by L. L. MacRae
‘Do you think it was a warning? From Alnothen?’ Fenn asked, suddenly worried the spirit was showing her dislike of them. Hassen had enjoyed intimidating him, and he wondered if Alnothen was the same.
‘No. It’s just Jisyel being…Jisyel.’ Although Calidra’s words were harsh, she wouldn’t take her eyes off the woman. She helped Varlot lift Jisyel, resting her gently over one, massive shoulder. Fenn didn’t think Varlot needed help, but he doubted Calidra liked not having something to do. Especially where Jisyel was concerned.
‘I must’ve been through these woods fifty times, and I’ve never caught myself. Not even after half a barrel of ale!’ Calidra said, walking beside Varlot as he followed Selys.
‘And you said I got too into my cups,’ Varlot said to the priestess, who didn’t look back at him, more intent on navigating their way through the forest. ‘Half a barrel, Calidra. Impressive for someone half my age.’
‘Flattery won’t help you. I still don’t like what you’ve been accused of.’ Calidra didn’t so much as smile.
Fenn grimaced at the bite in her voice, but at least she was on speaking terms. Like him or not, they needed Varlot. He knew Varlot could have chosen to be spiteful, or refuse to help—or worse, leave them in the middle of the forest—but he hadn’t. He’d stayed with them, despite Calidra’s harsh words. Which were undeserved, as far as he was concerned.
Fenn was sure to keep a closer eye on where he was putting his own feet, lest two of them ended up poisoned. Once, a thorn caught the top of his boot, but he felt it catch and took a moment to extricate himself before any of the poisonous barbs pierced his skin.
It must’ve been impossible for Jisyel, unable to feel anything, to navigate the myriad of vegetation.
There was a breath on the wind, life energy from the plants. Every leaf rustled with its own, tiny voice, and he vividly remembered Hassen on the Isle of Salt. That forest had been alive. Jisyel had told him any place where life energy gathered gave rise to a spirit. This was an enchanted woodland. A forest that had a life of its own.
It was Alnothen.
Fenn wondered whether all the voices were Alnothen’s, or whether the spirit had given life to everything in the forest, and they all spoke with countless different voices.
Reaching forward, he placed one palm flat against the trunk of the nearest tree, which appeared to be coated in scales rather than bark—like a pinecone. His fingers tingled and his chest tightened, but it passed after a few seconds. Once again, the sounds and voices of the forest were loud in his head, just as it had been in the forest of Salt Ash. It was loud, louder than anything he could envision. A crescendo of life.
Of magic.
Withdrawing his hand with a gasp, Fenn tried to catch his breath. The last time he’d felt this, he’d been touched by Hassen. He couldn’t recall Alnothen doing the same to him, but he was in her domain, and she was a bigger, more powerful spirit.
Resolving to ask Selys about it later, he hurried to catch up.
By the time Selys slowed their pace, about an hour later—it was difficult to judge time when wandering through the trees—sweat stuck his hair to his forehead. ‘We’re there?’ Fenn gasped, desperate for water but not wanting to slow their party unnecessarily while Jisyel was in danger.
Aside from a few groans here and there, Jisyel hadn’t said much. Her quietness had worried Calidra, who’d tried to initiate conversation every few minutes, to no avail.
The trees on the edge of Spindleford thinned, but the town itself seemed to have sprouted between the trunks as naturally as the fungi. Every building was made of wood, with only minimal stone that Fenn could see. Many of the houses were covered in vegetation—from flowers, shrubbery, fruits, even a few small trees. Moss sprawled along the exteriors of almost every building, dressing each in a different shade of green.
Fenn nearly stumbled over his own feet as he stared, awe-struck. Although he didn’t remember anything about his previous life, he’d seen several villages and towns since his waking—from the stark but long-lasting Hogsbrook, to the vast, vibrant Ballowtown, and the crowded, chaotic Vaelar. Even Fellwood and the Shrine of Neros were completely different.
But Spindleford?
It was utterly magical.
After getting his bearings, he caught up to where the others had gathered outside a large building. A weather-beaten sign hung above the door, a faded bell painted in soft yellow, with words written in a language he didn’t recognise or understand.
Varlot had stood Jisyel back on her own feet, though she was just as wobbly as she’d been before. Dark circles hung under her eyes like bruises.
‘Malora and I used to come to this tavern a lot when we were younger. It’s quiet, and we never had much attention,’ Calidra said, one arm steadying Jisyel.
‘Let me cover food and board,’ Varlot said, ‘least I can do.’
Calidra blinked in surprise, but nodded, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth another argument.
‘Fenn. There’s an apothecary in town. It’ll have a pestle and mortar on the sign.’ Varlot reached into his inside pocket and handed Fenn a small drawstring purse. ‘The locals will have something for tanglethorn. Get something strong for Jisyel.’
Fenn took the purse and nodded.
‘While you get Jisyel sorted, I’m going to pay my respects to Alnothen. Make sure we’ve not offended her too much,’ Selys said, sheathing her glaive now it wasn’t needed.
‘Pay respects to Alnothen…?’ Jisyel repeated in a low murmur, swaying as if she were drunk.
‘Not you,’ Calidra sighed.
‘But I want to go and see her…’
‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’ Calidra steered Jisyel towards the door that Varlot held open.
Fenn saw a few curious faces staring out at them from within. He peered inside, wondering whether there would be moss and plants inside the tavern, too.
‘Fenn. The apothecary!’ Calidra snapped.
‘Oh! Right! Yes.’ Fenn shook his head and turned away, hurrying down the main street, through the maze of buildings. There would be time later on for exploring and asking questions.
Although some wooden planks had been put down along the streets, the amount of weeds and grass pushing up through them made them pointless. He clutched the purse close to his chest and glanced at the building signs as he passed them, hoping to spot the pestle and mortar.
He passed a few people, most of whom hardly looked at him. Many wore clothes of brown and green, looking just as much a part of the forest as their houses and shops.
Then, he spotted it. Built into the trunk of a tree so massive all five of them could walk through it abreast, the apothecary had a fine plume of smoke rising from its chimney. He couldn’t place the scent, but it was thick and pungent, and it felt like it burned his nose hairs.
A honeyseller had a small shop beside the apothecary, glass jars full of differently coloured honey that Fenn wanted to taste. He was particularly intrigued by a rich, dark amber honey—wondering how it would taste if the flowers it was created from were within Alnothen’s domain—when he pushed his curiosity to one side and approached the apothecary. Jisyel’s needs were more pressing.
‘Hello? Excuse me?’ Fenn called after a quick knock on the door. ‘Do you have something for tanglethorn, please? A strong antidote?’ He staggered into the circular building, the shape of which fit the contours of the tree. Heat slammed into him and he clutched his chest. Fine smoke swirled across the ceiling, a trickle of it escaping through the narrow chimney on the room’s far side.
‘Tanglethorn poisoning? Hmm. Yes, yes. One moment,’ an elderly voice called from the back of the room, behind a thin curtain, where Fenn presumed the expensive potions and antidotes were kept.
While the old man pottered about out of view, Fenn noticed the cabinets and wares splayed out. Curiosity got the better of him and he wandered over to take a closer look. Lined up neatly on a cloth of blue velvet were several round, glass bottles. A
n indeterminate liquid filled most of them, and each bottle was stoppered with a cork. He picked up the nearest one and peered closely at it. The liquid inside was thick and viscous, and it sparkled with an inner light easily seen through the glass.
It was dazzling.
If he peered closer, he could almost make out an image. A face, perhaps? He brought it close to his eyes, trying to work it out.
‘Lad, you’re poisoned, not blind. That’ll be of no use to you.’
Fenn nearly dropped the bottle, he flinched so greatly at the sound of the man’s words. He whirled around to find himself nose-to-nose with the apothecary, who looked none-too-impressed at his wandering hands.
‘Blue rosewort.’ He held up a small glass jar in his wrinkled hand. ‘For tanglethorn?’
‘Thank you!’
The old man pulled away before Fenn could take it, a frown deepening the myriad of lines on his brow. ‘You don’t look like you have tanglethorn poisoning. Hmm. You have something, though…’
Fenn was about to agree, that he’d been touched by the Myr, before he remembered what a terrible idea that would be. ‘I’m fine. Really. I just need the…blue rosewort?’
‘It won’t help you. Lad, let me do my job! How is your sleep? Are you feverish?’ He put the back of his hand against Fenn’s forehead.
‘No, no! No! It’s not for me! My friend, she was poisoned by tanglethorn!’
The old man pocketed the rosewort and clutched Fenn’s cheeks between his hands. Despite his age—the apothecary had to be in his eighties at least—his grip was so tight that Fenn couldn’t move.
‘Um…I…I really only need the rosewort…’
‘Any spotting in your vision? Tingling of the skin? Loss of taste?’ He pulled at Fenn’s face, peering into each eye and prodding at his throat with his thumbs.
Fenn coughed and leaned back. ‘Honestly! Just the rosewort! I have money!’
After another moment of inspection, the apothecary finally released him. ‘Hmm. We are in close proximity to the deadlands. Sometimes they’ll affect people. If you lose your sense of smell or taste, you will come and see me, won’t you?’
Fenn gulped. ‘Why? What happens?’
‘Remnants of the Myrish magic killed the land just north of here. It can affect people too, if you aren’t too careful. A bleeding sickness. Skin sloughs off. Bones crumble. First sign is always loss—’
‘Okay, okay! I’ll make sure to see you if anything changes. How much for the rosewort?’ Fenn wiped his forehead, desperate to leave the hot shop and get the medicine to Jisyel.
The apothecary straightened, then pursed his lips and retrieved the jar from his pocket. ‘Two silver. One spoonful mixed in hot water. Tea is fine, as long as there’s no sugar. Every two hours until the sickness and confusion passes. She will sweat out the poison, so make sure there are plenty of clean sheets. The vapour can be toxic.’
Fenn nodded as he handed out the coins from Varlot’s purse, snatched the jar of medicine, and darted out before he could be poked and prodded again.
Thankfully, he wasn’t accosted by anyone else as he raced back to the inn where he’d left the others. His heart thumped as he thought about the apothecary’s words. He’d spoken of Myrish magic close by. The deadlands. As afraid as he was by the man’s warning, Fenn wanted to know more. According to Selys, there was nothing Myrish until the end of their journey at the Nethal Mountains.
Could this…could this be a chance to learn more?
Varlot waited for him outside. ‘Good lad, Fenn. Well done.’ He took the medicine and purse, checking both before heading inside with them. ‘We weren’t a minute too soon. Jisyel’s started vomiting.’
‘Poor Jisyel. The apothecary gave instructions, too.’
Both men entered the inn, and Varlot led them straight upstairs where they followed the sound of Jisyel’s retching to their room. After explaining to Calidra everything he’d been told about the rosewort, she dismissed them both, telling them that Jisyel needed space to rest, and wouldn’t appreciate a watching audience every time she threw up.
Fenn was only too pleased to get out of there, especially if what he’d been told about the toxic fumes was correct. When he returned to the street outside, he took a deep breath of fresh air. North. That’s where the Myrish magic was.
He glanced over his shoulder. Calidra would probably want him to stick around, but there wasn’t much he could do while Jisyel was vomiting. It would be a good chance to explore, try and learn more about where he was, and if any of it brought forth hidden memories.
He took a moment to try and figure out which way was north, then set off. The town wasn’t that big. He was sure he’d be able to figure out the right way.
‘Fenn? Where you off to?’ Varlot called from the inn’s entranceway.
‘Um…’ He paused. ‘Just, you know. Stretching my legs?’ It was a pitiful lie.
Varlot raised an eyebrow. ‘Stretching your legs…? After being on the move all day?’
‘Yeah…?’
‘Fenn, you need to work on your lying.’ Varlot folded his arms and grinned. ‘Look, I don’t care what you get up to. But don’t go too far. It’ll be dark soon and these trees make it very easy to get lost.’
‘You…don’t mind if I explore the area a bit?’
Varlot shrugged. ‘You’re your own man. I don’t care what you do. Just pay attention so you don’t get hurt, otherwise we’ll have two people vomiting all night.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Calidra’s right about the ale here. When you get tired, come join me for a drink, yeah?’
‘Sure.’ He was about to head off when he saw Varlot stare into the forest, his gaze longing. He’d never seen that look on the man before. ‘You okay?’
Varlot blinked and looked down at Fenn. He pursed his lips. ‘You know, Fenn. I envy you.’
‘Why?’ How could Varlot envy being cursed by the Myr?
‘Sometimes all I feel is…bitter regret. You know. ‘Cause you’re alive and they ain’t.’
Fenn wasn’t sure what to say. He wondered if Varlot meant his brothers-in-arms, or the child Alnothen had accused him of killing.
Varlot shook all over, as if a sudden chill had taken him. ‘Never mind. Come see me for that drink later.’ He turned and went back inside
Fenn watched the doorway a while longer, in case Varlot came back outt. After waiting, he hurried off, beyond eager to get away and have his own space for once.
He’d been surrounded by people from the moment he’d awoken. Hassen, first—he was never going to forget that dragon—then Calidra, Jisyel, Varlot, Selys. Even Torsten had tried to chain him up.
This time, being alone was less terrifying.
He wandered through the meandering streets, not paying attention to where he was going, just letting his feet carry him in whatever direction they chose. He wanted to see the remnants of the Myrish magic, but he also wanted to just take the time to explore. To see what was here, and whether any of it would jog his memory or at least become mildly familiar.
Fenn realised that Spindleford was larger than he’d first thought—a patchwork of buildings and gardens, all growing where the trees gave them space—but was less populated than anywhere else he’d been so far. For its size, he hardly saw anyone.
Several covered bridges linked sections of the village together. All were made of wood, mostly covered by moss, vines, and trailing plants, as if the bridge was as much a part of the forest as the trees were. They were charming, and Fenn dragged his fingers along them as he crossed each.
When the trees suddenly fell away and dry, open land sprawled out before him, it was a shock.
The sun was well on its way to setting, casting orange hues across the landscape. Whatever ground he could see in the low light was dry and cracked, as if all life had been sucked out of it. There wasn’t even the smallest hint of a weed.
His chest burned and his fingers trembled, and Fenn sat down on a small patch of greenery on the
very edge of the treeline, waiting for the ache to subside. It did, eventually. It took until an inky sky blanketed the land and the broken moon had risen before he’d properly recovered from it.
Fenn knew the trembling was getting worse. But there wasn’t much he could do about it except trust in Selys and hope that whatever awaited him in the Nethal Mountains was genuine.
If not…? If not, he didn’t know what he’d do.
Vermecio. That’s what the Myr had told him could help. It had to be the name of the Myrish construct Selys was leading him to. Would it know he had been Myr-touched? Would it consider him one of them?
Would it even matter?
He sat there for some time, contemplating everything. His companions. The dragons. The Myr. His own mortality. His stomach growled and he took a breath, steeling himself for the pins and needles that would most definitely race along his limbs after being sat down for so long, when a high-pitched wail caught his attention.
Fenn looked around, but couldn’t see anyone.
He stood up, worried auditory hallucinations were going to join his tremors, fatigue. and chest pains, when he heard it again. This time, it was clear—it came from the dry lands ahead.
Fenn stayed in the shadow of the trees and peered out as the biting sting of his legs waking up began to grow.
Who would be wandering those lands at night?
‘Please help me!’
He gulped. It was a woman’s voice, though he couldn’t see her in the low light.
‘My child! Someone? Anyone?’
More wailing followed, and Fenn’s blood ran cold. He squinted, trying to discern movement in the shadows ahead. She sounded close.
‘Please! She’s dying….’
Fenn massaged his calves, trying to get the feeling back into them. Everything was numb from where he’d been sitting. He didn’t want to race to her aid only to trip over at the first step and humiliate himself. He’d be of no use at all if that happened.
Then he saw her.
A shaft of moonlight cut through a cloud, illuminating a pale-skinned woman wandering through the deadlands. Her hair was raven-black and reached her waist. He couldn’t see what she wore, but assumed it was some dark material because it was difficult to make out much detail. Her mouth hung open in a scream, her eyes red with tears.
