by Krista Rose
He led us across the platforms to the rope ladders, and we climbed down to the forest floor. I saw again the small house tucked away among the trees, and frowned. “Doesn’t it bother you having someone live so close to the Camp?”
“It’s a decoy,” he explained. “It masks the smoke of our fires and the presence of our animals. Old man Thellin lives in there, he says that heights aren’t good for his heart anymore anyway. He watches over the horses and the pigs, and distracts nosy travelers.” He snickered. “He feeds them tea laced with falseweed. They wander off into the trees, smiling and giggling, and never seem to remember us afterward.”
“Ah.”
“Well, you ready?” He jerked his head toward the west, and I nodded. The four of us set off at an easy lope, dodging and winding through the trees until I was well and truly lost. We ran for several miles before we finally slowed, and I doubled over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air.
Ahead of us was a road, cutting through the woods, made of dirt and filled with gaping potholes. Tanner pointed to the trees above us, and the limbs overhanging the road, a wide grin on his face. It took only a moment for me to understand.
We were laying an ambush.
My stomach clenched with nerves, but I followed his instructions and climbed the tree, scooting out on my stomach along the branches until I was in position over the hard, packed earth of the road far below. We had left our bows hidden below us in the trees; it seemed we would recover them after we got the supplies.
Then we waited.
It is an uncomfortable thing, hiding in trees, and not for the faint of heart. I was plagued by insects, brushing long-legged spiders from my hair and ants from my arms. Birds screamed at me, raucous and terrifying in the quiet, and I started to think that every living thing in the Forest knew of my presence and hated me for it.
My legs and arms grew stiff and cramped, aching after the unexpected run. I tried to move them so that they would work when I needed them to, but stretching while clinging to a tree branch for dear life was even more difficult than it sounds. I found myself staring at the ground far below, mesmerized by a hypnotic fear of falling.
At last, I heard the jingle of harnesses in the distance, and lifted my head as the thunder of hooves grew louder. I glanced at Tanner, perched on a branch near mine, and he made a gesture that I guessed meant dropping. I tensed, readying myself.
A rattling wagon rounded the corner, drawn by a pair of placid horses. The driver stared at the woods around him, eyes alert and wary. The open bed was filled with burlap sacks of what could only be food, and my stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Tanner motioned as the wagon started to pass below us, and he and the other two men swung down, gracefully landing on their feet in the wagon bed.
I tried to mimic them, but my limbs were too cramped. I slipped sideways off the branch and fell, too surprised to even shout.
The air slammed out of me as I landed, thankfully on something soft, though it squished unpleasantly beneath my weight. The sharp, vinegar smell of spoiled tomatoes enveloped me.
The driver shouted, and I twisted, watching as he raised a dagger toward Tanner’s unprotected face. Tanner grabbed the man’s arm and punched him in the throat, so that he dropped the dagger and collapsed on his seat, clutching his neck as he choked. His grip went slack on the reins, and the horses slowed to a gentle stop.
Digger and Breaker were already jumping from the wagon, a heavy sack across each of their backs as they sprinted for the Forest.
Tanner offered me a hand, pulling me to my feet. My back and hair felt slimy, as if I’d been lying in mud.
He winked at me, hefting a sack onto his shoulder. “Gotta be faster than that, Farmboy, if you don’t want to wind up dead.”
I nodded, wide-eyed, but he was already leaping from the wagon, chasing after the others into the woods.
The driver croaked something, and I jumped, hurrying to grab a sack and leap from the cart before he recovered. My legs weren’t ready for it, and my knees buckled, cramped muscles shrieking in agony. I managed to keep my feet, and gritted my teeth as I limped toward the trees.
Something whistled past my face, thudding into a tree a few paces ahead of me. I stared at the arrow, dumbstruck, until another one thumped into my sack. I looked over my shoulder, and saw the purple-faced driver glaring at me with bulging eyes, an arrow notched in the short bow he held. Even from the distance, I knew he would not miss a third time.
I raised my hand, fear sharpening my focus to a single point: the weapon aimed at my heart.
The bow burst into flames, and the driver shouted, his shot going wild as he dropped it. The horses spooked, sensing fire, and took off at a gallop, so that he tumbled over his seat to land, face down, on the sack of rotten tomatoes. I watched as the wagon disappeared further down the road, then sighed in relief and limped into the woods, barely remembering to grab my bow.
Tanner was waiting for me, perhaps fifty feet further in, and his face lit with a grin when he saw me. “Farmboy, you made it!” His grin only widened when I swung my sack to the ground beside the others, an arrow protruding from its side. “And just barely, from the looks of it.”
I forced myself to shrug, though my skin felt clammy, and I wanted to shake with hysterical laughter. “It was nothing.”
“Let’s see what we’ve got then, shall we?” he asked, and opened the sacks while Digger and Breaker looked on impassively. “Well, we’ve got beans. And rice. And… cabbages.”
Breaker made a face.
“Yes, I know you don’t like cabbages, but you grabbed them. Besides, didn’t your mother ever tell you they’re good for you?”
Breaker sighed, glumly.
“And how about you, Farmboy?” He whistled tunelessly as he opened my sack. “Ah, potatoes! Fantastic. Always need more of these.”
I glanced inside; four of the brown, dirty potatoes had been skewered by the arrow, stopping it only inches from my back. I stepped away, feeling queasy.
“Well, that’s it, then.” Tanner slapped my shoulder, and lifted his sack. “Back to Camp. Farmboy needs a bath, anyway.”
I grimaced and shouldered my burden, trailing behind the others as the slow walk eased the cramps in my legs. Tanner began to sing, his easy baritone carrying as we trudged through the wood.
“Dig the dirt,
Pull the line,
In the name
Of silver, mine!
Raise your axe,
Break the stone,
Find the shine
Of metal bone!
Haul the rock,
Shake the earth,
All this dust
Is all you’re worth!
Mine all day,
Mine all night,
No more sun,
No more light!
Dig the dirt,
Pull the line,
You won’t leave
The silver mine!”
I stared after him, my thoughts spinning chaotically. Only two stood out clearly in my mind, above all the others:
I had nearly died for potatoes.
Kryssa was going to kill me when she found out.
LANYA
20 Llares 577A.F.
If I learned one thing during my time in the Camp of the Darkling Prince, it was this: I am absolutely terrified of heights.
My fears had nearly paralyzed me when we’d first arrived, and did not diminish as the afternoon had worn on toward night. I did not doubt the skill of the carpenters, nor the strength of the trees that held us up. I knew logically that the ropes would hold me- and yet I was still afraid.
I had a nightmare of it that first night, of falling from the platforms, dropping like a stone through a world of green leaves that sliced my skin like shards of glass. I woke, twisted and trapped in my hammock, screams locked in my throat. Though I was exhausted, I was unable to fall back asleep, and spent the rest of the night staring out of the window and wat
ching over my siblings as they slept.
Still, the fear was better than the memories, which crept up on me, waking or sleeping, and left me cold and breathless and horrified as the sensation of warm, wet blood poured over my hands. I could see it, though I knew it was not there, just as I could still see the Crone when I shut my eyes, her face panicked as she died.
I spent most of my morning bath scrubbing at my hands, trying to wash away the vision of blood, until my fingers were red and raw and stinging, and I realized I was weeping in the cooling water. I wondered what was wrong with me that I would feel so guilty over killing someone so evil. Would I be forced to live with the illusion of her blood on my hands forever?
Fear was better.
It was Reyce who saved me from the spiraling madness of my thoughts. Marla had taken the others, one by one, to begin the jobs assigned them, until only Reyce and I remained. I sat on the floor, staring at my hands again, watching as they glittered with the memory of blood.
“It’s not there, you know.”
My head jerked up. “W-what?”
“It’s not there,” he repeated. His sapphire eyes were dark and solemn and ancient as he looked at me. “The blood. It’s only in your head.”
I shoved them into my lap, hiding them. “I know that.”
“Then why do you keep looking for it?”
“I can’t help it.” I swallowed, my breath hiccupping in my lungs. “I- I just-” The sob burst out of me, breaking the dam of my grief, and I couldn’t seem to stop it. “I just killed her, Reyce. I killed her, and she was so afraid and sad and alone-” I gulped, tears streaming down my face.
“Lanya.” He sat beside me, and put a hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be alright.”
“How can it be alright? How could anything ever be alright again? I took a life. I felt her die.” I glared, accusing, suddenly angry. “Why don’t you feel like this? You killed our father, and you’re not seeing his face everywhere and blood all over your hands and-”
White light blasted into my mind, wiping my thoughts clean as pain pressed against the back of my eyes. It was stronger now, his presence, more intense and focused, and I felt the weight of his guilt that all but crushed him.
The light slowly faded, and I stared, speechless.
“I’ve barely slept in days,” he whispered, staring past me out the window. “I see his eyes, even when mine are open. I can’t get his voice out of my head.”
“How do you live with it?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was thoughtful. “Kryssa told me once, when we were little, that our mother had a vision that we were the chosen by the Gods.” He glanced at me, his eyes mysterious. “Do you think it’s true?”
“I- I don’t know,” I replied honestly, bewildered. “I never really thought about it. Do you?”
“I’d like to think we are. I used to wonder what it meant, to be the Gods’ chosen. I think it means that we’ll be forced to fight for them at some point.”
“Probably.” My tears dried on my cheeks as I considered it. I had always just assumed our mother was a little mad- lovely, of course, but mad nonetheless. But what if there was some truth to what she had believed? What if the Gods had sent her a vision? “But fight what?”
“A great darkness.” He smiled a little. “Or at least that’s what Alyxen’s stories say. I think we’re being prepared to face it. All the suffering we’ve gone through is to make us stronger, so we can defend the Gods when they need us.”
I had never thought of it before in such a way, though it made sense. If it we were the Gods’ chosen, then it was into darkness that we would be cast, like the heroes in the tales from one of Janis’ books. Those who lived only in the light faltered and fell when faced with horror, but those who had already suffered stood and fought- and won.
But the blood still stained my soul, and I did not know how to cleanse myself of it. “But how do we live with it in the meantime?”
“One day at a time, I suppose.” He shrugged. “We remember that we did what we had to do, because it had to be done. We’ll live with it because we have no other choice.”
Marla appeared in the doorway, hesitating when she saw my face. I wiped away the marks of my tears, trying to force a smile, though I didn’t quite succeed.
Reyce stood. “I think you should go visit Kryssa. Maybe remembering why you did it will help.”
“Thank you.” I reached up and grabbed his hand, squeezing it. “Will you talk with me some more later?”
“Of course.” He smiled brightly, suddenly a child again, and followed Marla out the door.
I breathed in the silence for a minute, steeling myself, then left, careful not to look down as I walked purposefully across the bridges.
The Darkling Prince was just emerging from the Infirmary as I arrived, and his face lit with a warm smile when he saw me. “Mistress Lanya! What a pleasure.”
My skin prickled with unease, but I shrugged off the feeling and curtsied awkwardly. “My lord.”
“I was just looking in on the status of your sister.” His gaze was intense upon my face, and I struggled not to squirm. “If you were intending to visit with her, I’m afraid she’s not awake yet.”
“I just wanted to check on her fever, my lord.” Why am I so nervous? “While I trust your healers, it would be good to see her with my own eyes.”
“I understand.” He stepped closer to me, and I fought to keep my face calm as all my instincts began to shriek. He took my hand, and stroked my fingers with his thumb. “Perhaps later you would join me for dinner? It’s rare that such a lovely woman visits our Camp.”
“I-I-” Pure terror jolted through me; it took everything in me not to run.
A man in dark face-paint ran across the bridges, drawing to a breathless stop before us. “My lord, you’re needed immediately. There’s a shipment of Suraki slaves on the southern route, but they’ve got two dozen mercenaries with them.”
His face tightened with momentary anger, hot and feral. Then it was gone, replaced with an easy, charming smile. “Duty calls, my lady.” He lifted my hand to his lips. “Until later.”
“My lord.” I watched as he followed the man back across the bridges, waiting until he was almost out of sight before wiping my hand on my skirt. I wondered why I felt diseased by his touch.
Shuddering, I looked away, and headed inside the Infirmary.
Kryssa looked the same as she had the night before, her face serene and flushed as she lay on the cot. Bryonis gave me a tired smile as I sat beside her, cheerfully informing me that her fever was much lower. His exhaustion had left dark smudges beneath his eyes, and I stared at him, wondering why anyone would give so much of themselves for a complete stranger. But I was grateful for it, so I focused, and stole some of his fatigue from across the room. It was the first time I had ever done so without touching the person, and I smiled when his eyes brightened, his movements becoming less sluggish.
Then I sighed, and turned away.
She was so beautiful, my sister, though she would have laughed at my envy, since she thought little of her appearance. But it was true. Everything about her was vibrant, from the brilliant intensity of her eyes to the bright silk of her hair. She burned like wild fire amid candles, the indomitable force of her presence undimmed by sleep or sickness.
I touched my own face, running my fingers across it as I remembered the freckles on my nose, the shape of my soft brows, the rounded curve of my chin, wishing I could find her in my features.
But I looked like our mother, soft and blonde and pretty, and not like my sister as I wanted. I had been told that I resembled Adelie Rose so often, both by Kryssa and by our father, that I could not help believing them, though I had no memory of her face. I only remembered the sound of her voice as she sang lullabies to me, and the allure of honeysuckle that had clung to her skin. Even that was faint, more dream and wish than memory.
And the Crone had murdered her.
&nbs
p; Knowledge of it still shook me, made me want to scream and weep and break things. How different would our lives have been, had it not been for her selfishness? It did not matter that she had tried to atone for her atrocities with a hundred unseen kindnesses, nor that she had spent days weeping and alone, filled with anguish and despair and regret for what she had done.
None of it made any difference. Her depraved need had destroyed all of our lives, including her own. Her fear of death had consumed her, blinding her to the horrors she had inflicted on us. In the end, it had been her own obsession that had killed her- for, if she had never killed our mother, Father would not have needed the potions, and without the potions, that terrible night would never have occurred.
Destiny was a curious thing.
Reyce had been right: visiting Kryssa had brought me peace. I took her hand, the maelstrom of my emotions calming, and saw that my fingers were at last clean of the visions of blood.
I watched my sister sleep, and sang her a lullaby to comfort her in her fevered, impenetrable darkness.
BRANNYN
Lanya’s pain was like a beacon when I returned to Camp, and I had followed it to the Infirmary, where I watched as, even in sleep, my elder sister did what I could not: bring Lanya healing.
I swallowed the strange bitterness. The others would never turn to me as they did Kryssa. I had no gentle words to coax the worries from my sisters, no great wisdom to allay their fears. My brothers did not look to me for comfort when they were in pain. No one reached out to me for safety when the hardships of our life grew too much to bear.
It’s because you’re weak, my father whispered in my mind. Too weak to bear their pain. Too selfish, too bitter, too angry. Your heart is full of violence. You cannot give to others what you do not have.
Poor, pathetic boy.
I could not silence the doubts, because it was true. I was too selfish, too self-absorbed to sacrifice for the others as she constantly did. My anger was an obstacle, tripping me into hasty words and poor decisions. I lashed out, and hurt those I loved the most. I was too much like our father, and I did not know how to purge myself of his hate, which possessed me like a shade.
