaves and twigs. “Looks like a couple hours’ walk at most.”
Lyssanne sighed and fixed her glassy eyes upon the afternoon sky. “We shall set out first thing on the morrow.”
“But we still have several hours of daylight,” Jarad said, “and we really need fresh water. Who knows when it’ll rain again, and that’s the only water source I’ve seen since the Esten spilled over that cliff. Even I’m not crazy enough to climb down there.” He peered down at her for long moments then shook his head. “You’re right, we should wait. I’ll find some firewood.”
As Jarad retreated into the trees, Lyssanne lay on her side, curling into a tight ball as if attempting to warm herself. Her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed, but her shivers did not.
Noire took to the air and found Jarad’s clearing in short order. The travelers could have reached it long before nightfall, had Lyssanne possessed the strength. Ah, but the signs were clear. She had contracted a fever. With no shelter and only a stagnant pool awaiting her in the clearing—even should she last the night to reach it—she would not long survive.
Noire aimed his beak toward the North, toward his bargain’s overdue fulfillment.
Lyssanne trudged behind Jarad as if slogging through syrup instead of air. He stopped to hack at a net of tangled vines with his hunting knife then broke through to paradise. Gentle beams of sunlight streamed through the surrounding trees. A soft breeze swished the leaves, stirring Lyssanne’s hair like a wildflower-scented breath from the King’s Shining Land.
Jarad whooped, and Lyssanne smiled despite the war of heat and chill raging beneath her skin. Freeing her hair from the snag of prickly vines, she blinked at a flash of sunlight across the glade. A small pool reflected the wavering light, clear as mirrored glass.
Serena soared off across the clearing, perhaps to hunt. Lyssanne took a few steps onto the thick, sun-dappled grass then swayed.
Jarad rushed to her side and grasped her arm. “You’re on fire.”
“Only…on the…outside,” she whispered. “A block of ice set aflame—’tis no wonder my legs feel watery.” As Jarad helped her settle in a spot of shade, she attempted a small jest. “Should I melt, you can refill the water-skins.”
“You’re shivering, mistress,” Jarad said, his tone grave. “Should I get you a blanket?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Draping the cloth over her, he murmured, “What should I do? How do you stop a fever?”
“Perhaps you might test the pool for freshness? I am dry as kindling.” Had any mourning-trees been near, she would have bidden him make a tea from their bark. She closed her eyes as the coolness of Jarad’s shadow left her.
He returned minutes…or hours…later. “The water isn’t foul, but rather stale,” he said. “I’d bath
e in it and perchance use it for cooking, but don’t think we should drink it.”
Lyssanne fought the urge to weep. Doubtless, she hadn’t even enough moisture left for tears. She must think of something, but her fevered brain was as sluggish as water refusing to boil. “That’s it!” she whispered. “Boil it. When it cools, we can drink it.”
“Do you think it will be safe?”
“We have no choice.”
While Jarad bustled around the campsite, Lyssanne stared ahead in a daze. Her skin grew hotter, yet ice rushed through her veins, violent shudders rocking her body. Strength fading, she lay on the ground. She bade Jarad pile her blankets, their cloaks, and half her outer dresses atop her—then wished she could shed even her skin to escape the raging heat.
“The water’s starting to boil,” Jarad said at length, resting a cold hand against her brow. “You’re getting worse. You need Mistress Evlia.”
“I can’t go back,” she whispered.
“I could go get her,” Jarad said. “If I ran all the way, I’d get there in half the time it took us. I know how to make a trail, too, so I could find you again.”
“She wouldn’t come,” Lyssanne said. “No one would come.”
The Council would never allow it. Besides, by the time Evlia could reach her, Lyssanne feared she would be beyond the woman’s skill to heal.
Lyssanne shuddered anew. She should tell Jarad to leave her, spare him what would doubtless come. She couldn’t force herself to say it. Selfish as it was, she didn’t wish to die alone.
Jarad strode over to the campfire as Serena returned and set to pecking at the ground nearby. Sunlight streamed through the dark trees, dazzling beams shooting down to the pool. Lyssanne blinked. A brighter flash shone in front of the water; so brilliant it hurt her eyes. When she opened them again, the whiteness had moved closer, out of the glaring sunshine.
She must be hallucinating. The whiteness shining in front of the trees resembled a horse. A shaft of light shot upward from its forehead—a thin silver-white point like a shard of glass or…a horn. The creature stood motionless, appearing to stare right at her.
“Jarad?” Lyssanne whispered.
Either he hadn’t heard or was too spellbound to speak. Tempted as she was to turn to him, she couldn’t take her eyes from the beauty before her.
The horse took several silent steps forward. It bent its head toward the ground. The silvery beam jutting from its brow moved with it, attached. “Lyssanne,” the creature said.
6
Close Encounters
Noire slowed his flight over Cloistervale, peering down at the Shadow Mist. In his brief absence, it had spread across more than half the village. He glided lower over a pocket of the valley yet free of the fog. Even there, eddies of darkness appeared, swirled about, then faded. With Lyssanne’s odd magic removed, nothing could hold it back.
The market below bustled with activity, only the children yet shimmering with Lyssanne’s influence. The Mist enshrouded many adults and touched the others on occasion. Even those who’d once reflected Lyssanne’s glow unawares had forfeited that protection the instant they’d embraced belief in the charges laid against her. Grief over her exile would doubtless draw the Mist to the few still loyal to her.
Venefica would soon have all she desired, and Noire would be free.
He found the sorceress in her dusty music room, staring at a portrait miniature atop the pianoforte as her fingers drifted across the keys. Haunting notes filled the chamber with a melancholy as fathomless as the longing in her eyes. Her gaze shot to Noire as he landed, and she flipped the portrait facedown, ending her tune before he could identify its familiar melody.
“I know what you seek,” she said, her voice for once lacking its haughty aloofness.
Lyssanne stared at the creature. Her fever must be worse than she’d thought. Now, she was hearing things that weren’t there, as well as seeing them.
“Joyful greetings to you, Lyssanne of Rowan Hill,” said the horse-hallucination. “And to you, Jarad of the loyal heart.”
Lyssanne rubbed her scorched eyes. This must be a dream.
“I am no phantom, daughter of the King,” the figment of her imagination said, stepping closer. Her words washed over Lyssanne, soft as a mare’s coat, yet rippling as if a whinny bubbled just beneath the surface. “Like you, I was created at the word of the King of All Lands.”
Lyssanne’s lips parted, but her burned-out brain supplied no words.
Jarad didn’t share the affliction. “You’re a unicorn!”
“That, I am.”
“And,” Jarad said, “you can talk.”
“Yes, with those who have ears to hear.”
“Wait,” Jarad said, a thump punctuating the word. “How’d you know our names? Are you some kind of spirit or something?”
“Were I a spirit sent by the Deceiver, your arrows would avail you nothing.”
Lyssanne eased her swimming head toward Jarad. He held his bow trained on the unicorn.
“Your lady and I have a mutual acquaintance,” said the creature.
“Who?” Lyssanne whispered.
“The King’s faeries are well-traveled. I believe you have spoken with Olivia?”
Lyssanne nodded. A fever dream might know that.
“I do not ask you to take me at my word alone.” The unicorn stepped alongside Lyssanne and bent her forelegs. “Come, test my coat and horn. See that I am what I say.”
Lyssanne inched a hand toward the creature’s gleaming side, then jerked away from its warm, living softness. The unicorn extended her horn to the ground. Lyssanne traced a trembling finger along the smooth, shining surface, then the unicorn backed away.
“’Tis true,” Lyssanne whispered. If only she could muster the strength to rise. Even sitting upright would feel safer than lying prone at the feet of a looming horse—unicorn.
“Sorry,” Jarad said. His bowstring relaxed with a protracted creak.
“I am Reina, guardian of this forest,” said the unicorn. “And you, child, do not look at all well.”
“She has a fever,” Jarad said. “I’d planned to go for help but…Oh!” He rushed forward. “Maybe you could bring me. It would be much faster.” His steps faltered. “Or don’t unicorns do that sort of thing? Carry people, I mean?”
“No,” Reina said. “It is rare for us to show ourselves to humans, rarer still that we speak. To do as you suggest…” A tremor ran like a wave from Reina’s mane to her tail. “What I can do, though, I shall.”
“Do you have magic?” Jarad asked. “Can you heal her?”
“The King of All Lands granted me many gifts,” Reina said, “but alas, the healing art is not among them. Though, I have some small knowledge. Your lady needs water. Her lips crack.”
“I boiled some,” Jarad said, “but it’s still too hot to drink.”
“Boiled? Why would you…?” The unicorn turned toward the pool and sniffed. “Oh, dear,” she said, trotting over to its edge. “Why was I not informed of this?”
Reina touched her horn to the surface of the water. Ripples of light spread out from the horn’s tip. Once the shimmering swells reached the far edges of the pool, Reina lifted her head and shook it, luminous droplets splashing into the water. Then, she trotted up to Jarad.
“The water is now pure and fresh. Its coolness will be much more soothing than what simmers in your pot.”
Jarad went to the pool, and something sloshed. “Mm. This is the best water I’ve ever tasted!” he said. “How did you do that?”
“It is my gift to purify the waters of the forest,” Reina said.
Jarad knelt beside Lyssanne, holding out a water-skin. She struggled upright and drew it to her lips. Oh, of all the gifts the King had bestowed, none could be sweeter.
“This water now holds healing properties of a sort,” Reina said.
“Like medicine?” Jarad asked.
“Not precisely,” Reina said, “though it can be made such. Alone, i
t can temporarily restore one’s strength. Useful, but far from adequate to Lyssanne’s needs.” She trotted toward the edge of the glade. “Come, Jarad. Gather what herbs I shall tell you.”
“Leave Lady Lyssanne? With you?” He remained crouched.
“I cannot gather them,” Reina said. “My teeth would mulch them beyond usefulness.”
“I’m not leaving her,” he said.
“Unless we act soon,” Reina said, “she will not survive.”
As if to prove Reina’s point, Lyssanne’s arms gave way, and she sank back to the ground.
Jarad fixed his gaze upon her and sighed. His boot leather squeaked, and the warmth of his nearness dissipated. “What herbs?”
Lyssanne slipped in and out of awareness while Reina told him what she needed.
Lyssanne blinked awake in darkness. Jarad withdrew his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. Firelight and Reina’s moon-bright coat illuminated the shadowed glade. Jarad helped her sit up and handed her a steaming cup.
Lyssanne sniffed its contents. “What is it?”
“Forest herbs, feverfew, other medicinal plants,” said Reina, “mixed with my refreshed water to strengthen its potency. You must drink this tea four times a day until you have strength enough to walk thrice around this clearing without stopping.”
Praying the tea was safe for human consumption, Lyssanne sipped. Her eyes widened at its sweetness. She drained the cup, set it aside, and melted back to the ground.
Within the hour, her fever broke. Throughout the night and most of the next day, she drenched the ground in sweat. She slept fitfully, fever returning for short periods then breaking again. Each time she woke, either Jarad or Reina hovered near.
Noire idled in the shadows of Venefica’s tower chamber, while the sorceress sifted through one of her ancient books of witchery. Each page slid with a prolonged hiss across its fellows, until it had no choice but flop over and reveal the next. Perhaps Venefica didn’t find removing a curse as entertaining as casting one. Her frenzy to devise the enchantment she’d laid upon Lyssanne had nearly ripped those same spell-laden leaves from their spine.
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 9
